Y’all don’t even know. You can’t – you’re young and dumb and full of compromise or you’re fucking old and dead. Y’all don’t even know.
On a good night, The Primitons were the best band in the whole goddamn titty-fucking world, and on a bad night The Primitons were the best band in central Alabama featuring a six-foot-plus cross-dressing Swede lead singer with Lynyrd Skynyrd hair and a voice that sounded like a melting lollipop.
It was 1985 and we were ALL FUCKED UP.
Birmingham, Alabama was SWIMMING in quality LSD. Acid was EVERYWHERE, and it was CHEAP. (I know, right? S’true. Walk down to the fountain, score 10 for five. Acid was about FIFTY FUCKING CENTS A HIT. For real. Some of us bought a lifetime supply. Others talked to heating ducts, heeding wheezing whispers until the pulsing grid collapsed and man, I can’t even TALK about that shit.
I don’t know that those two things were connected. I suspect they weren’t.
And, really, look, I’ll be honest — I wasn’t THERE for most of this. This is stories of friends of friends, filtered through time and distance. And a TON of LSD. (I’d like to make clear that I never took more than one hit of an evening and that Lee’s design of the altar in his living room was in no way connected to me loaning him Mircae Eliade’s Myth Of The Eternal Return and that that one time we jumped off the dock it really could not have been eels).
I saw them play in somebody’s back yard. I don’t remember who it was. I don’t remember how I got invited. Perhaps I wasn’t invited, and then I could claim to have crashed the party, but that practically never happened because I’m a coward.
Anyway, it was the best Big Star show not performed by Cheap Trick.
What? You were expecting insight?
I say kill everyone involved.