The Primates-The Creep!!!
And if the beginning is dazzling, the ending is terrifying... just like the review by the Reverend.
One album. And then the primates return to the jungle from whence they came.
Born in Youngstown (what better name for a band of stupid teenagers who enjoy answering the few interviews with chimpanzee-like verses?, NdLYS), the Primates arrive in Los Angeles on the emotional wave that brings flocks of long-haired people to the Cavern Club, searching for their moment of popularity. Erik Bluhm, Brett Miller, Ted Edlefsen, Brian Corrigan have that moment in 1986.
Just one moment.
And what would having a second moment serve?
That one moment is enough.
Because that moment produces one of the most enjoyable garage records of the entire 80s, even though at the time it’s derided as simply a B-side album. Produced by Brett Gurewitz during his intoxication with the sixties sound (he will also produce the second of the Morlocks, the debut of Untold Fables, Magic Still Exists by the Leopards and Drop of the Creature by the Steppes before briefly finding himself among the ranks of Yard Trauma, NdLYS) and by Greg Shaw, We Are The Primates reeks of crude and primitive garage punk.
It's the itching vulva of a Neolithic woman opening, primordial and hungry, the ancestral and wild scent of a female in heat around which these four Stone Age Monkees, stuffed with alcohol and covered in mammoth furs, dance.
Those who love refined sounds should stay away, today more than ever, as it’s a jungle of maracas, essential chords, cembalo and monkey-like moans in heat. Three covers that seem to have been written just for them (Outside by Downliners Sect, Born Loser by Murphy & The Mob, I Got Nightmares by Q65) so perfectly do they fit the primitive stylistic signature adopted by the group, a curious version of I Go Ape by an unsuspecting Neil Sedaka, and eight original numbers that are a devastating representation of basic beat wrapped in fuzzy parchment and Pretty Things saliva circa Get the Picture?.
Then, nothing more: of the primates, except for Eric Bluhm who will become one of the most sought-after American DJs, guardian of the purple haze of garage, acid rock, and 60s folk rock, no trace will remain, and even the reissue of their album, on Soundflat-marked vinyl, no one will dare to mention, not knowing what to say.
Uh! Uh! We are The Priiiiiimates!!!!
And if the beginning is dazzling, the ending is terrifying... just like the review by the Reverend.
One album. And then the primates return to the jungle from whence they came.
Born in Youngstown (what better name for a band of stupid teenagers who enjoy answering the few interviews with chimpanzee-like verses?, NdLYS), the Primates arrive in Los Angeles on the emotional wave that brings flocks of long-haired people to the Cavern Club, searching for their moment of popularity. Erik Bluhm, Brett Miller, Ted Edlefsen, Brian Corrigan have that moment in 1986.
Just one moment.
And what would having a second moment serve?
That one moment is enough.
Because that moment produces one of the most enjoyable garage records of the entire 80s, even though at the time it’s derided as simply a B-side album. Produced by Brett Gurewitz during his intoxication with the sixties sound (he will also produce the second of the Morlocks, the debut of Untold Fables, Magic Still Exists by the Leopards and Drop of the Creature by the Steppes before briefly finding himself among the ranks of Yard Trauma, NdLYS) and by Greg Shaw, We Are The Primates reeks of crude and primitive garage punk.
It's the itching vulva of a Neolithic woman opening, primordial and hungry, the ancestral and wild scent of a female in heat around which these four Stone Age Monkees, stuffed with alcohol and covered in mammoth furs, dance.
Those who love refined sounds should stay away, today more than ever, as it’s a jungle of maracas, essential chords, cembalo and monkey-like moans in heat. Three covers that seem to have been written just for them (Outside by Downliners Sect, Born Loser by Murphy & The Mob, I Got Nightmares by Q65) so perfectly do they fit the primitive stylistic signature adopted by the group, a curious version of I Go Ape by an unsuspecting Neil Sedaka, and eight original numbers that are a devastating representation of basic beat wrapped in fuzzy parchment and Pretty Things saliva circa Get the Picture?.
Then, nothing more: of the primates, except for Eric Bluhm who will become one of the most sought-after American DJs, guardian of the purple haze of garage, acid rock, and 60s folk rock, no trace will remain, and even the reissue of their album, on Soundflat-marked vinyl, no one will dare to mention, not knowing what to say.
Uh! Uh! We are The Priiiiiimates!!!!
IlConte
11 apr 23
DeRank ™: 28,89
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