The instruments of war have always been percussion. I'm not referring to tanks, battlerams and firearms, but musical instruments. Granted, the incessant thunder and crack of explosives is percussive, albeit erratic. The quick history lesson on the Bicentennial quarter reminds us that suckers with snares kept the beat of destruction. Tolkien's trolls thumped skin timpanis. Genghis had gongs. War has rhythm. I was reminded of this at the two most exhilarating concerts I've seen. Last weekend, a pogo bacchanal erupted in a cramped club. Clothes were shed and azzes were backed up on an altar with a $6 cover. Six months ago, a crowd stomped dust and flicked cigarette ash off the floor of Chicago's Metro as three drummers locked into a primal groove. Revolution starts with a dance that the stuttering chugs of guitar can't provide. Funk, not volume, pulls people to the streets.
Primal Scream have always understood the power of a groove and a lyrical grenade. Their entire career reaches a melting point on the raw, caustic XTRMNTR. With this album, Primal Scream point their finger at multinationals and conservatives, and forewarn the fate of Pentheus.
XTRMNTR's sound lies somewhere between the kraut-loving Chemical Brothers and latter-era Fugazi. Recent recruits Mani from the Stone Roses and Kevin Shields of My Bloody Valentine up the ante. Mani's gritty, nasty basslines form the coral of Primal Scream's gunmetal grey and apocalyptic orange reef. The title track bounces guitar freakout sparks across congealed grease of bass. "Swastika Eyes" races on high-velocity loops like the soundtrack to a behemoth final boss in a spaceshooter video game. Primal frontman Bobby Gillespie seems to see himself as the little "Gradius" ship facing the myriad-howitzer monster of the WTO, NATO, and whatever other "The Man" organization you can name.
XTRMNTR's lyrics are sparse and terse, but Gillespie spits bullets like, "You've got the money, I've got the soul," and, "Tell you the truth/ The truth about you/ The truth about you?/ You've been true." Even when his delivery is awkward (i.e. like an aging white Brit trying to flow, as in the former examples), it's barked as if sincerity has locked his jaw like rabies. It's hard to disagree with sentiments like "Kill All Hippies." Even the music mirrors the anti-superfluidity, anti-nostalgic, anti-bucolicness, anti-bathos lyrics. The vehicle is stripped and the skeleton spiked. Like the vowel-less title on the cover, XTRMNTR is all corners and crunch.
Typically, electronic-rock fusion falls flat for smelling too much like silicon and solder. XTRMNTR defies such classification thanks to the brilliance of Kevin Shields. This is the man who crafted one of the most sonically incredible records of all time, and his work here proves his skills have not diminished. "MBV Arkestra" drifts in hypnotic rhythms. Shields mixes countless tracks of accelerated drums into a thick snakecharm. Layer upon layer of sandstorm guitars and horns sweep over the shifting dunes of beats. The song feels like a drugged-up rush through a packed Punjabi streetmarket. People, it's My Bloody Valentine! On "Accelerator" Shields pushes the volume to an exploding point like gravity pulling an MC5 song back into the atmosphere. White flames flare off charred drums as strings turn to magma. Elsewhere, his influence is felt, like on the wargame instrumentals of "Blood Money" and "Shoot Speed/Kill Light".
The album has its shortcomings. "Keep Your Faith" and "Insect Royalty" dip a bit too much into the more sentimental song-based style of the last record, Vanishing Point, and "Swastika Eyes" needs no reprise. But the fighting spirit keeps Primal Scream ahead of the pack. Gillespie now sports post-lice hair and mysterious face scratches. He's a battered veteran who's making up for some horrible moments in the past. Rest assured, Rod Stewart will not be able to cover anything from XTRMNTR.
Some still sadly associate Primal Scream with their baggy rock days. Yet few other bands evolve this deep into their career, let alone care. At some point in the mid-90s, Primal Scream woke up and realized they'd made a mistake. Their new political agenda digests much easier than bands like Rage Against the Machine who market their entire career off such stances. In the end, Primal Scream understood that under all of the rants there has to lie a steady throb of rump-shaking war.
