Live: Movin' On Up To The Pinnacle. Screamadelica, O2 Academy Brixton.

Few bands are capable of defining the mindset of an entire generation. Fewer records achieve such a feat, yet if you've ever treated your ears to the ecclesiastic exuberance of Screamadelica, they'll be thanking you wholeheartedly now that Bobby Gillespie et al. have resurrected their seminal LP of '91 to redefine and redetermine those bloodshot late nights and early mornings of yore, transposing them onto the present twilight, and what a joyous night it proves. Intriguing little Horror Faris Badwan's latest lovey dovey, nostalgia-stained side-project Cat's Eyes open proceedings with a formidable set that successfully emulates tonight's headliners were they bent through the claustrophobic, murky lens of the day job, complimented eerily and intriguingly by a visual backdrop of a kaleidoscope of glaring, beady eyes. Then onto Screamadelica producer Andrew Weatherall who, cowering behind a Marshall stack nigh on as monumental as The Victoria Tower dishes out a sumptuous selection of sensual deep house that constructs an emotive, unifying ambience within the often aggressive and agitated Brixton surrounds. Anticipation taught, even the bluntest of edges could provoke unadulterated pandemonium, and you presume Gillespie's Scotch drawl will release intoxicating euphoria expeditiously...
Then cometh the hour, around where PM turns to AM, and cometh the hedonists as dilated pupils roll down Brixton's sloped stalls towards a myriad of microphones strewn across the stage like tadpoles streaming skywards. A torch then flickers, the lights dim, and that bolshy, brash three-chorded Movin' On Up riff ignites an already-electric atmosphere. Tears, either out of sheer elation or at the extortionate pricing of ethanol within the Academy tumble down cheeks, as Bobby Gillespie jingles and jangles those snake hips, his glimmering polyester shirt disappearing in the crimson wash that overwhelms every sense. Sticking with Screamadelica tracklisting for a short while, Primal Scream bolt through Slip Inside This House and Don't Fight It, Feel It (belted out exuberantly by Mary Pearce) with aplomb as Paul Cannell's masterpiece is distorted and contorted behind on a screen colossal enough to cover half of Lambeth. Tracklist and setlist no longer correlate, as a bleary-eyed Damaged, sultry I'm Comin' Down and blissful Shine Like Stars provide something of a glorious mid-set lull, before the flute-led instrumental hush of Inner Flight escalates ambience preliminary to a monumental, marathon rendition of Higher Than The Sun, thrice the length of The Orb's Extended Mix and culminating in a viscerally undulating part two to their seminal Dub Symphony. The Screamadelica home stretch is provided by a jubilant brace of Loaded and Come Together, the latter flittering behind remastered sheen and Terry Farley extended 12" Mix vox in a humble nod to times past and to those still writhing away on the barrier twenty years down the line. The gospel tinges and white hemmed fringes of this effervescent finale imbue the evening with a somewhat baptismal quality, as the timeless celestial refrain of "Come together as one" is bellowed back towards weatherbeaten stage throughout the entirety of the intermission, providing a twisted, mangled message we could all certainly benefit from exercising. The glitzy daze of Screamadelica is then interchanged for Brixton grit rock as the Academy is drenched in flickering strobe, obliterating the glorious lasers that've previously dissected the musty air overhead as a brief rock'n'roll set ensues, Country Girl, Jailbird and a predictably rapturous Rocks chiming out and rounding off a night of untainted unity and ecstasy. Brixton tonight saw strangers embrace, jewelled perspiration drip from beaming faces as Screamadelica asserted itself as a record altogether more omnipotent than its architects, a behemoth Bobby and cronies are no longer capable of harnessing as it continues to drift welkin-wards.