“Primus sucks” ripples through the packed hall from about 7:30pm onwards, an in-joke turned mantra that only true believers would bother chanting a full half hour before a band even appears.
Fronted by the endlessly singular Les Claypool, Primus are back, and after nine long years without a proper European and UK tour — not helped by the 2022 dates that fell victim to logistics — Manchester has turned out in numbers to find out what kind of shape the legends are in.
Of course, “legends” barely covers it. This is a band that peaked commercially in the mid-90s and somehow only tightened its grip on a fiercely loyal fanbase in the decades since, without ever sounding like anyone else on the planet. Their music sits somewhere between avant-garde experiment and technical showcase, with a sense of humour that refuses to let either get too pleased with itself. Claypool remains, arguably, the best bass player in broadly defined rock music, and it’s his instrument rather than any guitar that drives the melody, the rhythm, the entire mood of a song. Add his nasally, satirical drawl and the whole thing takes on a comic-circus energy that no other band would dare attempt, let alone pull off.
Doors open at 6pm, absurdly early by UK standards, though the band themselves don’t appear until 8pm sharp. There’s no support act tonight, which sounds like a treat until those two hours actually start dragging in the middle. But the moment that familiar bass riff cracks open the room, all is forgiven: it’s Here Come the Bastards, from 1991’s Sailing the Seas of Cheese, and Primus are officially back in the UK.
Antipop and American Life keep the momentum going before the lighting drops to something dark and stripped-back for The Ol’ Grizz, the newest track in the catalogue, and the crowd boils under the stage like a cauldron, jumping to a bass riff that sounds uncannily like a banjo being wrestled into submission. Afterwards comes the ritual of introducing the band, chiefly newest recruit, drummer John Hoffman, who admits Dirty Drowning Man — up next — is his favourite in the entire Primus songbook.
Going to a Primus show in 2026, you already don’t expect an opening act; what you don’t expect is the band splitting the set itself into two halves. Frizzle Fry, from the 1990 debut of the same name, closes out the first part, and its finale might be the single best moment of the night: the guitarist tears into a solo before Les joins on bass, the two lines interweaving with a precision that borders on telepathic. It’s the perfect note to break for an interval on, which — fifteen minutes later, very much like the theatre — it does.
Part two opens with Welcome to This World, and it’s worth remembering this show was originally billed for Manchester Academy before ticket sales forced an upgrade to the Warehouse; the crowd that’s turned out repays that faith from the first note. My Name Is Mud and Jerry Was a Race Car Driver send the temperature under the stage soaring further still, the latter’s climactic, room-wide “Go!” shout landing with genuine force. The lights soften and wind their way around the hall during the twisting guitar lines of Over the Electric Grapevine, before Bob’s Party Time Lounge and Shake Hands With Beef keep things moving.
Unlike bands that wheel out an identical setlist night after night, Primus like to dig into the archive, and tonight’s rarity is Jilli Is on Smack, played on the double bass normally reserved for Mr. Krinkle. It’s a genuine deep cut, and for me it’s one of the clear highlights of the whole evening.
Harold of the Rocks closes the second main set, phenomenally played and an obvious fan favourite. Every time I hear it live it drags me back to Woodstock ’94, watched on TV and taped onto VHS at the time, when Alice in Chains’ Jerry Cantrell turned up to guest on guitar. Tonight it’s Mr LaLonde doing the honours, and honestly, he does the moment justice — his solo lands like a raw, psychedelic-funk mugging, all dirty punk energy bolted onto that famous riff.
So, does Primus live still hit the way it used to? Absolutely, no question. Musically this is as good as it gets: Claypool proves once again he’s operating in a league entirely his own, his live bass somehow punching even harder than it does on record, and paired with drums this sharp and guitar riffs this acidic, the Manchester crowd is sent somewhere close to ecstasy.
The encore brings two more: Too Many Puppies and Hello Skinny. No Wynona’s Big Brown Beaver, no Those Damned Blue-Collar Tweekers, no John the Fisherman — a small personal gripe, and entirely mine to have. It doesn’t dent the night. What we get instead is a lesson in technical madness delivered by a genuine living legend, and nobody in that room looks remotely ready to leave.
Primus sucks.
Words and pictures: Tom Adam @tomadampics