Many bands claim to be era-defining. Few are. Primal Scream were. If you have ever wondered what it would be
like to be at the birth of one of rock and roll’s bastard offspring then this book is for you. Martin St John was Primal
Scream’s leather gloved flailing skeleton, bashing away on the tambourine in the 1960s obsessive, garage psych,
mid-80s period. He was there, bang central, in the middle of the psychedelic maelstrom – in the days before
Screamadelica, in the days before Top Of The Pops, in the days before Glastonbury – and he has a story to tell. If
you think you know Primal Scream, think again.