(Not meaning to be all-Screamers, all the time, but hey, there's a lot of stuff out there about them right now. And I really like the libertine-aspect of the interviews:)
Back then, the group's singer, Bobby Gillespie, rang up Eggleston to ask permission, and was invited around for breakfast drinks. 'Bill was wearing jodhpurs and leather boots,' Gillespie later told me, 'and was walking about with a rifle and bayonet. It was surreal.' He played them a Bo Diddley record, plied them with vodka and then sent them on their way with his blessing. You could say he out-Screamed the Scream.
One of the interesting aspects of this image refers to Eggleston's suggestion that a photograph is a kind of little death, freeze-framing its subject forever. According to Eggleston's son Winston, who handles his father's business affairs, his father always refers to Untitled, 1975 as 'Marcia whacked out on Quaaludes'.
Which, come to think of it, may be the best title for a Primal Scream song anyone has ever come up with.
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