There has been a one-step-forward-two-steps-back rhythm to Primal Scream's career. On its release in 1991, Screamadelica felt like the seductive apotheosis of indie-dance; within three years, however, the band had scuttled back to 1960s rock, and their 1994 album Give Out But Don't Give Up sounded like a set of outtakes by the Rolling Stones. Two years ago they seemed to capture the zeitgeist again with Xtrmntr, a riot of anarchic sentiment and prickling guitars that saw Primal Scream aligned with the nascent No Logo movement. This summer they release its follow-up, Evil Heat, and if this gig is anything to go by they have once again decided that innovation is distinctly overrated.
Admittedly, it is impossible to get the texture of the new album, partly because the sound on the dancefloor at Shepherds Bush Empire is so imbalanced, but mostly because Primal Scream play every song as though little demons were poking red-hot tridents into their backs. The first three selections, Miss Lucifer, Rise and City, rush past in a frenzy of sub-Stooges riffs and unintelligible ranting from frontman Bobby Gillespie. Hot on their tail come supercharged versions of Shoot Speed/Kill Light, Pills and Burning Wheel, each one raw and violently chaotic. Pills just about stands out from the blur, but only because Gillespie's attempts at Grandmaster Flash-style rapping are so misguided, and because the looping guitars make it sound as if a dozen police vans, sirens blaring, are crashing through the venue's walls.
With strobe lights flashing and the guitarists replicating the sound of DIY enthusiasts at a drill convention, Primal Scream's assault on the senses is certainly visceral. To the predominantly male audience, who spill their beers as they attempt to reproduce Gillespie's floppy, fish-out-of-water dance, it is positively thrilling. But it is hard not to feel that there are enough bands out there playing big, dumb, derivative rock music. The pace varies just once, for a balmy rendition of Long Life, and that isn't enough to stop the show being one-dimensional.
In this relentless raucousness, it is left to Mani's impish bass to carry all the music's melodic weight. His playing is dense and choppy for Swastika Eyes, and invigorating for Accelerator. If there is any hint of individuality in the secondhand swamp-blues of The Lord Is My Shotgun and the third-hand punk of Detroit, it is thanks to Mani. Otherwise, Primal Scream show every indication of confusing feverish energy with real invention.
