Rock City, Nottingham – 14 April 2025
Still not sure if that was a gig or a spiritual awakening disguised in sax solos, maracas, and 90s anthems. Either way, Primal Scream brought it — glitter, chaos, and all.
The night opened with Baxter Dury, storming the stage like a man with a manifesto and a hangover, arms out like he was welcoming us to his weird little universe. Everything was pink and blue at first, like cotton candy and mood swings. He swung his jacket around, swore a lot, and danced like someone possessed by both Bowie and a toddler on Ribena. One minute it was shouty-electro poetry, the next it was synths, maracas, and this soft-spoken female backing vocal that made everything feel like a cult initiation — and we were so here for it.
By the time he’d yelled “FUCK OFF!” at the crowd (lovingly, somehow), we were fully loosened up. It felt like being slapped across the face and handed a disco ball. The energy was perfect.
Then came Primal Scream.
Bobby Gillespie walked on like the floor owed him something, arms wide, the mic stand ditched within the first few bars of Jailbird. The whole thing exploded from the get-go — guitars glinting under white lights, backing vocalists giving serious gospel energy, the band absolutely gleaming in glittery suits and that full retro rock-and-roll look.
And just when you thought you’d caught your breath, the sax arrived. From the third track on, it was layered, cinematic, rich. Deep Hit of Morning Sun pulsed under blue and purple lights, arms up, bodies swaying. Then came Medication with that red flash and a high-pitched “YEAHHH” scream that nearly tore the roof off.
There were slower moments, Heal Yourself was one of them. Gillespie let the pace drop, lights dipped into a soft red-purple glow, the whole crowd swaying like a single body. “We’re gonna take it down for a bit,” he said, but it never felt flat, just deeper. The kind of quiet that makes the loud bits hit harder after.
And then — lift off.
Love Ain’t Enough, Loaded, Swastika Eyes, the back half of the set turned Rock City into a proper rave. Strobe lights, hands in the air, Bobby dancing like a shaman with a tambourine, letting us scream “WOO WOO” into the mic like we were part of the band. The floor genuinely shook during Come Together, people stomping and clapping in time, shouting lyrics back like it was their one shot at redemption. At one point, Bobby just stopped and watched us, smiling like he couldn’t believe we were keeping it going. He didn’t even have to finish the song — we did it for him.
And of course, Country Girl was chaos. Pure, arms-round-your-mates, “here we here we f*cking go” football chant mayhem. Bobby teased a sing-off between the floor and the balcony. “Balcony, you need to do better,” he said with a smirk. And we did.
The encore came fast. The crowd wouldn’t stop clapping — literally sped up the rhythm to force them back out. Melocony Man brought angelic vocals and that purple haze lighting, like we’d all floated off somewhere. Come Together had choir vibes, gospel clap-alongs, the whole place moving as one. By the time Rocks kicked in, it was full emotional catharsis. Phones out, every last ounce of energy spent, and just before it ended, someone lobbed Bobby a Nottingham Forest scarf. He held it up like a trophy, slung it over his shoulder, and that was the final touch. Local legend behaviour.
Honestly? A top-tier gig. Euphoric, sweaty, and somehow really tender too. Primal Scream didn’t just play songs, they summoned a shared feeling. Like going to church, but with more glitter and shouting.
