130. Primal Scream
London Palladium
1 April 2016
Some nights you know exactly what’s coming, and some nights you end up marinating in other people’s lager wondering if you’ve just witnessed the slow, public decline of a once-impactful band. This was, unfortunately, the latter.
Both gig buddies turned up for this one, a rare celestial alignment that inevitably meant “boys’ night out” rules applied. So, naturally, we started in Opium, Chinatown, sinking negronis until the exit door became a minor navigational puzzle and the short walk to the Palladium felt like a major trek. We arrived merry, lubricated, and ready for Primal Scream to make good on the promise of Screamadelica. Unfortunately, they didn’t.
The problems started with the line-up. They could all play, just not well enough to justify the funkadelic peacocking that substituted for actual musical punch. Where once the Scream deployed three guitarists to batter the walls down, we had one and the sound was anaemic. The two backing singers flapped about like they were auditioning for a cruise ship revue, and the bassist… well, he was no Mani. Screamadelica is supposed to be lush, brash, and swaggering. This was more… unplugged, but not on purpose.
Gillespie himself is a miracle of medical science, still vertical despite decades of industrial narcotic intake, but clearly operating at reduced horsepower. He still had flashes, the big finish of “Loaded” and “Movin’ On Up” lit the room, helped by the Screamadelica sunburst logo blazing behind them, but the middle stretch sagged badly. There were moments where he looked like he’d wandered into his own gig by mistake.
Then there was the crowd. The real menace of the evening. Middle-aged, ex-ravers, all in bucket hats, all eight pints deep before 8pm. This was less “concert crowd” and more “town-centre Wetherspoons at closing time.” Pints were sloshed liberally over everyone in a five-foot radius. My socks squelched. Elbows flew. Football chants broke out. A couple of scuffles sparked up. The Palladium’s security, more accustomed to dealing with Mamma Mia! matinee-goers, looked like startled deer in hi-vis. I clocked one of my friends limbering up, presumably trying to remember his jiu-jitsu from twenty years ago, just in case.
We got out unscathed, drenched in stale lager, but unscathed, and I can’t say I’ll be rushing back. On tonight’s evidence, Gillespie hasn’t got many of these left in him. And maybe that’s for the best.