What compels me to purchase four tickets in advance, I’m not really sure. Suffice to say when you’re of a certain age and the bands are of a certain popularity, you know you’ll have no trouble finding takers. The band, Primus, is after all right in the wheelhouse of that magic realm where numerous years as this tremendous underground buzz band is finally intersecting with an album that’s selling well, a major label deal, and a handful of hit songs. For me, it’s also another chance to right the ship with that blown Lollapalooza decision, and cross a second of those bands off my list.
This wondrously deformed beast known as Primus sprang to life somewhere during the mid 80s, around the Bay Area of California. Through a revolving door of musicians, including a drum machine, Les’s nasal truck driver drawl and athletic bass playing coupled with unusual song structures, time signatures, and subject matter all make his outfit a tough one to categorize. Funk metal is about the best tag that anyone can muster, yet even this handle proves woefully inadequate. Conjuring up bad images of middle aged middle class dudes with three copies of overrated instrumental albums on vinyl — one for listening, one for keeping on alphabetical display in the bookcase, one put away for permanent safekeeping. No thanks. Maestro Lester Claypool himself prefers the phrase “psychedelic polka,” but, while amusing, this doesn’t quite nail it, either.
The interesting thing about Primus is that bass serves as the lead instrument, and the electric guitar is more or less here for accent. Whatever one’s take on where Les Claypool stands in the all time pantheon of rock bassists — I feel that he is in fact the best I‘ve heard; dissenting voices such as my pal Paul Radick, however, says Steve Harris of Iron Maiden is better — he at least belongs in the discussion. And this upheaval of the usual roles afforded those two instruments is already on display with Suck On This. LaLonde takes his fair share of guitar solos, to be sure, but Les enjoys just as many or more, and despite the dizzying note flurry these are often surprisingly melodic, distinct. This isn’t the time to head for the beer vendor, by any means. And when it comes to the verses and chorus, Larry’s guitar almost always takes a backseat. Yet considering that LaLonde used to take lessons from none other than Joe Satriani, it’s safe to say Larry has the chops to deploy on command, and that this relatively minimalistic approach is by design.
When Metallica bassist Cliff Burton died in 1986, Les Claypool, already a friend of that band’s members, was one of the finalists to replace him. Ultimately the surviving figures in Metallica decided Lester was too funky for them and went with Jason Newsted, but there were clearly no hard feelings. Claypool remains on good terms with them, and now, with his own band about to break, Kirk Hammett (a former classmate of Les’s), is able to lend a hand. When time arrives to film a video for John The Fisherman, a barely recognizable Hammett is among the figures on the boat, casting away in the San Francisco Bay as the band jams on board. Also, at a December 11, 1990 show in Portland, Oregon, Hammett shows up to play with the band as they run through Tommy The Cat as well as Metallica’s Master Of Puppets. And while perhaps not directly responsible for landing Primus a gig opening for Exodus, his former band, having Kirk as a mutual acquaintance certainly does not hurt.
There are remarkably few tales of discord or scandal within the Primus camp, which is not the easiest feat to pull off, particularly when maintaining a furious touring schedule. You get the sense these are all good guys, and genuine friends, without any major demons lurking in the seas beneath their fishing boats. Then again, this is also far easier to pull off for a trio than a five piece.
After two years on the road relentlessly promoting their last batch of songs, spring of ’93 finally brings with it another, Pork Soda. To the casual observer, that this CD debuted at #7 and spawned a top ten hit would seem its most salient bits of trivia, but insiders are equally stoked to learn the recording was done entirely at Les Claypool’s house — an unusual amount of levity granted to this small major label band. For me, it’s the first of their releases that I spring for on disc, which is still a major decision. CDs cost roughly twice what tapes do, and it’s a development, the ability to even contemplate the upgrade, that has only emerged in my life within the past year. Living at home, still in high school, budget concerns often won out over the convenience and audio superiority that compact discs afforded. No longer, I’m hoping, with a decent full time job, will that be the case.
My Name is Mud seemingly lodges into the #1 spot on MTV instantaneously, a song that somehow channels Primus’s weird energy and backwoods stomp into an impossibly catchy single. A second cut from the album, Mr. Krinkle, generates another hit for the band, although nowhere near as popular as what will surely become their trademark song, Mud. When I am one of those who feels pretty much compelled to purchase Pork Soda, a white tee shirt with the Seas Of Cheese album cover upon it forces itself into my hands as well. Both courtesy of a tiny record store in the Johnny Appleseed Center on Lexington Avenue that draws me like a magnet on my way home from work, all too many afternoons, its rack of rock attire in back virtually impossible to resist pawing through.
Despite a top ten album and a pair of top ten singles, Primus is still relegated to playing this mid-sized music hall circuit. The Newport holds 1700, and I imagine this is about what they are selling everywhere — and certainly just about everywhere in the Midwest, outside of maybe Chicago or Detroit or something. To attract a larger crowd, you need somehow to reach a wider demographic, and this isn’t exactly the kind of easy listening experience most adults like to digest, or even preteens for that matter. The people who most buy records are precisely the crowd Primus attracts, but it takes more than that to sell out, say, a 30,000 seat amphitheater. Nonetheless, I knew enough people in the former lot to purchase these four tickets with confidence.
And yet warning sounds abound that, great as they are, Primus might already be relegated in most people’s minds to novelty band status. Surely Mud isn’t the Safety Dance of its time, is it? I’m having trouble rounding up the eager throng I anticipated. I buy these four tickets anyway. But as the day of the show approaches, Kenny at least informs me he can’t make it, and then today Alan flakes out, never showing at all. As a result at the last minute we’re somehow stuck instead with these two guys, Jake and Travis, from Heather‘s high school.
We park in a convenience store lot just down the street and make our way up the sidewalk, toward our destination. Located on High Street in the heart of Ohio State University, the Newport Music Hall was originally a movie theater, built in 1922 and used in that capacity for nearly fifty years. In 1970 it was refashioned and renamed the Agora Ballroom, one in a chain of about a dozen rock clubs throughout the country. Ted Nugent played the first ever show here in May of that year, and while it was expanded and rechristened yet again in 1984 to its current incarnation, it has remained in continuous use without pause. Much later, while a student at OSU, Kim Deal of Pixies and Breeders fame used to clean the toilets here.
The interior is a mixture of gothic ballroom and rock hall, dark and, as far as we can make out, not especially clean. But it has a great feel to it, and it seems there is not a bad spot to stand or sit in the house. Up the ramp past the ticket counter, a foyer with merchandising booths await, and these are flanked by a stairwell on each side, leading to the second floor, the only true seating here. Directly ahead, a ground level standing area, and beyond it a pit sunken a few steps deeper, directly in front of the stage. Since Heather has essentially commandeered my white Primus tee shirt as her own, I buy a black Pork Soda one now and the four of us make our way upstairs.
This is the first time I’ve seen them, but if I had to guess, I would say this is an average Primus show. Pretty much what you’d expect, and neither the worst nor the best stop on the itinerary. But then again, this is just my impression. In fact the soon to unravel events immediately following this concert stand out far greater in all four of our minds, blotting out a great deal of the music we hear. Maybe as a reaction to this dreadful opening act, my attention is subconsciously funneled toward monotony. Like how I do remember Primus plays Bob, which is itself an exercise in tedious repetition.
But the highlights are very strong, as they oblige us with pretty much any song I’d hoped to hear. Jake and Travis are especially stoked by Mr. Krinkle, which does come off well here. During the more manic moments in their set, Les is stomping around in his own peculiar manner — though I suppose there is pretty much nothing typical about this dude whatsoever — where he almost resembles a deranged flamingo, picking up one impossibly lanky leg and slamming it back down in time with the insanely complicated plucking of his bass, as he bobs his head and cavorts around the stage. Behind them a screen shows animated clips that loosely associate with the music, like this recurring image of swinging light bulbs. And throughout their set, guitarist Larry and especially drummer Tim “Herb” Alexander sound sharp.
We exit the hall fairly pumped about what we’ve just witnessed. Yet as we make it around the corner to the convenience store lot, this ghastly sight awaits, that of a car row where none of them look like mine. So idiotic, and at the same time a fascinating example of mob mentality: the four of us had looked around and around when I’d parked, and seen nothing, yet here is a metal sign nailed to the building directly in front of my car clearly stating that parking without permit is prohibited. In our excitement, we had collectively turned a blind eye.
I walk into the convenience store and use the payphone to call the number listed. Knowing nothing whatsoever about Columbus, I need the incredibly brusque individual on the other end to spell out for me how we will make it over to where my car is. Fortunately for us, it’s a simple route, and while a long, long hike by any stretch of the imagination, it’s not completely undoable.
Though Primus would go on to enjoy at least one more big hit — Wynona’s Big Brown Beaver — you would still have to say My Name Is Mud remains their most popular song. Unless of course you’re talking about the South Park theme. That one arrived a couple years past their heyday, and at the time, certainly seemed like a charming but meaningless little novelty number; now, however, I’m not so sure of that. Unless Mud lives on for some reason (which seems unlikely, considering you almost never hear it nowadays — a damn shame for a jam that muscular yet catchy, and featuring the priceless line so I kissed him upside the cranium with an aluminum baseball bat), I suspect that 100 years from now, the South Park theme will be the only thing most people know about Primus.
Still, I’m going with Mr. Krinkle as the featured cut for today. Though forgotten now, it was legitimately a hit for them at the time, and has a totally unique sound. For starters, you get to hear Les play an odd sounding upright bass, apparently with a bow — according to the liner notes, this is not a cello. Also, the video I find fascinating, as it was shot in a single continuous take and has all sorts of weird people and other stray phenomena rotating into the screen around and behind the players. As much as we’ve seen and heard about the making of Nirvana’s Smells Like Teen Spirit over the years, it’s possible this clip for Krinkle is even more fascinating to me, and I would like to learn all I could about its creation.
