I (don’t) hate rock n roll. Primal Scream get down at The Scala

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As a teenager trapped in a steel town with little cash and only my mind as means of escapism it was inevitable that I would turn to tunes to soothe the crushing numbness of nothingness that hung around in the air.

It started with simple rock n roll  - it wasn’t even real rock n roll – it was some sort of working man’s club revival with aged fellas in drapes sporting DAs and thus there was an inevitable Showaddywaddy type lock on, Shakin’ Stevens and Stray Cat struts and shit.  Don’t get me wrong it filled a hole. I know it was only rock and roll but I liked it. From there I would listen to Elvis, Carl Perkins, Eddie Cochran and through that came The Stones and The Beatles.  This would have been back in the early eighties.

By 1985 I had stopped my association with rock and roll. It wasn’t that I hated it but I associated rock and roll with the worst excesses of TOTP culture  - all men in denim with collars up shaking their hips and pursing their lips but looking like stout middle aged men hanging on to some sort of milkshake dream – you know it’s not Nashville it never would be – it’s Ashby and we’ve got a Kwik Save.  

I had begun to define my self in opposition to this. I began to hate rock and roll and all those people with nothing to show.

Yet looking back I was simply a rock and roller by another name.

My rock and roll was reaching beyond the kiss curl and jumpsuits. It wanted it to be fierce and untamed. It began with The Velvet Underground. It would take some time to find the dirty end of scuzz rock and bawling but in the beginning The Velvets provided this antidote to the bland chug a lug-lug-lug of the behemoth rock and rollers.  Screeching and full of bittersweet romance and loss The Velvets was the band I wanted to be in. Artful outsiders to the mainstream of fat rock and rollers – maaaan.  Appropriation occurs at every stage of living when you are a youth – so I searched out winkle pickers, tight black canvas and blunt scissors for bowl headed cuts.

And then as I was morphing into my own zone came the Jesus and Mary Chain. Year zero for the rebirth of independent pop music. It was 1985. Suddenly it was the ‘rebirth’ of rock and roll in this house. Screaming teenagers and loss of control.  

Real rock and roll.

Maximum rock and roll.

Bobby Gillespie was part of this new rock and roll. Two drums and this supra-cool aesthetic. It was instant love – heaven’s above! Then there was talk that he was only moonlighting in the most original band I’d ever heard. The Jesus and Mary Chain were a band who’d taken all the elements of rock and roll and merged them into one pure blast of sonic magic. But this Gillespie had another band – a band called Primal Scream.  Cool name and one cool motherfucker. So into town to purchase their single was the next move – once again you have to remember that we weren’t downloading this and having a listen through streaming. You had to go to the shop ask for a copy – sometimes order it – without listening and then buy it – we weren’t brave enough to listen to it in store and say no. So it would be bought, bagged up and returned to bedrooms to revolve on cheap record players turned up loud (when we could get away with it.)

‘Crystal Crescent’ was a beautiful song. Psychedelic and tripped out lite and tight not noise and full of rage. There was a gentle side to this rock and rolling. Flip the record and find Velocity Girl. Simple, chiming and over in seconds.

Suddenly there was a new rock and roll in town.

And that rock and roll was in town again tonight (or in this case a few weeks back as it’s taken far too long to write this) Primal Scream played the Scala for a night of maximum rock and roll.  And after many years I was back in the fray again. I sort of lost touch with the Scream after the heady Screamadelica days and lows of the Give Out but Don’t Give Up long player. It wasn’t that I didn’t like them but rather they were verging on something I wasn’t quite aligned to. I’d got rid the winkle pickers ( as had they) and most sounds in my head were electronic and made for dancing to through the night. The Scream seemed to be mutating into something like the behmoths I couldn’t take anymore – it had all gone a little too rock n roll.  

But how wrong I was.

Following ‘Give Out’ came a blistering set of long players and The Scream found that Stooges fright and scowl blended with motoric electonica that was always at the heart of what they did/ do. Tonight is no exception. It’s the greatest hits and they are the greatest. A two-bit indie rock band from Glasgow with all killer and no filler delivered a wonderful evening of music for the maximum capacity crowd rammed into The Scala on a Tuesday evening.

Opening with the gospel rock of ‘Movin’ On Up’ Gillespie resplendent in Flying Burrito Brothers meets Viet Cong black suit whips up the crowd to a frenzy and we are only one song in. This is a stripped back Scream this evening and possibly for the future. Innes – blue tonic suit, pork pie hat and Hawaiian themed shirt (perhaps he was going on holiday afterwards), Duffy tucked behind the keys (I can’t tell you what he was wearing – I couldn’t see him), Simone pwering away on bass and Darrin firmly sat behind the kit.

Tonight’s proceedings take in 1986 to the present. A full on 33 years. Gillespie still has that awkward charm of a man who knows he’s a rock and roll star but isn’t going to pander to the obvious. Tight lipped except a few acknowledgements and thanks and a heartfelt tribute to the very recent death of Jake Black from the Alabama 3. Gillespie lets you know how he feels through the songs.

Innes is in towering form with his guitar tonight and being up and close is a  pleasure. The last time I saw the Scream was at a festival and everyone was talking through ‘Damaged’. It wasn’t great. Tonight though they can see our eyes and we can see the whites of theirs. And it all makes for an hour and half of sonic mayhem and merriment.  Every tune is greeted with a cheer and there was always one part of the crowd bellowing out the words and boogying on down whether the tunes were coming from Sonic Flower Groove or Chaosmosis.

It was wonderful to see The Scream acknowledge some of the tunes that had brought me to their door so long ago. ‘Velocity Girl’ was aired tonight and it probably hasn’t been played since 1988. It was longer and there was a sense that Gillespie had done a Lou (Reed) on it with a change in inflection of the lyrics. But you know what. He wrote it  - he can sing it however he likes. We didn’t have a surprise visit from Martin St John. I think the ‘Confessions of a Primal Screamer’ but the stop to that. So there are no tambourines but Bobby did have maraccas. 

And Innes got the Rickenbacker out for a blistering ‘Imperial.’ Which for old men like me was a lovely addition.  I was gutted that we didn’t get ‘Ivy Ivy Ivy’ from the second album even though it had apparently been soundchecked in Brighton the day before – but hey ho the set list made up for it with sublime cuts from Vanishing Point (Kowalsi and Star) and Exterminator (Accelerator, Kill All Hippies and Swastika Eyes – with Innes in full siren effect)

Of course we got ‘Loaded’. And we had a party. We had a good time. With Gillespie holding his microphone aloft for the crowd to chant back at him as he grinned from ear to ear. I think the biggest surprise for me was seeing just how popular ‘Country Girl’ is for The Scream. It’s a sure fire crowd pleaser. I wasn’t too certain when Riot City Blues came out. I was in the camp that I thought they could do better with what they had but clearly that’s the reason why I never ran a record label nor fronted a successful band.  Bobby is in his element and the stripped down Scream give all their worth in a rock hoe down and the crowd sing along in unison to what seemingly is their ‘biggest’ hit. And I guess that’s what it’s all about. You don’t last 33 years if you don’t have the tunes that make the whole crowd sing. Tonight Primal Scream don’t even play half of the ones they have in the locker. This is a rock and roll band that can command a crowd.

When I think back to those early days of catching glimpses of Primal Scream on TV you can see that it’s all still there in Bobby G and his merry band of brothers and sisters. It’s charisma, self-belief and the ability to have a god time.

Primal Scream were good tonight.  

Actually Primal Scream were great tonight.

Primal Scream are a maximum rock and roll band.

I think I might love rock n roll again.

He will be missed

Robert Young has died.

I woke with the usual resistance to rise – cold morning and grey skies. It’s Thursday – not quite the weekend – it can be a hanging around day if you’re not careful. When I was younger it was the arrival of early hours hedonism  - but today I got up  - I washed – missed breakfast and replaced it with nicotine - a habit of youth so sadly not shaken yet.

I get to work – I work – I work.

Check the phone – sometime past ten o’clock.

Tagged in a post from the wonderful Jo – news seems to be emerging that Robert ‘Throb’ Young is dead.

I haven’t seen the man in 24 years but I’m genuinely shocked. And gutted.  And sad.

You can begin all this rock n roll casualty talk if you wish. And it may well be true – but check the record – check the record – check the guy’s track record.  He was the guitarist with Primal Scream. No solo projects. Nothing to distract him – except rock n roll. Primal Scream were a much maligned monster when I first met them – it had turned out all heavy and leather and the bowlheads wanted fey and inferior music. I wasn’t one of them. I loved the sheer power of The Scream’s new take on rock n roll in an age of jangly guitars and emerging grunge. Throb and Innes had bottled that MC5 magic - a double guitar assault with Bobby G in the middle - it was all effortlessly cool. They were wearing leather - their shirts were open - chelsea boots and chains. This wasn't anorak city.

Our little known band then – and little known band now  - managed to convince Paul at The Adelphi that we should support them – so he let us. We were third on the bill and got paid £25 quid or possibly £50. Our name wasn’t even on the poster.

We played in t-shirts freshly bought from Crusher – who was their touring manager and merchandise man and pretty much go to geezer.  We finished and The Scream had seen us – they liked it and asked us down to Sheffield the next night.

I know I’ve written this before. But indulge me. It just might get me writing again.

So we drove at speed to reach Sheffield – cars full of us and little else. It was a date with the screamteam. We’d been booked by them – not the venue – they would make it alright. I felt like a kid – these ‘adults’ of rock n roll asking us to play were little more than the big kids at school themselves – they were super cool.

The Scream – were open, honest, wild and full of promise.

And I’m hanging on to those memories.

That's Throb's guitar. The Williams Sheffield Take Two

So eagerly under prepared  we arrived in Sheffield. The third night ‘on the road’. We had no amps – little room for guitars and drums – but we we’re young and up for it. Toby leant Paul his kit. Henry leant ian his amp and Throb lent me his Les Paul – there was no rock star selfishness in the man. He wanted others to have a good time, to have a party.  Suddenly this two-bit rock n roll band (that’s us – not the Scream) were transformed by Marshall amps, solidly constructed guitars and drums. A mighty fucking racket for the rabble of fans. We used to have a song at the end of our ‘set’ all two chord stooges and feedback. Howling guitars and anarchy.

And I’m hitting this beautiful guitar’s pick-ups – driving that feedback out as the booze flowed through me.

Turns out I might have hit it too hard.

But Throb doesn’t mind. A broken Les Paul – it can be fixed – but not tonight. A little mild panic sets in – you know I only met the guy yesterday. He declares it ‘rock n roll’ and straps on the Flying V – effortless – cool – smoking throughout the gig. 

Robert Young made young girls and men fall in love with him.

As Gillespie and Innes said in their statement following his death Throb always saw the stage as a place to conquer. "When we go onstage it's a war between us and the audience" He would conquer it and everyone in that room. Bring then down with his battle sound. This wasn’t a man borne out of malice. He was always open. As my brother said to me – he made him feel welcome.  So I’ll remember the vodka, the hair, the embraces, the acid house parties, the screamadelica shenanigans, the talks, the recommendations and the women.

Throb and a young Rob Dillam (pre Adorable)

I’ll remember Robert Young.

And if running round the past and fitting me into the story makes me seem sad – a touch too nostalgic – then so be it. Hearing the news that he was dead forced me back there.

They're great memories.

I’ll miss Throbert Young. 

I’m turning down the Marshall to zero tonight.

Sounds from the overground - solitary rants from the listening man No.5

I've been flagging lately - illness rolling around these bones  - you know the chills mutiplying - losing control. 

So in order to keep some semblance of writing happening here - it's a short post - i'll be updating very soon - longer and possibly diving back into the recording process and dates and stuff. 

So here you are then - happy new year - (class) war is not over. 

I have been spending far too much time making compilations of Euros Childs, Jonny, Teenage Fanclub and The Well green

Stuart Kidd is a beautiful musician. Honest, creative with songs to sing along too. You should look up his band camp site. There’s a wealth of lovely things there – a genuine wealth.

I came across The Wellgreen.

Euros continues to produce the most consistently beautiful sounds you could ever wish for and I have decided that next year I’ll interview him for this blog. A new twist in 2013. He doesn’t know it and hopefully it will be as good as my J Mascis interview conducted when I was mere youth. It was five words long. Bloody grungers.

I have listened to EPMD Never Seen Before exiting from the workplace – because I’m street like that.

Students I once taught have provided soundtracks to my waking hours – you all should check out Clouded Judgement, Beatmasta Bill and Monkeysteak.

Inkrument have failed to follow up a seminal long player. Pull your fingers out fellas.

The Super Furries have emerged on the periphery of my being.

Richard Chester is the new Brian Wilson or Spector or Joe Meek – take your pick really. We love him in this house.  

I missed The Fall, Orbital, The Stone Roses, The Primitives, and The Beach Boys this year.

My brother continued to see Adam Ant and saw The Stone Roses.

I’ve played Denim a great deal.

Summer Special is my No.1 album of 2012

I have avidly listened to Duglas’ recommendations on Twitter.

I have tuned into FNOOB – and got down to the Orb Sound System. 

I am pondering whether to get a Primal Scream ticket for March. 

I've got two music books to read - one called Telling Stories the other all about the mavericks in the independent scene from 1975 til 2005. 

I bought five cds for one pound yesterday – I am currently playing Simian Mobile Disco’s mixed set for Bugged Out. It is very good – bass and bleeps. 

We are not hippies: Kill all hippies

So Friday and Saturday came and went. The heavy excess of the Primal beat recapturing, remodelling and representing those ‘delia’ moments.

I was not there. I tend not to be there much these days. Echo and the Bunnymen, The Primitives, Teenage Fanclub, Pixies, The Zombies – the list goes on and on la did da dee da.

And now I wish I had been there.

There’s something sad in recreating the past – about nostalgia for the now. But there’s also something in the Scream Team that is very hard to capture without feeling that you want to be part of it. And in a way I had been – those teenagers moments spent with Innes, Gillespie and Young. Those hours in the company of older, wiser, rocking and rolling men with their rammalamalamma ways and musical prowess that far outshone my own.

I own half my record collection from Innes little chats – little recommendations – the passing on of pop knowledge. I think to some extent that sits with me today. I want to stop caring about the sounds [of the underground] but I just keep thinking about The Pastels or Euros Childs or Weatherall and then that bounces me off down a new avenue – a new way of experiencing sounds and I’m hooked again. I want to write again.

Sometimes I need to write a list of those tunes, moments , experiences and highs down for my children to read, hear and groove to. Because sometimes I am far too harsh with them – my moaning, my wanting a quiet moment – sometimes I need to remember they are the kids – and once I wanted record companies to do it for the kids. The kids are revolting and that’s a fact – and I want my kids to be revolting – always.

So let’s get back to the scream – this pure independent rock n roll band. We had travelled south and still playing our brand of 4AD/ Blast First and Creation rock had bored audiences to tears as they waited for the glamour and soul of that old rock n roll from the glasgae boys. And boy did they get it – dripping in that MC5 swagger and open spirit [mainly vodka] the scream were able to command an audience’s respect – as we punched the air to their she[er] power. And rolling to our final destination and final ‘gig’ of our respective mini tour – friendships had cemented and minds had been expanded. Loaded was being recorded and before you know it – the scream where rocking the clubs [the dance ones not the working men’s] and those heady screamadelic months would follow.

It was ‘Come Together’ that did for me – the Terry Farley mix – white label in a shop on Loampit Vale in Lewisham – obviously not there now – but you could buy records then in small shops – actually you could buy records in Lewisham shopping centre – not a shop just a stall in the shopping centre – I remember Lee [another old friend lost to the mercies of not talking] buying Chime there – before Orbital signed to FRRR.

I think the reason Come Together resonates is that it is still a scream record – one that has the essence of the past merged firmly with the future. That jangle riddled with soul and swagger – real dance music – or as i said in an early post – I just call it music. That trumpet blast – and a call to come together [because we know when we come together we have power] Gillespie provides that languid feeling – that hope that together we can not only party – we can change things. I’m not one for hands aloft moments in rock n roll – i don’t like stadium filling shit – but at the Marcus Garvey Centre in Nottingham in 1990 – we all just came together – holding hands – it was beautiful [really beautiful] – mind you were already feeling europhic. I think Ian [former band member and genuine top rogue] had already secreted himself in a bass bin as Dr Alex had supplied the dub madness. But in that one moment of pure ecstasy we came together – en masse – to music I know but it was a moment filled with possibility as the guitar descends and Gillespie asks – ‘kiss me – won’t you, won’t you kiss me?’ Come Together is an honest and open call to arms – something the Scream have always dealt in. We are not here for the hippies.

And the night turned wilder and weirder, Douglas Hart with his video camera – I often wonder what happened to all that footage – it never made the Screamadelica tape that’s for sure, Nightingale ‘organising’ proceedings and the music just flowing. Somehow we made it to Claire’s house.

Because when we come together – we have power – we are unified – we are together.

For some reason I can't find an audio copy of the Terry Farley mix - Sony have locked down the video onthe Screan channel. So here is the original speech which Weatherall lifted for the epic dub version.