Stoned and Honed. Primus live in Philadelphia
At least once in your life you need to see Les Claypool play the whamola.
This is the kind of show that cannot be described and must be witnessed. As a proponent of individuality and character, Primus is so incredibly weird and mesmerizing and you will never see anything like it again.
Claypool is a tremendous bass talent and fucking weirdo. He recalls not getting the Metallica gig as soon as he walked in the door.
This kind of person can make for a very, very satisfying and unpredictable night of music.
Hetfield says that he was simply “too good” and that “he needed to do his own thing.”
It’s so damn obvious that he was right.
The sheer immensity of Claypool’s bass presence is unlike any one else, so dominant and powerful that it changes the way you think about music. Every song is like a damn Toe Jam and Earl level.
One second you’re standing there thinking about the groove of life and the next you’re cornholed into a space vortex that never ends.
I wasn’t tripping during this but in some ways I was. I’ve often talked about marijuana as a mild psychedelic, and when you’re listening to this shit you can go to a zone of your own.
Literally, “zone out” is the only way to describe it. You’ll never be strangely comfortable with hypnosis anywhere else.
I feel very strongly that songwriting is the key to great music and wide appeal. Being a virtuoso player does not make you a good song writer. Having an all-virtuoso band does not result in an album full of memorable hits.
Every once in awhile you get this odd combination of total madness and sickening skill that is so grounded in greatness and individuality. Primus is the outcast-nerd of jam-banding.
There will never be another Primus.
Giant inflatable mushrooms hover over this particular show. The psychedelic influence is obvious to all but known only to few. Primus unveils a fun palace that was there the whole time.
While observing my surroundings, the music thrust me into an anti-establishment mentality. Everywhere I looked was a slap in the face…
Miller Lite. Miller Lite. Miller Lite.
As if the Lord commanded thee to drink thy Miller Lite, the one true choice.
Noting this I distinctly remember loathing everything about that beer. I thought to myself, “I’ll never drink it, fuckers.”
$13.75 I think it cost for one hefty cup.
People suck, their is no question about it. But beer brings out a particular level of stupidity that I can’t believe exists.
I’m not even talking about the drunks. I’m talking about the event staff.
Late at night I’m walking around the concession stand hoping to grab a water before I hit the road.
Unbelievably, not a single person would take my money. “The register is closed.”
I asked approximately 6 booth vendors in a row for a water, and was denied at each one, during a hot summer night where people are drinking and getting ready to head home for the night.
Hell, I didn’t even need the damn thing, I just wanted one. But the fact that I could have been someone that honestly needed a single bottle of water was total. fucking. bullshit.
Not one person looked over and tossed me one, or took the extra $2 like it would be real hard to add it to the total.
I don’t know about you, but if someone was in need (which I wasn’t in this case), I would hope that “rules” don’t cloud judgement so easily.
All I know is,
see this band before it’s too late,
and so does Primus.