It says it all when the wait to get into the show is almost as long as the gig itself. Whilst it’s all about the freeloading outside, people are getting loaded inside. It’s probably all just about being fashionably late except Kate Moss isn’t in sight…
Tonight’s a sell out and the Astoria is once again a frenzied sweatbox of space with the hardcore packed like a freight lorry out of Calais as Primal Scream instil a blind faith in their fans very few bands achieve. ‘Kill All Hippies’ Dubya’s unofficial campaign song, rings out with buzzing anti authoritarian intent as Mani cements his place as Lord of bass whilst the talismanic Bobby Gillespie displays just why he is one of the few real rock stars we have left. Every song is greeted with the fist pumping gyrating grunt of a partisan crowd, part loutish might of the Oasis fan, the I-don’t-give-a-fuck of a Roses fan and with the customary Primal die hard swigged up to the eye ball on Red Stripe or Strongbow, you could genetically engineer an American G.I from the testosterone levels. Thank fuck Tennents wasn’t on the bar.
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It’s a ballsy-blues-funk-soul-monster of a live show. Like a less lecherous Iggy Pop Gillespie continues to spin excess into success whilst Mani displays his affection in the only way he knows how – the nonchalantly abrasive two finger salute. You just don’t see Weller doing shows like this anymore. The classic Gillespie gospel sees ‘Rocks’ shake the foundations whilst the rumbling pummel and venomous whisper of ‘Vanishing Point’, the preacherman gospel of ‘Movin on up’ and the relentless house stomp of ‘Swastika Eyes’ is absolutely…fucking…massive. This ain’t no Rolling Stones gig brother!
The sea of soul clappers is a sight to behold and the Primal’s still turn around a sound that’ll turn you inside out. The strobe light might show up a couple of wrinkles, but Bobby and the boys are still a while away from their rock n roll pension on performances like this.
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