The Primitives

Four decades in and still fizzing like a bottle rocket kicked down the stairs, The Primitives rolled into 16 Toneladas and turned a regular night in Valencia into a masterclass in how guitar pop is supposed to feel: loud, loose, and absolutely alive.

Anniversary tours can sometimes drift into polite nostalgia, but this one arrived with its fringe cut, trainers on, and zero interest in behaving. From the moment singer Tracy Tracy hit the stage, beaming but ready for business, it was obvious we weren’t here to gently remember the past — we were here to rattle it until the dust came off. The band’s story is the stuff indie mythology is built on: formed in Coventry in the mid-80s, signed young, all sugar rush melodies and distortion, riding the C86 glow while refusing to be boxed in. Forty years later, they’re leaner, sharper, and playing like a group with nothing to prove and everything to celebrate. Guitars chimed, then roared. Harmonies wrapped themselves around the room. Every chorus felt like it had waited decades for this exact crowd.

And what a crowd. Packed, sweating, wide-eyed — veterans shoulder to shoulder with fresh converts. You could see teenagers discovering their new favourite band in real time while lifers shouted every word like they’d been storing them in a vault since 1988. The temperature detonated, of course, when those immortal opening notes of Crash rang out. Pandemonium. Pints in the air, strangers hugging, voices cracking, a dancefloor suddenly behaving like the front barrier at a stadium show. It wasn’t just the hit; it was a communal exhale, a reminder that some songs wire themselves permanently into your nervous system. Tracy grinned, the band locked in, and for three glorious minutes 16 Toneladas practically levitated.

But what made the night special was everything around the big moment too. Deep cuts landed like treasures. Newer material held its own. The Primitives played with bite and affection, flipping between feedback squall and heart-tug sweetness without blinking. If this is what forty looks like, the rest of us need to up our game.

Setting the fuse early were locals-turned-cosmic travellers Clara Plath, whose upward trajectory keeps gathering speed. The band have carved out a reputation for expansive, emotional indie rock that can whisper one second and knock down walls the next. Live, they’re magnetic — all atmosphere, drive, and melodies that linger long after the amps cool. They were the perfect curtain-raiser: big enough to command the room, generous enough to hand it over. By the time they finished, the audience was primed, buzzing, and possibly already a little hoarse.

Forty years on, The Primitives aren’t preserving a legacy — they’re actively setting it on fire night after night. Valencia didn’t just witness history; it sang along with it, spilled beer on it, and demanded an encore. Long may they crash!

Words and photos: Rhyan Paul