Concrete Winds is a rude band, and debut Primitive Force is an incredibly rude record. This is the type of music Lemmy was thinking of when he said your lawn would die if Motörhead moved in next door. It is impolite, boorish, and unconcerned with Proper Society. This record doesn’t want to disrupt your quiet little community because it thinks there’s something insidious hiding underneath the façade, it just merely thinks wallowing in filth and smashing windshields is a lot more fun.
The riff roots of Primitive Force lie somewhere between the blunt forward forcefulness of Vader (the tendency to THUD THUD THUD BLAST BLAST BLAST, repeat), the slippery forward forcefulness of Angelcorpse (all the fret hand sliding in the title track), and the notebook scribbles of a particularly hungover and bored high school sophomore. There’s a reckless abandon that will remind of Tsjuder at their most Northern and Hellish, but a loose, almost punk attitude that is most obviously represented by how they introduce “Sulphuric Upheaval” by screaming out the song title as if they recorded this playing live to 30 people in a moldy basement.
In short: this record has personality. Rude personality. Rude, not-quite-rational personality. The soloing, such as the extended widdling in “Volcanic Turmoil,” makes the dying cat approach of Kerry King sound positively refined by comparison. The touches of noise and grind in “Angelic Laceration” take an already belligerent album and threaten to commit it to a padded cell.
And yet, there is some refinement here. Despite a production that seems designed to make you think your speakers are failing, Primitive Force is as loaded with pretty acrobatic riffage as it is, well, primitive lines. The drumming, typically as bonkers and violent as you’d expect, finds time to get stylish with some hi-hat play in “White Cut Manifest.” Nowhere does the touch of refinement show itself more than on “Tyrant Pulse,” a friendly little dance number that, if you squint, kinda sounds like what mid-80s Killing Joke might have sounded like mashed up with mid-80s Bathory. The syncopated, disco-by-way-of-Away drum shuffle also threatens to move your ass in a way you didn’t expect this record to move your ass. Crazy mean, crazy fun.
This isn’t just a record for the degenerate in us all, but for the slob as well. So in honor of one of cinema’s all-time great slobs, let us consider Primitive Force as Al Czervik, made immortal by Rodney Dangerfield in Caddyshack. Primitive Force is Al Czervik dancing obnoxiously on the fairway and farting during dinner at the country club, but instead of continuing his meal, this version of Al would beat the busboy to death with a 9-iron before pissing all over the in-progress bananas foster. Madness is fun. Madness with a truckload of great riffs and nuts drumming and downright unmannerly vocals is more fun. Concrete Winds is fun madness.
Go ye, slobs, unto all the stuffy and snobby country club dining rooms and release your (concrete) winds to your hearts’ content. Just maybe don’t kill the busboy.