Primal Scream have been many things throughout their career - flowery-shirted Byrds-fetishists, dance-rock visionaries, their own worst enemies, drug-monkeys and hardline horse-frighteners. Rarely have they been heroes. Yet, though he tries to hide behind the blank stare, when 500 Glaswegians start chanting "genius" at him, Bobby Gillespie can't help but raise a wolfish smile. Prodigal sons don't come much more prodigal than this.
Tonight's latest Carling Homecoming should be a sickly, self-congratulatory affair. We should be subjected to a misty-eyed Gillespie reminiscing about scoring his first line of crystal-meth in the pub round the corner. Instead, we get a dead-eyed, laser-guided rock n' roll panzer attack. That NME spies guitarist Andrew Innes' mum boogieing to a euphoric 'Movin' On Up' merely adds to the celebration.
Older classics make way for newer material - perhaps to prove the inspiration is still there, but it matters little. Throbbing punk-clash anthems like 'Swastika Eyes' come to life - and the final fuck-you - 'Kick Out The Jams' - brings it all to deafening, feedback-drenched closure.
Primal Scream are about pushing the buttons marked "Do Not Press" and seeing what happens. They've made mistakes, and they're adept at shooting themselves in the foot, but tonight they're right on the money. As anyone with a Hoxton-mullet and nonchalant swagger will tell you, it's only rock n' roll. For Primal Scream, there is no 'Only'.
Barry Nicolson
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