What a homecoming. "This is Edinburgh," shouted Bobby Gillespie as he came on stage. The crowd roared. The band pounded into "Swastika Eyes", exploding the chord changes round the chorus. Without pause, Primal Scream rocketed into "Kill Speed/Shoot Light", the standout track from Exterminator, the guitars grinding and the lights strobing.

So, full marks for geography. And zero for set pacing. What do you do when you've already used your best two tracks as the first two tracks? Not much, it turns out.

I should admit a bias. My Bloody Valentine's 1991 album Loveless turned my music tastes inside out. Sure, shoegazing had already let loose a dozen bands with a mission to abuse a chorus pedal, inspired by the seminal MBV album Isn't Anything (the best album in the history of the world ever - HeadCleaner). They hadn't reckoned on Kevin Shields' next instalment. Reputedly costing Creation Records over half a million Big Ones, Loveless fed us hurricanes of guitar overload and subtle explosions of distortion, more intense than an orgasm and easier to repeat within half an hour (I'm an old man now). Tales abounded of insane levels of perfectionism; of rooms filled to bursting with Marshall stacks turned up to eleven and of tape worn thin, all in pursuit of the lost chord. For, unquestionably, Shields was inspired.

And somewhat under-productive. Nine years passed since the revolution. I listened to Loveless about once a week. I yearned, I pined for more. Surely, there must be something? I bought the back catalogue. Something, please? I heard rumours of scrapped albums, stories from the edge of sonic exploration deemed not good enough by The Man. But I heard no music.

Then, miraculously, inexplicably, the King of noise guitar turned up on a Primal Scream album. Yes, that Primal Scream. Initially a footnote in the rather lame C86 scene, re-invented out of wholesale baggy cloth by Andy Weatherall, latterly the completely unnecessary reincarnation of The Rolling Stones. That Primal Scream. Huh?

Headcleaner clued me in (don't I always? - HeadCleaner). He fished his MiniDisc walkman out of the recesses of his coat. "Listen to this," he told me, and laid a track on me that sounded like New Order fucking My Bloody Valentine in a fetish bar in Glasgow (mmm, nice image...I think I'll steal it - HeadCleaner). Which, as it turned out, wasn't far from the truth. It was called "Kill Speed/Shoot Light" and it was the last track on Exterminator. Kevin had risen. Thank Kevin. I feasted on the three tracks on which he featured. I had read the rumours that Kevin was regularly appearing on stage with Primal Scream, so when offered tickets to the sold out gig at the Edinburgh Corn Exchange, I didn't hesitate. What an opportunity.

Primal Scream. Rock and Roll. They would come on at midnight, disdainful of the mundanities of real life, uncaring that their fans would have homes go to, work to go to, or at least, tutorials to miss. Enlightened by the gospel according to Kevin, their sins forgiven, they would reject the inanities of past lives and allow us mere mortals to worship at the altar of Shields. The gig would be a milestone, a triumph, a battering ram of aural maelstrom to surpass mere recordings.

Yeah, right. Never let anyone tell you Primal Scream ain't show biz. They know what side their bread's buttered. Get the awkward, difficult listening tracks out of the way first, eh? Then we can concentrate on the well known stuff. They came on at nine - apparently there's an eleven o'clock curfew on loud music. Rock 'n' roll. They'd done two songs before anyone really realised what was going on. I couldn't see much (he is a wee lad - HeadCleaner), but there was no sign of the be-fringed God of guitar. I went to the bar.

"Oh, he's there," I was reassured by a bloke while waiting to be served by an underage blonde. "Second left, short hair. You can hear his guitar whining. When your ears are still buzzing tomorrow, that's him." Oh, OK. "He did a version of 'We Have All The Time In The World' a few years ago," someone else told me. "You know, the John Barry song. Did it straight. Really weird." What, Kevin? Surely not. I went back to look, but the bloke second left had disappeared. Bobby announced "a song called 'Rocks Off'" and the place jumped. Rock 'n' roll. Where was Kevin? Well, I wouldn't stick around for a half-arsed Stones pastiche either. Good man.

"Keith," I said, "this is so average." ("Mark," I said. "Get back to the bar" - HeadCleaner) Even the fact that I could speak to someone else while the music was on was wrong. As usual at live gigs, the sound was being mixed by a bass addict. The treble was clipping like crazy, square wave mania. No middle. Then, an hour into the gig, the band left the stage. Cos, you know, they'd done their set. But what's this? The audience won't let them go! They Want More! And - hey, what a surprise! - they get it. Primal Scream return with Kevin. Kevin! What are you doing? Sacrificing the golden calf to the sound of mediocrity, that's what. Playing rehearsed songs - it was almost like they knew they'd get called back for an encore. Rock 'n' roll.

I left early and shared a cab back with some kids from Glasgow. "That was crap," they told me. "When they get slow and mellow, like on Screamadelica, then they're top, you know?" They hadn't heard Exterminator. So why did they go? They didn't really know. "It'll be better at Barrowlands. A Glasgow audience - they really get into it, you know?" Right.

Bobby Gillespie, a rock 'n' roll chameleon with all the looks and stage presence of a stick insect, has a full address book and a somewhat bewildering ability to turn up in the right place at the right time. He has the instincts of Tony Bennet. Primal Scream churned it out again tonight and I wasn't surprised, but Kevin broke my heart. If it was him. I'll probably never know for sure.

I saw Mani in a bar in Manchester once. He's got a really big head.

5/5

Mark Vardy

Much as it pains me to say it, I agree almost completely with Mark's review. Everything from Exterminator was pretty much flawless, but the older stuff had me wishing I had my "MiniDisc walkman" with me. Shields - if it was him - masturbated seven shades of sonic spunk from his instrument (mmm, who's doing the nice images now...), Mani - big head and all - was the epitome of baggy cooldom, and Bobby gonked about mawkishly in only the way Bobby can.

The sound was much too quiet, the venue too lacking in atmosphere, and I've seen the congregation in Songs Of Praise go wilder. All in all, it was worth a peek, but not worth the 13 quid I shelled out for it.

Still, at least I was in bed by 11.30.

HeadCleaner