MUSIC live review
Groove on the green
The List gets in a flap and spends two nights in a tent on Glasgow Green Words: Peter Ross 8. Jonathan Trew Photographs: Shona Wong
Glasgow Green, Sun 24 Aug ***t*
A Primal Scream gig in Glasgow was always going to have an electric atmosphere but by the time it's been preceded by four hours of Kris Needs and Asian Dub Foundation stoking up the party, then you Just know that you’re in for an ass-kickin’, bone- breakin' beat fest People are dancing around the tent like tomorrow isn't going to come and tonight is the last chance on Earth to party Before the Scream have even poked their noses on stage, the crowd are not so much up for it as floating on cloud nine. lf Bobby Gillespie had been carried down onto stage by angels surfing a sun beam then few people would have batted an eyelid
As it is, Gillespie and gang arrive on stage by the more conventional method of walking and set to work experimenting on. most of their last album, Vanishing Pomt. 'Get Duffy' is drawn out and its already languid groove stretched into a hypnotic” dance. 'Star' is performed With the tender lovmg care it richly deserves, its gentle melodies enhanced by keyboard sguiggles spiralling upwards into sound effect heaven lJiiirleiitifiable electronic
46 THE LIST 2‘3 tint; ii Sep we;
Keith Prodigy gets to the point
bleeps and whistles drop in and out, melding with the guitars and brass section to create a disorientating soundscaoe which engulfs the crowd and floats Out into the aural distance. 'Stuka' starts off With a dub-soaked skank before Gillespie’s disembodied and distorted voice gives it form and
Primal Scream: you won't know what's hit you
creates substance from the sonic soup. 'Rocks' from Give Out But Don’t Give Up allows the band to return to their prevrous album's ballsy boogie. While they didn't quite get around to putting their feet on their monitors for the full rock gig posture, they would .still have got a rousing welcome in any deep south redneck roadhouse.
All the while, two large backdrops flicker v-iith fast—cut images of riots, explosions, unidentifiable close-ups and planes falling from the sky. The Scream stand bathed in a selection of lights from another planet, Gillespie hanging from his mic stand, the perfect image of rock 'n' roll debauchery, painfully thin but still dragging himself vertical to wring every last cracked note from his body. If he didn't must then he would have to be created from composite parts of the Monster Book Of Rock Myths And Demonology
They end on a version of ’Kowalski’ that's so hard that Mike Tyson would think twice before asking it to step outside A wrred and Wicked speed freak of a song, the Scream crank it up to bursting point and let it rip in a bruising explosion of huge clanking beats and fret splintering guitars. Asking for anything more w0uld Just be greedy tJT)
Glasgow Green, Sat 23 Aug * t ht
Bosch springs to mind. Under darkening, cloud-streaked skies the jilted generation, loaded on pills, powders and tonic wine, prepare to pay homage to their four distant gods.
Prodigy leap on as the sound system cranks out ‘Pretty Vacant' and its straight into ’Smack My Bitch Up', the modern misogynist's knees-up of choice. Of course it's fantastic and gets all the cuddling couples making cow eyes and yelling out the Kool Keith sample with abandon, presumably as a prelude to going home hand-in-hand to give each other a beating. Big tunes — l Irony - O.
’Voodoo People’ and ’Breathe’ are next in a faultless triple-whammy opening. ’Breathe' is perfect, full of menace and swagger, towering infernally over the rest of the set. A wired and wonderful ’Poison’ inspires one nutter to scale the main tent supports and wave down as if he were up the Blackpool Tower.
After this full-on opening it's terribly apparent that the Prod have peaked too soon. They crank out a series of generic thrashes, heavy of riff, big of beat and punctuated by a lot of words y0ur mum wouldn't like. But they have none of the pop sensibility or charisma that make the hits such hits.
But at least the crowd cools it a bit, providing a chance to move stage- wards. Going deeper into this collection of wackos, one feels rather like Martin Sheen sailing upriver into Cambodia in Apocalypse Now. Closer inspection reveals the devolution debate in full sartorial swing on stage. Keith in a Union Jack top and a kilted Maxim taunt each other and the front TOWS.
'Firestarter' is ignited as the last song before the encore and, as always, it's incendiary. The whole tent c0uld spontaneously combust and no-one would bat an eyelid.
It's a big mistake coming back On Nothing can follow 'Firestarter', least of all the L7 cover 'Fuel My Fire' which is lacklustre despite its punk bluster. Finishing on some techno-tastic, sub- Rezurrection track is an even bigger blunder. The vast numbers of people who would happin dance to a dialling tone don’t seem to care, but there are dark grumblings too.
As the lights come up, the SOund system kicks back in With 'Nite Klub’. Prodigy obwously consider themselves the natural inheritOrs of The SpeCials and the Sex Pistols, but if the y0ung Johnny Rotten and Terry Hall were here they’d sneer and say the Prod are in danger of becoming Led Zeppelin, bloated and lazy on the fat of the land. No gig that includes ’Breathe' and 'Firestarter' can be anything less than magnificent, but there was a lot of filler tonight that was less than bitchin’. (PR)