Before Primal Scream starts, self-importance hangs over this event like a black cloud. The social hierarchy breaks down thusly: ticket holders vs. wristband holders vs. badge holders vs. VIPs vs. artists — these groups are favored for entrance and seating. This class system emerges in a way that’s tragically familiar to us well-dressed beasts. We all fall into our roles, bow our heads, and do as we’re told.
I’m surrounded by marketing majors who aspire to be yuppies. The scene is grim, dear readers. We are lost. But hopefully soon we will be found. Primal Scream will revive our tired souls, born into a bondage of which we are only partially aware.
Primal Scream is pure, transcendent holiness. Bobby Gillespie is modest, delicate, ugly, and completely illuminated. A radiant grey-hair in a sport coat offers me a joint and says, “This is what we did in the ’60s!” I respond, “This is what we do now!” And it’s a really fucking sweet moment.
Bouncers periodically have to literally leap from stage to audience to pull some dancing crazyperson from the gentle mosh pit that has materialized in the middle of the floor. AT LAST, I’m at a show where such a magical scene could take place.
