I had the pleasure of diving back into my late teens last night, courtesy of my friend Phil, who stuck me on the guest list (consisting of, well, me) for The Primitives, another rather wonderful popular beat combo swept aside in the thuggish tide of Britpop. Here they are in their prime:
Prime slices of Byrds-ish jangle-pop, I hope you agree. It's a simple formula: thumping back line, repetitive hooks and bags of charm. If in doubt, miss out the verses and just repeat insanely catchy chorus over and over again.
To be honest, they didn't start well last night: despite their recorded output consisting of delicate pop loveliness, they seemed to have decided to whack everything up to 11 and pound us into submission, but the sound man sorted things out before long and the evening was a riot. The crowd was exactly what you'd expect for a band reforming after 20 years and led by a singer - the improbably named Tracy Tracy - promoted back in the day as Hot Indie Stuff, i.e. balding fat blokes, of which I count myself one. I should - whisper it - say that she reminded me ever so slightly of Christine Hamilton these days.
Some photos: rest here. Click these ones to enlarge.