Primal Scream
Exterminator
[Creation]
Rating: 8.1
The instruments of war have always been percussion. I'm not referring to tanks, battlerams and
firearms, but rather 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 Exterminator. With this album, Primal
Scream point their finger at multinationals and conservatives, and forewarn the fate of
Pentheus.
Exterminator'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.
Exterminator'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.
Exterminator 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. His work on
Exterminator proves his skills have not diminished. "MBV Arkestra" drifts in hypnotic
rhythms. Shields mixes countless tracks of accellerated 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," Sheilds 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 Exterminator.
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-90's, Primal Scream woke
up and realized they'd made a mistake. Their new politcal 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.
-Brent DiCrescenzo