Wednesday night, a passionate refrain of “
Primus sucks!” welcomed the quirky and iconic rock act to the
Brady Theater.
In those two words was an outpouring of love that swelled into frenzied screams as the band took the stage.
It’s a common chant from fans, who are often just as unpredictable as Primus frontman
Les Claypool himself.
He thanked then with a nearly three-hours worth of music that spanned Primus’ 27-year career, from “Moron TV” on his latest studio release “Green Naugahyde” and “American Life” from “Sailing the Seas of Cheese” and the title track from their major-label album album “Frizzle Fry” to a live version of the band’s earliest live single, “John the Fisherman.”
Claypool played his bass lows like a military cadence at a roiling riot, shot through with blasts from
Jay Lane’s drum kit and staggering through
Larry “Ler” LaLonde’s ecstatic guitar highs.
On the LED screen behind them, American flags waved, fractalized, morphing over the face of Abe Lincoln and the Statue of Liberty.
Hammering rapports echoed off a wall of guitar sound. The crowd was quickly punch-drunk with blows from Claypool’s frenetic bass.
The live show is mellow-meets-metal, progger-rock-meets-a-deep-huff-of-ether. And a punch to the groin.
In fact, every instrument in a Primus set has a percussive quality, a call-and-response that blasts into the chests of its fans. LaLonde’s guitar caterwauls like Indians galloping a hill in a spaghetti Western — a dream sequence on acid.
As Claypool sang into his distorted, tinny mic, two 10-foot-tall astronauts flanked the stage, faces swiveling slowly side to side as they surveyed the crowd.
There may have only been about 18 songs to the setlist, but they filled two sets full of music. Some raced — “Jerry Was a Racecar Driver” clocked about three minutes.
“Bob,” carried herky-jerky bass and staggering guitar riffs and heavy footsteps of lopsided drum beats right into a netherworld of art and suicide.
“Southbound Pachyderm” expanded exponentially with classic jazz restraint. The band could stop on a drop, leaving one silent second just wide enough to fire a cannonball through.
Pow! Then they’d peal through an extended sonic wormhole of Jimmy Hendrix-ian proportions.
Primus always,
always took the audience with them.
