OUT OF THE VOID
THE PRIMAL SCREAM STORY
BRENDAN YATES
EMPIRE PUBLICATIONS
www.empire-uk.com
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First published in 2011 by Empire Publications
Smashwords Edition
© Brendan Yates 2003
ISBN: 1901746 364
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Published by Empire Publications at Smashwords
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acknowledgements
"To steal from one author is plagiarism, to steal from many is research..."
The author wishes to thank Ashley Shaw and Stuart Fish at Empire Publications and others for their help and encouragement with the writing of this book, including Adele Emm, Nadine Cossigny, Tony Fletcher, Christine Longinotti, Jeff Birgbauer and John Robb.
My credit to the following writers whose quotes and or reviews I've used: Steve Sutherland and Andrew Harrison in various, Stuart Bailie, James Brown, James Oldham, Stuart Maconie, Roger Morton, David Swift, Danny Kelly, April Long, Neil Taylor and Stephen Dalton in NME, Miranda Sawyer, Tom Doyle, Mark Ellen, Kerry Potter, Giles Smith and Andrew Collins in Q. John Harris, Sylvia Patterson, David Cavanagh and Andrew Male in Select. The Stud Brothers, Tony Naylor, Michael Bonner and Martin James in Melody Maker, Tom Lanham and Michael Krugman in Raygun. Ann Scanlon in Sounds, Bruce Dessau in Jamming!, Tim Tooher in Mojo, John Reed in Record Collector, Simon King in Jockey Slut, Lee Harpin in The Face, Andy Cowan in Rage and Johnny Cigarettes in Loaded.
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brixton academy: december ‘02
The minute you stepped from the tube at Brixton station you could hear the cry, "Any tickets needed? Primal Scream... any tickets, selling here..." Surrounding the venue seedy salesmen attempted to sell bootleg posters, T shirts, badges and tickets to the thousands of people milling around the Academy, where Primal Scream were about to perform the second of two nights to promote their album Evil Heat.
It was a seriously sold out show; the tickets, officially priced at a hefty twenty five pounds, were changing hands at four times that amount to fans desperate to get in whatever the cost.
It was December and biting cold, yet several devotees were seemingly unaffected by the conditions; many wore long sleeved shirts inscribed with everything from "PRML SCRM MTHR FCKR" to the celebrated sunshine artwork from their third album that had identified the band for more than a decade. Everyone looked excited about seeing them at a venue they'd played many times over the years, but that night things seemed just a little different from before.
The album had been released back in August and save for a few showpiece performances for TV and the odd appearance at outdoor festivals in the summer, this was the first time in their history that Primal Scream had failed to tour upon an album’s release the sales of which were consequently sluggish compared to previous efforts. Meanwhile press interest of the band (the members of which were now all aged over forty) had noticeably waned in favour of that for younger, supposedly more exciting acts.
Yet almost five thousand people filled the Brixton Academy hoping that Primal Scream could deliver as usual. Far from being novices when it comes to playing shows like this; Bobby Gillespie and company have criss-crossed Britain many times over the years, presenting brave versions of rock 'n' roll to audiences expecting everything from a simple fun night out to intense, energized and brutal lessons in world politics. As a result, and despite the lack of hype and press interest in the band, the public knew it was virtually guaranteed that they would put on a good show - word of mouth seemed to be the only advertisement required for this particular night.
Once inside, as in all venues like this, people crowded the cloakrooms and official merchandise stalls where T shirts were going for roughly twice the price of those outside. Bouncers hurried people past the doors, young girls with pigtails collected for charity and middle-age folks were heard complaining about the price of a vodka and coke. In the auditorium the first band played to polite applause, though their sound was largely lost in the cavernous room that soon filled to three quarters full for the arrival of Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.
Unlike their headliners, BRMC had been receiving rave notices in recent months and some in the crowd had turned up solely to see them. Their leather outfits didn't do much to absorb light onto their silhouetted figures as they roamed the darkened stage, but they didn't disappoint, with an exciting set of up-tempo thrash pop numbers laced with fittingly lazy vocals. By the time they'd left the stage a crush had developed down the front.
The lights came back on as people filtered away to toilets and bars while many couples got far too engrossed in each other to notice the hardworking road crews rearranging the stage. When everyone was suitably refreshed, standing shoulder to shoulder down in the stalls or sat comfortably up on the balcony, the lights dimmed to a deep roar of excitement.
Primal Scream took to the stage at a quarter after midnight. First to appear was stick-thin singer Bobby Gillespie, dressed in tight jeans and a baggy black gents' shirt which sailed behind him as he skipped lightly to his mic stand. Robert 'Throb' Young was next, grinning from ear to ear while strapping on his six string and quickly going through an array of camp poses as if all his work was already done.
Andrew Innes, smartly buttoned-up to the collar, was obviously far more concerned that his guitar was running okay. Then came bassman Mani in leather trousers and an equally tasteless tracksuit top yelling above the din, unaided by amplification, 'come on, let's 'ave it!'.
In the shadows stage left settled the noisy guitar guy Kevin Shields, who looked like he hadn't washed his hair in a millennium. Martin Duffy, the most genuine musician of the lot, positioned himself behind his keyboards and held his breath. Drummer Darrin Mooney's snare cracked and they were off into ‘Accelerator’, the loudest song they'd ever recorded.
Down at the front it was impossible to see anything but blinding blue strobe lights and occasional flashes of the band throwing themselves into it as if their very lives depended on it. People were pushing and shoving, elbows were flying around and oxygen was in ever shorter supply. The sound of them attacking their instruments blasted distortedly onto a tense crowd about to take out their frustrations in a gloriously communal and celebratory way.
Fringe hung permanently over his eyes, Gillespie swung his mic stand into the air in time to the line "come on, hit the accelerator, hit the accelerator," aping his heroes Johnny Rotten and Iggy Pop.
For years Gillespie has been laughed at by the British music press as perhaps the least charismatic frontman who ever had the cheek to call himself a rock star. Yet he has always believed in himself and his band and, helped in no small way by the thousands of fans now at his feet imitating his famous spastic dancing, you would have to conclude that he'd finally developed as a successful rock 'n' roll performer. If you had a second to think that is...
Evil Heat's first single, the buzzing disco hymn 'Miss Lucifer' was next up. After just one song it was clear that only the brave or the foolish would want to stay down the front where things had already gotten far too physical for comfort. Up on stage Primal Scream had it easy as their driving riff exploded with deafening yells of 'shake it baby, shake it baby', that was sung louder by the audience.
Through numbers like 'Rise', 'Shoot Speed/Kill Light' and 'Pills', things calmed down to an extent, but it wasn't until the recent single 'Autobahn 66' that things finally dropped down below a hundred miles per hour. On record the song is a beautiful, melancholic affair; live, it was enhanced almost enough to fit tidily with the astoundingly arresting introduction.
In mid-set arrived 'Rocks', a song that had given the band their first top ten hit more than eight years before. It never sounded distinctly like Primal Scream - as no one song can - and it came from a period in their history that's not remembered with great fondness. When it came out they were called 'dance traitors' by sections of the media, but seeing it performed that night made that particular accusation look rather laughable. The Stones-esque guitars rattled in and people were going wild. Gillespie was running all over the stage working the crowd, swinging his slender hips and flicking around his bouncy black hair. Even the usually unflappable Robert Young seemed to forget himself and get right into it.
Within the band were former members of The Jesus And Mary Chain, Felt, The Stone Roses and My Bloody Valentine; four of the most acclaimed, important and wonderful alternative acts Britain has produced in the past twenty years.
It was an array of talent particular to a band that continues to defy standard music convention. Primal Scream have been routinely courageous and innovative, factors which go to explain the ability of their music to survive a multitude of differing styles. Yet on this night almost every song was presented in the same vicious, fist-clenching way.
By the time the set had rattled through the sonic bass attack of 'Kowalski' and the pulverising disco of 'Swastika Eyes', it became clear that things were never going to slow down during the first set at all. Though equally known for their dreamy ballads and delightful mid-tempo dance experiments, Primal Scream were unmistakably sticking to their formidable catalogue of electro punk rockers like a band possessed.
'Skull X', one particular overload from Evil Heat, saw them right on top of their game. The lashing distortion of overworked guitars and smacking drums was hardly pierced by Gillespie's forlorn vocals that exploded into screaming rants of desperation.
After an hour or so they left to thunderous applause and regrouped backstage. The ovation continued, everyone clapping in unison, shouting requests for old favourites and stamping their feet. When they returned the stage was in darkness; Gillespie mumbled an introduction to 'Higher Than The Sun' and immediately people were transfixed.
For many the song remains their greatest ever, and live, again far from the dreamy space pop on record, it was a compelling, heavy blast of what could be described as punk blues, that spiralled into a cacophonous frenzy of percussion and keyboard effects.
Returning to the set after the best part of a decade's absence was 'Jailbird', a monster Zeppelin-esque riff that saw Young and Innes expertly playing off against each other while Gillespie and Mani clasped like Jagger and Wyman strutting across '....Satisfaction' or 'Jumpin’ Jack Flash'. It was a cleansing and picturesque sight to see them up there; soaked in sweat, giving their all for the fans who'd waited for hours and forked out a small fortune for tickets.
"We've had a great time," announced Gillespie to universal applause, while Mani, after one of his successful attempts to hijack the microphone, just said a long thank you to everyone including his musical influences.
'Movin' On Up', towards the end of the set, had Innes clapping above his head - perhaps wishing himself to be Phil Collins - and everyone else just lavishly harmonising, punching the air on the beat clearly wanting the night to go on and on. The last song was the hands in the air 'Kick Out The Jams'. It was an old MC5 song but Primal Scream have played it so many times over the years that it is now virtually theirs by default. They had played for an hour and a half.
Primal Scream weren't perfect that night, far from it, but no one seemed to care. Gillespie was typically slurred with his vocals, they missed chords and pretty much all night had the needles glued in the red in a room where for those down the front each breath might have been their last. Many fans left for the exits a stone lighter in weight - tired, bruised and aching, but perhaps that was the point. As a certain member of the band often feels compelled to point out, they were not too old, nor were they past it.
They killed.
beginnings
Bobby Gillespie has always been fascinated by the cult of rock 'n' roll; from Elvis to The Sex Pistols, via The Beatles, The Stones and virtually every manner of funky glam rock in between, the Glasgow boy of the '60's grew up hearing spellbound by the hits of the day. By the time Bobby was fifteen he had decided that he'd done enough observing and wanted to get involved - it was the beginning of a long and turbulent road.
As with so many tales of great musical excess, turmoil and innovation, the story of Primal Scream has modest beginnings. No one in the band had the luxury of an easy upbringing in comfortable Britain. It was never like that. Yet the working class pride generated by Glasgow’s hugely successful ship yards has had a long lasting impact on many of the key people involved in this story.
Musically, the city has contributed relatively little to Britain's hip roster of artists but that didn't mean there hadn't been the unrest that always motivates young people to seek their own identity through music. Thus, with the decline of the ship building industry, the former 'Second City of Empire' had become an untidy place, left with a depressed economy and high levels of unemployment. It was the home of Robert Gillespie, a proud trade union activist and anti racist campaigner. Named after him, his son Bobby was born on the 22 June 1962.
During an interview with the New Musical Express, Bobby junior explained: "My earliest memory is a dream I had when I was little, living in a tenement in Glasgow. I walked up the side of the building, and over the roof, then down the other side of the building. So my first memory is also the first dream I can ever remember having, which is a bit strange." Later, when asked what characteristics he'd inherited from his parents, he simply replied: "Socialism and a sense of humour.”
By the time Bobby was ten the family were living in a featureless suburb north of the town called Springburn. Around this time he recalls being puzzled by the sight of drunken men staggering out of pubs and stumbling home. As a boy Bobby couldn't comprehend exactly why they had to damage themselves like this. His father was a drinker and soon afterwards his younger brother Graham got in trouble, yet Bobby was a well-behaved adolescent, and much as he remains to this day hardly interested in cigarettes or alcohol. Bobby wasn't a wholly introverted young man, but he did keep well clear of serious trouble. In the early '70's the family moved to the suburb of Mount Florida, close to Hampden Park football ground where his teenage years were fairly typical, as he grew up with a passion for the sport and especially Glasgow Celtic.
Like much of Britain, Bobby's childhood was soundtracked by The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, but of later on he recalls: "When I was ten or eleven, I would hear T Rex, David Bowie, Gary Glitter; glam rock, I kind of loved all loved that." Having developed this fondness for glam, his tastes then advanced to the sterner sounds of Thin Lizzy and The Clash - two acts renowned for their maverick tendencies. Listening to him discuss his formative years, particularly via a series of throwaway remarks, it's a fair assumption that Bobby nowadays likes to give the impression that his youth was nothing short of anarchic, but the more likely scenario was that he was a quiet boy who found fascination in music.
"When I was a kid I'd buy ZigZag and NME," he told the latter in 1999, "and I'd read interviews with bands like Public Image Ltd, The Jam and The Clash, and they'd talk about people like Can, Captain Beefheart, Love, Miles Davis and John Coltrane..." Following such lines, young Bobby's knowledge of music from bygone eras expanded rapidly, it was something he would lean on in later years, citing these artists as both influences and inspirations. An interest in music has long since shielded young people from potentially hazardous lifestyles and certainly during the many difficult times ahead Bobby's appetite was such that it would always help him focus.
The very cult of rock 'n' roll has never been just about the music; the behaviour, attitude and, more often than not, the offensive intent of the performers holds an allure. During Britain’s developing punk scene, many young, impressionable music fans suddenly came face-to-face with the possibility that they could escape the boredom of their everyday lives. Kids everywhere bought cheap guitars, learned how to strum three chords and formed a band. It was fun, liberating and easy, and it captivated the teenage Bobby Gillespie almost overnight.
He understood the appeal of punk loud and clear, and couldn't have been more excited about it, as he told Sounds in 1990: "Punk music gave me the courage to be myself and I met Alan through that. I'd always thought that there must be people who think like me and when I heard 'God Save The Queen' I thought, ‘great! there's somebody else who hates The Queen as much as I do'. It's simple, but that's the power of rock 'n' roll!" By discovering punk Bobby realised that any lack of musical talent need not be a handicap, enthusiasm and attitude were more important.
Of his time at King's Park Secondary School Bobby recalls: "It was weird because I was in good classes for English, Art and History, but I was in remedial classes for Maths and Science, anything like that. In remedial, there's no teacher. They put you in a room and throw the key away." At school Bobby first became aware of Alan McGee and Robert Young. The three of them would soon drift together through music.
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Much to the chagrin of his father, Alan McGee had his sights set on becoming a musician, though luckily he soon realised that he was perhaps more likely to be a success releasing records rather than making them.
Bobby first recognised Alan as a boy with taste, as he too had a reputation around school for being a music lover. In October 1976 Thin Lizzy performed at Glasgow's Apollo Theatre and Bobby phoned the older boy asking if he wanted to go. "The way I met Alan was he'd be the only other guy in the area on the way back from Clash gigs on the train" is how he's since put it.
Either way the friendship between the two would remain intact for more than twenty five years, during which time Alan would often refer to Bobby as his soulmate or brother. As they became friends, it was perhaps inevitable that they too should want to indulge in the spreading plague of punk, and the defining inspiration arrived after Alan caught a show on local radio. McGee was motivated by the announcement that a local band called The Drains were looking for new members. There mustn't have been any mention of a required level of ability, as he wasted no time applying, coming to the rescue of fifteen-year old Andrew Innes.
Innes had been a ball boy for the locally celebrated Scotland vs. England match at Hampden in '76. Like Bobby and Alan, he was also taken in by the 'anyone can do it' ethos of punk and refreshingly, he could really play guitar; such was his ability that Alan was moved to try and learn what he could from his new friend about the bass. Vague recollections from early 1978 reveal that Andrew changed the name of The Drains to Captain Scarlet And The Mysterons when Bobby joined on vocals. Although Bobby privately fancied himself as a percussionist, he couldn't sing or play anything at all, but it was hardly of any matter, as he was at last having a great time.
"You go round to your friend's house and try and play an instrument, you know, just mess about" he says, naively. The romance of friends getting together like this had always been part of the appeal of rock 'n' roll, and here were Bobby Gillespie, Alan McGee and Andrew Innes, the latest in a very long line of teenagers who dreamt of making it big. Back in the real world, Bobby left school with three ‘O’ Levels, while Alan, having grown tired of running as a trainee electrician, was soon holding down a day job with British Rail.
Still, Alan and Andrew were more dedicated than Bobby at this stage and during the next couple of years they liaised on both an early version of long forgotten synth darlings H20 and the more prosperous Newspeak. By the summer of 1980, Andrew and Newspeak singer Jack Reilly had become disillusioned with Glasgow and convinced Alan to move to London.
It was surprising to many who knew eighteen-year old Andrew, who was rather inhibited by nature, that he could leave college and move hundreds of miles to a strange city, but such was his ambition that Alan felt compelled to follow his lead, as he says, "Me and Innes, being spiky characters, were either going to beat each other up or bond. We were geeky characters, outsiders. We liked being in London but the rest of the band were missing Glasgow and moved back." Once they were humbly squashed together in Tooting Bec, it was Jack Reilly who gathered he'd made a mistake and returned to Scotland. It was the end of Newspeak.
With a reference from their Glasgow counterparts, London's British Rail employed Alan where he quickly excelled. Alan persuaded his girlfriend to move down with him, yet she apparently still had doubts about the likelihood of him settling into a routine domestic life knowing that Andrew was determined to make it as a musician. As real life often gets in the way of dreams, nothing happened overnight.
Alan is loath to discuss their early musical endeavours in any detail, admitting only that while not especially great, their efforts were all more or less the same as any of the other kids' attempts at the dawn of the '80's. "I'm amazed we got through it actually," he admits, "we were mixed up kids suddenly in London where we didn't know anyone. I suppose you have less fear when you're younger; I remember thinking it was an exciting new beginning. I wanted to be the bass player in a top band and it was like Innes was showing me the way to go." London was more liberal than Glasgow; something they discovered as soon as they arrived, it was dangerous too, but as young musicians in search of the next great British rock band, it was definitely the place to be. Bobby was unable and unwilling to follow, but he stayed in close contact, visiting when he could, and has since stated that he was pleased, not jealous, when he heard they'd actually started to get somewhere.
With drummer Mark Jardim, Alan and Andrew formed The Laughing Apple and had three cheaply pressed singles released on labels they set up with sponsorship money from Govan CND. Their catchy guitar pop received favourable reviews from those who heard it around London, and for a time it seemed as if they might really get on their way. As early as 1981 the seeds were sown that over the next three years would germinate into one of the most important independent record labels of the decade.
Sadly though, progress was halted when Andrew fell ill with hepatitis and returned to Glasgow. Then Alan almost lost his life when the tour van spun out of control and crashed following a date up in Scotland. These unlucky breaks saw the pair lose momentum and they decided to take their time before considering any further musical plans. Alan married and got ever more comfortable with British Rail, but soon afterwards, those distressing thoughts of wasted youth that only become apparent to most people in midlife began to irk him in his early twenties. Inevitably, Alan wanted to express himself again. If he wasn't to be a musician because of low morale and general lack of talent, then he’d do the next best thing, so along with Laughing Apple fan Jerry Thackray he started a rock fanzine called Communication Blur.
While punk as a genre of music had hardly been a success in every conventional sense of the word, it'd proved inspirational to a generation of young people who otherwise wouldn't have had the courage to do anything. The brash and carefree attitudes had spread to everyone from aspiring writers to filmmakers; just about anyone who realised that music was only a minor element of what was essentially a no holds barred approach to freedom of expression. In the early '80's inexpensive new fanzines appeared every week benefiting all kinds of young bands and helped likeminded individuals to interact. Communication Blur was impressive, which for obvious reasons plugged The Laughing Apple singles and especially helped revitalise Alan's enthusiasm for live music, so much so that before long he hired a small venue and put on concerts by unsigned young bands. It was a particularly bold scheme for a twenty two year-old with no experience, but his enthusiasm made theserelative shortcomings look minor.
"I started a club" he recalls, "I didn't do it to make money, I just didn't know anyone in London at the time, and I thought I'd meet people if I started putting on bands I liked." Although by no means alone, Alan found the expense of acquiring a suitable venue that met safety regulations too great, but because he had a strong will, he found a way. To partner his fanzine, The Communication Club opened in Autumn 1982 and Alan quickly realised that if any of the young bands he was putting on had a record deal, then it was often a very poor one. The club sadly proved too expensive, forcing him to close down after little more than two months. Yet it had been a great creative success and, proud of what he'd achieved, he saved up for six months or so and with the help of a considerable tax rebate tried again, this time opening a venue called The Living Room.
Smaller than The Communication Club; The Living Room was a cosy venue situated above a pub where rock fans could be relied upon to come down, watch the bands and indulge in lively banter, the subject of which was often the lack of quality guitar acts during the nascent synth pop era. In this unlikely setting unknown bands would play sensational shows and Alan soon managed to fill the room on word of mouth alone and before he knew it, he was sitting on a passionate community of rock 'n' roll fans. Feeling immensely proud when the club began to make a real profit, Alan took the plunge and borrowed a thousand pounds from his bank and put out a single, quitting British Rail soon afterwards.
McGee's ambitions for a record label were modest to say the least, he wanted to provide an outlet for people like him and ultimately give young bands an opportunity to see their work on vinyl. Talking to Select magazine he later explained that, "In an unconscious way, I was trying to merge psychedelia with punk rock. I was obsessed by bands like The Creation and Syd Barrett, but I also loved Joy Division and PiL. The music scene was dominated by manufactured pop. Me and Bobby would sit saying how much we hated everything. We had all these great ideas, like water bombing pop stars..."
Evidently there were never any long term plans; if Alan managed to put out just one single then it would be an achievement, two would be really gathering steam and three would be incredible. His professed aim was to provide a voice for the disaffected and, if it all fell apart before it started then at least he could say he tried. Alan called the business Creation, after one of his favourite bands.
With the Laughing Apple finished, Jerry Thackray's alias 'The Legend' has the honour of being Creation's first ever release with the single '73 in 83'. With his girlfriend Christine, Andrew Innes had formed Revolving Paint Dream; their 'Flowers In The Sky' was the second, and with partner Dick Green, Alan himself dusted down his bass playing skills in Biff Bang Pow, their 'Fifty Years Of Fun' completing the label's hat-trick of releases.
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Up in Glasgow Bobby Gillespie had kept reasonably busy. He'd designed the covers for The Laughing Apple singles and had them printed along with issues of Communication Blur, as he'd been employed at a print factory since leaving school. Despite the post having its benefits, Bobby didn't last long in the job as he came to hate both the conventional hours and day-to-day boredom of a labour he’s since called 'a slow death'. However the nightlife was much more to his taste and Bobby had already begun to make a name for himself around the city. For a short while he was a roadie for Clare Grogan's Altered Images, who at first glance didn’t seem to make ideal company but at least he was involved in music, which left him relatively content. There was another band who Bobby got to know called The Wake, who he assisted in several roles both in the studio and on tour, notably opening for the infant Joy Division offspring New Order.
Joy Division have accurately been described as a devastating cross between The Doors and Nirvana. Featuring the original, self taught guitar style of their future singer Bernard Sumner and the distinctive lead bass lines of Peter Hook, their music had had a great impact on teenage Bobby; who later went on to declare that the only reason he became a singer was because of Sumner, and that his future bassist later had a 'Heart And Soul' tattoo done because of the Joy Division song. But it was with a touring mate of The Wake in mid 1983 that Bobby felt the inspiration to again be in a band, the same feeling he’d had when he first heard Andrew Innes play those punk anthems more than five years before.
In a local scout hut aspiring folk guitarist Jim Navajo Beattie began to make noise with his instrument and additional fuzz pedals. Bobby Gillespie would scream and bang on dustbin lids creating an almighty racket that apparently should have sounded like songs by The Byrds and The Velvet Underground. The name 'Primal Scream' was chosen for this venture because it sounded brilliant; it was a term coined in Dr. Arthur Janov's famed book on psychotherapy treatment and would always carry certain implications for their music. More than once the tag would prove gloriously misleading.
When word reached Alan, he invited Bobby and Jim down to play The Living Room as a twosome. Gillespie and Beattie did perform in some way, likely with the help of a beat box, but whether or not officially as Primal Scream is still a matter of conjecture, as with a hazy recollection Bobby later mentioned that: "The first ever Primal Scream gig was at the Bungalow Bar in Paisley, we supported The Laughing Apple. Only one song in the set was ours, and I remember it was just total noise. That wasn't a real gig, it was a joke. There wasn't any shape to it." Still, despite the blurriness, Alan's club is probably the safest assumption to be the location of Primal Scream's live debut - although no one has been able to get specific.
As Primal Scream were in business and releasing records by mid '85, Bobby's first press exposure arrived accordingly and of the very early days he told fanzines and music papers up and down the land that it started as just total noise; smashing things up, with any apparent melody just purely coincidental, telling ZigZag, "we used to make noises, then we learnt to play guitars, then we learnt to write songs, and we quite liked it, and we thought, 'we'll try and get a group, try and get records out’ and things like that". Meanwhile he told Jamming! that, "When Primal Scream started, all Jim and I used to do was make tapes of noise, then we progressed to writing tunes around bass riffs, and then we started writing pop songs." When they were confident enough with their first handful of compositions, getting some of them recorded properly was the next obvious step. Leaning on Alan's generosity they nominated a new, '60's pop influenced number called 'The Orchard' to be their first single.
One of Bobby's friends, Judith Boyle, was brought in to contribute violin to Primal Scream's first real studio session. In later years, Bobby claimed that he was suffering with a cold when it was time to record his vocals and asked her to duet with him, hoping she'd disguise his inadequacies. It was rumoured that Bobby found Judith's voice so impressive that he took singing more seriously from then on, attempting to croon like a girl. It's ironic that right from the start of his career Bobby's desire for absolute perfection, in both recording and mixing, proved to be hugely problematic, as 'The Orchard', in it's definitive form at least, remains a lost treasure as, deeply dissatisfied with the result, Bobby and Jim staunchly refused it any exposure, commenting later that they purposely destroyed the tape. Creation Records, not for the last time, were left waiting.
Further compositions like 'Hollow' and 'Leaves' came together as they become something of a mainstay around Glasgow's band scene. Nick Lowe co-ran The Candy Club, a venue that Bobby and Jim frequented in the hope of meeting like-minded people. It was a place for young bands to get up and play and accordingly it was inundated with demo tapes, including those from a young group who'd called themselves everything from The Poppy Seeds to The Death Of Joey before settling on Daisy Chain after they correctly assumed that bookers had tired of hearing from them. They would develop into arguably the most important street band of the decade.
*
Brothers William and Jim Reid hailed from East Kilbride, a suburb of south Glasgow, where they were making every effort to escape the stultifying life predicted for their generation - a life that had begun to assume depressing reality. Along with their pushy mate Douglas Hart, their love of classic Beach Boys style pop and punk noise terrorism saw them inspiringly combine the two genres to a startlingly original and powerful effect. Their sound was akin to the beauty of The Velvet Underground beneath an incredible wall of distorted guitar that merged into something rebellious and wonderfully new. One of their earliest recordings was sent to Nick Lowe at The Candy Club, who casually mentioned to Bobby Gillespie that he might like it. He did.
Bobby quickly contacted Douglas Hart, as he later recalled: "I phoned the number on the tape and spent two hours talking to Dougie; total strangers talking about the books, films and records we loved. It was great because me and my mates had felt isolated, we thought we were the only guys around who liked what we liked."
With Douglas on bass, the Reids’ band was now called The Jesus And Mary Chain, and Bobby was certain that he could offer not only a record deal, but live dates in London and even some media exposure, as because of Alan's persistence, some of the city’s sharpest young music journalists were now conveniently propping up The Living Room's bar. Although he could hardly afford to put another band in the studio, Alan was quickly learning the ropes of the business and once he saw The Mary Chain perform a gloriously sloppy set, he followed suit and made a desperate attempt to release them. When they were finally convinced, Alan put them in the studio in September 1984 to record their debut single 'Upside Down'.
Murray Dalglish held the drumming responsibilities for The Mary Chain, but as he had no creative input to the band, it was assumed by all that he would expect only minimal royalties and exposure on their forthcoming tour. Yet now that they had a single coming out Dalglish was unhappy and because of his attitude was soon told by the Reid brothers that he was no longer required. The hunt for a replacement was on, which just had to be Bobby, despite the fact that he couldn't drum to save his fresh-faced life. He still accepted the offer with glee, laughing as he told The Guardian sixteen years later, "I was speeding out of my head one night and the drummer didn't turn up, so I went on stage, stood behind the drum kit and did my Mo Tucker bit. Never drummed before in my life, but it worked."
Jim Beattie soon became concerned about the future of Primal Scream, whose first truly official concert was opening for The Jesus And Mary Chain at Glasgow's The Venue on the 11 October. "My first gig with The Chain was my first gig with The Scream, simultaneously" Bobby recalled, "the poster was a picture from If...; there was Malcolm McDowell holding a hand grenade demanding, 'Whose Side Are You On?"
On the night, Bobby sang in Primal Scream for fifteen minutes or so, then returned to the stage to drum with The Mary Chain, though he did little more than whack the high hat and look cool. The Mary Chain's next date however, in Islington two weeks later, was reviewed by the NME and mentioned the drummer junking his stool, grinning like an idiot and smashing out with extra force. It was one of their earliest write ups, which just happened to set alight the touch paper.
*
In the wake of punk came an incredible increase in the number of independent record labels. As thoroughly documented elsewhere, the meaning of independent in terms of music often means different things to different people, but perhaps a conventional example is that of Rough Trade Records and its unique distribution system. What had started out as a handful of store owners agreeing on a whim to supply every street record they were asked, had by 1984 grown into an empire that was the envy of several majors that had noted its efficient methods without compromising the punk ethos behind it.
Rough Trade began as a dusty record shop in London's West End in the mid ‘70's by a passionate Cambridge graduate named Geoff Travis. The shop sold self-financed singles by artists usually unable to get rid of surplus stock, and word quickly spread that perhaps 'indies' didn't have to grovel to the big boys to circulate their product after all. As the dealings escalated Rough Trade grew into a label, as Travis's experimental distribution network had proved a surprising success with many like minded labels and store owners around Britain. Even Joy Division's absurdly stubborn home Factory, in faraway Manchester, were suitably onboard to see their seminal debut LP Unknown Pleasures sufficiently get round the UK in '79. By '83 Rough Trade had grown strong enough to get new arrivals The Smiths on Top Of The Pops and see Travis in negotiations with Warner Brothers about the setting up of a pioneering new 'major indie' style company.
Alan McGee had hardly got rich from Rough Trade taking on The Laughing Apple records, but the impression Creation had made with its first releases was definite progress. By the time of The Jesus And Mary Chain's first record, Creation's eleventh, keen young NME writers were helpfully spreading the gospel and the breakthrough arrived as 'Upside Down' grew into arguably the most important indie single of the mid '80's.
Critics were stunned by its disordered sound, and for the Mary Chain and the extremely slender Creation Records it was an absolutely phenomenal success; eventually selling an incredible fifty thousand copies across Britain. Alan remembers not being able to meet the demand and, quickly noting their potential, he encouraged the Reids to extrovert themselves and look worthy of the press attention, which by early '85 had reached fever pitch. Descriptions like 'The Most Exciting Band in Seven Years' were commonplace, as the single had by then - the Factory New Order hit 'Blue Monday' aside - provoked the most widespread opinion from any new alternative record since the explosion of punk. McGee called it quits at The Living Room as The Mary Chain's ball began to roll at phenomenal pace.
Unsurprisingly they attracted huge interest from a number of major record labels. Blanco Y Negro, the afore mentioned 'major indie' just set up by Geoff Travis with Warner Brothers' money, quickly offered a multi-album contract that included massive distribution and strong promotion. It was a proposition that Creation couldn't hope to match, so it was fairly inevitable that Jim and William would make the switch to the bigger label. There was little acrimony from Alan over the move, partly because he never actually had them under contract, but mostly because he would continue to manage them and subsequently learn about how majors operate.
Of course McGee noted the way profit was considered under threat by artists expressing themselves but, at the same time, understood that because of the regulations they enforced, majors would eventually have the necessary funds that the independents didn't. It's highly unlikely that The Jesus And Mary Chain would have been initially picked up by a major, what with all their unconventional use of distortion and feedback, but since they'd now critically and commercially proved themselves, Warners swiftly moved in and presented them with an opportunity that Creation was in no position to equal. The band couldn't possibly have developed any further on Alan's label and that simply came down to money. Unlike Creation, Blanco Y Negro could afford the fifteen thousand pounds or so it would cost for The Mary Chain to record a full length album. For the band, it was the obvious next step.
Despite all the attention, Jim and William Reid were still frustratingly shy characters and, as their band was really taking off, it was bizarre that the press were portraying them as a pair of thugs who could barely strum beginner's chords. This theory soon proved laughable however as their dedication to the cause became total. Having picked up and moved into London bedsits, their determination to be as good a band as they could was propelled by Alan, who saw them as his ticket to stardom, as both an eccentric manager and PR agent; one with an ear for an alternative to the standard rock fairs that toured the smoke. He booked them a concert at the North London Polytechnic, a small venue frequented by students who had heeded the advice of the music press that fans reserve tickets in advance. The promoters and scarce security, who unwisely decided to admit people on a first-come-first-served basis, would not have a routine evening.
Firstly, there was trouble outside the venue when scores of angry fans, many in possession of valid tickets, were turned away as the venue had already exceeded its capacity. Bobby and Douglas Hart attempted to kick open the doors to let people in and the police were called. Then, once the show got underway, a technical fault turned the set into little more than a ten minute howl of feedback which moved the drunken band to leave the stage in disgust. Feeling short-changed, angry members of the audience then began to vandalise the stage and steal the band's equipment. Things got rapidly out of hand when the police arrived, as the looters fought amongst themselves using bottles and cans as weapons; eventually causing more than seven thousand pounds worth of damage to the hall. Having escaped the venue with their lives intact, the group's blasé statement declared that they were putting excitement back into rock 'n' roll and that the promoters would have to bear the consequences.
Although an isolated incident, it cemented the reputation of The Jesus And Mary Chain as the most notorious attraction on the guitar underground. The shrewd Alan McGee saw his chance and began to glibly spread all sorts of rumours, rumours that the band did little to deny. The fracas at the North London Polytechnic, it was claimed, was instigated by the band's management solely for publicity, a claim that, if true, worked an absolute sensation. The rest of the tour also turned out to be anarchic enough to force several promoters to cancel and soon everywhere that The Jesus And Mary Chain managed to book there were fears of disturbances and concern for audience safety. The press, needless to say, lapped it up. Suddenly expectations for The Mary Chain towered and nothing less than a twenty-four carat classic of a debut LP would satisfy the press, or their mammoth group of ‘hooligan’ followers.
Maybe they weren't selling quite as many records as Simple Minds, but as part of The Jesus And Mary Chain, Bobby Gillespie turned seemingly overnight from a quiet young man to rock 'n' roll brat. He was only the drummer, but many close to him noticed a blinding change in his personality. On one occasion, during an interview with Jim and William for a Belgian television programme, Bobby was could be seen in the background practically having sex with a girl on a sofa. Quick to defend himself, Bobby announced, "Part of that is, I like girls, and sometimes, if you want to go and get a lot of girls, then you should. If girls like you and you like girls, then there's no reason you shouldn't have sex with them. I don't think it's a big deal. It just happens to be that because you're in a rock 'n' roll band, people say, 'oh, the rock myth..'."
Whilst performing, Bobby preferred not to sit on the customary drum stool but rather stand behind his two piece kit looking completely oblivious to everything happening around him. He banged away - his specialised technique was apparently to hit the drums, and then hit them again - often completely out of time from the rest of the band which in an accidental kind of way seemed to compliment the guitar hailstorm that raged around him. Dressed in black with his adorable fringe elegantly swept into an overgrown nerdy style, he looked uncannily like a young Mo Tucker - the drummer from his heroes The Velvet Underground, and in comparison to the hardly magnetic Reid brothers, it was assumed by many that it was actually Bobby who was the real focal point of the group.
Although enjoying himself hugely with The Mary Chain, Bobby was determined to keep Primal Scream going as he felt he could express himself better as a frontman. Though he could barely sing, he appreciated the opportunity to embrace the stage in a way no drummer could. He had become the drummer with The Mary Chain as a favour to Jim and William and even the fact that their band had come a very long way in a short space of time never clouded the casual nature of that agreement. The Reid brothers never lost sight of this, as Bobby frequently told them that he would help out while he could but in the long term it was likely that they'd have to find a more permanent sticksman as Primal Scream developed into a serious concern.
Alongside Jim Beattie three mates had since joined: drummer Tom McGurk, tambourinist Martin St John and bassist Robert Young completed the first Primal Scream line up and helped provide the essential gang mentality that was every bit as important to a young band as musical ability. This five-piece recorded the first Primal Scream single 'All Fall Down' backed with 'It Happens' released on Creation in May. Alan says: "The vocals were done in one take. Bobby takes too long over them, he's totally paranoid and redoes everything about a thousand times, a total perfectionist." Listening to it, it was clear that by now Bobby and Jim had developed a distinct affection for the chiming sound of the Rickenbacker guitar. In the next two years they developed the sound to an extent that would characterise the first real era of Primal Scream; they were young hopefuls, yet to make the record that justified their ambition and neither song was out of the ordinary - a view with which the critics largely concurred.
Speaking to Neil Taylor, the NME journalist who first championed The Mary Chain, Bobby announced: "I don't want people to think 'oh that's the guy from The Jesus And Mary Chain, better check the single out', because that's just rubbish, it's second hand. I want people to appreciate us for what we are and not who our friends are. Remember, I was in this group before I joined the Mary Chain, and the only reason I joined them was because they needed a drummer and I could keep time."
In-between working with both bands, Bobby had even begun organising entertainment for the young people of Glasgow. One night every two weeks, he put on an evening at a club called Splash One, where live bands played and Bobby managed to indulge in his passion for classic and alternative pop as a hopeful DJ. Explaining his reasoning, he later complained that there just wasn't anywhere in Glasgow to see bands or hear that kind of music. Though the brief venture wasn't a huge success, Bobby's enthusiasm was there for all to see. It was an admirable display of passion from a young man who, to raise the old hooray cliché, even then seemed a candidate to leave a positive mark on independent British music.
*
The Mary Chain briefly visited Europe and towards the end of the year even America and Canada where the reaction was predictably muted. For Bobby, just to rock and oppose the New Romantic fashions far from Johnny Rotten was more than enough. At home he awaited reaction to the album they'd recently recorded at London's Southern Studios.
Featuring Bobby on drums, Psychocandy was released through Warners that winter and surpassed all expectations, being hailed as the freshest album of the year by critics right across the board. One would have thought that such acclaim would be enough to convince Bobby to forget Primal Scream, but as The Mary Chain primarily belonged to songwriters Jim and William, he knew that any creative ambitions he had wouldn't be realised as their drummer. As they grew, Bobby's situation was becoming intolerable. At the start of 1986, when asked to learn the drums properly and commit fully to The Mary Chain, he declined, later explaining: "I love The Jesus And Mary Chain, but they asked me to join the group, and I had to make a decision; with them I would have just been a drummer, with no real artistic input. The Mary Chain is just Jim and William, you know, I loved playing with them, it was the best time of my life." Bobby then amicably left the employ of the Reid brothers, leaving him free to concentrate on his own band.
While Primal Scream was merely one moderately well received single old, the other band, the one Bobby had been busying his weekends with, happened to be just about the most exciting thing to happen to Britain's sterile rock scene in more than half a decade. The Mary Chain were clearly the more prosperous career option for Gillespie but his decision to opt for Primal Scream instead was a display of boldness that would have had many pondering missed opportunities. Yet as his songwriting with Jim Beattie was coming along, especially now that he'd seen up close that it really could be done, there was a certain inevitability about him wanting to better himself on centre stage. Working for yourself is always cooler than working for someone else and, as previously mentioned, he couldn't take himself seriously as a drummer. He wasn't good at it; that's not to say he was a gifted singer either, though that hardly mattered. Bobby couldn't sing, but he wanted to, and that, as any of punks' children will testify, is more than half the battle.
sonic flower groove
Glasgow, famously balanced by a tender sectarian divide, was as tough a city as could be found in mid 1980's Britain and it was perhaps only natural that an ambitious young band should inherit some of the assertive arrogance that slipped from the mighty River Clyde and the working class communities that surrounded it. Bobby Gillespie and Jim Beattie were proud to have made progress in their plan to escape a lifestyle that many of their peers were sadly falling into; one that would often lead to crime, drugs and in many cases premature death. No doubt via his experiences with The Mary Chain, Bobby in particular had realised the value of publicity and long after he'd made it once declared that: "If you come from Glasgow you're a leftist, it's the way we look at the world."
Unquestionably the city was full of leftists, tough talking young bands, many of whom were already in the slipstream of The Mary Chain. But there certainly weren't many who were desperate to sound as delicate as Love or The Byrds. Accordingly, writers weren't slow to knock Primal Scream as immature boys acting way out of their league. Their single was declared soft; their sound was too clean, too romantic - it had no right to stem from such a murky home town.
With momentum gathering following a short nationwide tour, the songwriting was well under way with the sessions entirely dominated by Bobby and Jim. 'Slow Death Song' and 'Tomorrow Ends Today' were two new compositions that sat alongside such numbers as 'Imperial', 'Aftermath' and 'Sometimes Everything'. This period of writing was the pair’s most productive yet; indeed they came up with an excess of new songs, and although many of them would never see the light of day, the sounds nonetheless confirmed either their admirable knowledge of rock history or, as the cynics put it, their status as simply no more than weedy '60's plagiarists.
They persevered, determined to make a go of a career in pop. After all, with the contacts they had, there was every reason to expect that, like The Mary Chain, they too could bore journalists and terrorise promoters on their way to making a similar impact. But all that though; their label, the lively gig circuit and the press; existed in London, not Glasgow, some four hundred miles away. Visiting Alan and the increasing numbers in his social circle gave Primal Scream plenty of reason to relocate but it was a question of desire. While they were enjoying themselves; travelling and honing their craft, the early performances were at best receiving just nods of approval, rather than the rave reviews Alan was busy spreading to the critics who'd been overwhelmed by The Mary Chain. This was wasn't surprising as the shows seldom lasted longer than twenty minutes and as a result Primal Scream were often labelled idle, with little substance to support their boasts of greatness.
Early on they were writing songs that were of a style, substance, and often alarmingly brief length that only they wanted. It was pop music; entertainment that should provoke an upbeat feeling in the listener to help them get through the day that little bit easier. There would always be those who felt compelled to investigate the art further but the sentimental nature of their early compositions was bred out of their genuine passion for top sounding pop; they were, first and foremost, fans and as the filthy business was creeping up on them, that certainly helped.
Visually, the first full version of Primal Scream; Bobby, Jim, Robert Young, Martin St John, Tom McGurk and new rhythm guitarist Paul Harte, brought to mind many of the '60's psychedelic groups from America's West Coast, as leather was the dominant look with silk shirts and round sunglasses part of the uniform. It was an image that didn't sit too well with certain locals: "You can walk down the street wearing leather trousers - which to me is inoffensive," declared Bobby, "but I was on the train the other day, and I walked by these guys who were obviously in the army, and they were blowing me kisses saying 'come here darling.' I felt like turning round and saying 'I can't wait until you get posted to Northern Ireland and the IRA blows your head off'."
Clearly, the singer didn't pay too much attention to what other people thought of how he dressed but sensibly took care to develop the band’s music. As the first signs of their fascination with jangly guitars were coming to prominence, the fact that they wore leather was somewhat surprising as, in rock speak, they just didn't look how they sounded. They hadn't quite got the image to match their sound, it could easily have become an issue that they'd have to address, but for now though, and despite the jibes, leather was most definitely in.
At least by an increasing number of young people, Primal Scream were becoming the subject of genuine affection. At shows floppy Bobby haircuts started to appear which if nothing else ensured a good atmosphere and a healthy queue for autographs by the stage exit. While appreciating such adoration, the band wanted more than giggly fanzine writers giving them the type of reviews they honestly felt they deserved. Even if they were hardly in line for a Rolling Stone cover, they nonetheless felt hurt by the ignorance of the dominant press, while national radio exposure was proving even harder to come by. The latter's resistance was only occasionally cracked when the odd jock was brave enough to sneak the single onto the airwaves and even then it was nearly always at a pretty useless hour. Understandably, Bobby wasn't happy complaing, "This group should make it on it's own merits but it's so difficult getting radio play - too many DJs just sling indie records in the bin. It's not that I think we should be given hours of radio play, it's just that we should have access to compete on equal terms, with those records that so seemingly get automatic airplay. Our songs are melodic, they're accessible - all we're asking for is a chance."