Primal Scream’s Stage Shock: Rock Rebels Spark Outrage at London Roundhouse

Mia Reynolds, 12/12/2025Primal Scream's recent performance at London's Roundhouse took an unexpected and controversial turn, merging provocative imagery with music meant to celebrate. The unsettling visuals sparked outrage and highlighted the complexities of artistic expression, raising questions about symbolism and accountability in a politically charged landscape.

The night began just as plenty expected: a familiar swirl of bodies, the thundering anticipation before a beloved band storms the stage. Yet, just as the pulse-pounding notes of “Swastika Eyes” crashed through the air, the mood shifted on a dime. On the screen behind Bobby Gillespie’s crew, a blitz of visual provocations flashed—a Star of David entwined with a swastika, faces like Netanyahu, Trump, and Starmer floating amid the chaos. Normally, the crowd’s phones are raised to capture a memory; now, they were filming something bracing, almost disbelieving, as if hoping the act of recording would lend clarity to what was unfolding.

Historically, Primal Scream hasn’t shied away from making audiences uncomfortable. Their music—equal parts protest and party—has long been a container for pent-up anger, especially in the world-weary climate that defined the late ‘90s. But that night’s imagery, whatever its intended critique, cut differently. The Community Security Trust didn’t hesitate to call out the show, highlighting that such a jarring blend of symbols could stoke hatred rather than insight: “Entwining a Star of David with a swastika implies that Jews are Nazis and risks encouraging hatred of Jews,” their statement read, now echoed—sometimes furiously—across social media and local news feeds.

The Roundhouse, no stranger to wild tales, fired off a statement almost as quickly as tweets began to circulate. A rushed, cautious disavowal: unsure, at first, if the claims could be substantiated, but firm about the venue’s stance. “We take any instance of antisemitism extremely seriously... Any acts of hatred, discrimination or prejudice are entirely unacceptable.”

Leave it to rock and roll to blur what’s real and what’s performance, though some lines—historical, moral—linger, even when guitars wail and strobes flicker. *XTRMNTR* had always been a record laced with barbed political fury: critique American militarism, call out state violence, play with danger. But the swastika and Star of David aren’t pieces on a game board. They’re wounds and identities—one, a horror; the other, a shield for generations.

There’s no elegant segue from celebration to calamity. Some in the crowd, expecting an anniversary show for the ages, must’ve felt almost tricked, jolted from nostalgia and camaraderie into something rawer, darker. Images, especially ones so freighted, have a habit of refusing to stay in their lane. Suddenly, the gig wasn’t a refuge from the world’s mess, but an extension of it—complete with outrage, confusion, and the hum of controversy that refused to flicker out even after the final chord.

Primal Scream’s silence in the days following—Bobby Gillespie and his bandmates saying nothing—hung over Camden like a cold fog. No easy explanations, just the echo of that show: video clips bouncing from phone to phone, online debates as polarized as the world outside. The closing images lingered too, Gaza’s devastation, the onscreen words (“Our Government is complicit in genocide”) lingering long after the amps cooled.

Performance art is meant to provoke, maybe even unsettle. But sometimes, in the scramble to jolt an audience awake, meaning slips through the cracks and all that’s left is pain. How do you dissect a moment where opposition to injustice accidentally stokes another kind? In 2025, with the world’s nerves exposed and history heavy on everyone’s lips, perhaps there’s no tidy solution—just the uncomfortable reckoning that follows.

It could have been a night that reminded everyone of music’s power to unite. Instead, it spotlighted how one blunt image can deepen division, even in a room where, just minutes earlier, fans assumed they were gathered for the same reason.

Perhaps it’s too easy to say that rock has always been about shaking things up. After all, when Pete Townshend smashed his guitars or Nina Simone’s voice cracked over tragedy, the audience still knew, instinctively, where the art ended and the real world resumed. Last December, that border felt unnervingly thin.

At its root, this episode is about more than just one gig gone wrong. The stage—so often a place for collective dreaming—is also a crossroads for accountability. Symbolism isn’t neutral, and provocation without care can wound rather than rouse. The lessons here—as messy, open-ended, and unresolved as they feel—linger long beyond the final encore. No pat conclusion, just the pressing reminder: stories, and the choices we make in telling them, can echo in ways no artist, or audience, can ever fully predict.

London’s Roundhouse, once again—though few anticipated the evening would take such a turn—found itself at the center of a storm. Usually, the venue’s cavernous walls soak up the buzz of guitars and the warmth of nostalgia. This time, December’s chill outside wasn’t nearly as biting as the shock waiting inside for Primal Scream fans, who had gathered hoping for a joyful celebration of *XTRMNTR*’s wild, electrifying legacy.The night began just as plenty expected: a familiar swirl of bodies, the thundering anticipation before a beloved band storms the stage. Yet, just as the pulse-pounding notes of “Swastika Eyes” crashed through the air, the mood shifted on a dime. On the screen behind Bobby Gillespie’s crew, a blitz of visual provocations flashed—a Star of David entwined with a swastika, faces like Netanyahu, Trump, and Starmer floating amid the chaos. Normally, the crowd’s phones are raised to capture a memory; now, they were filming something bracing, almost disbelieving, as if hoping the act of recording would lend clarity to what was unfolding.Historically, Primal Scream hasn’t shied away from making audiences uncomfortable. Their music—equal parts protest and party—has long been a container for pent-up anger, especially in the world-weary climate that defined the late ‘90s. But that night’s imagery, whatever its intended critique, cut differently. The Community Security Trust didn’t hesitate to call out the show, highlighting that such a jarring blend of symbols could stoke hatred rather than insight: “Entwining a Star of David with a swastika implies that Jews are Nazis and risks encouraging hatred of Jews,” their statement read, now echoed—sometimes furiously—across social media and local news feeds.The Roundhouse, no stranger to wild tales, fired off a statement almost as quickly as tweets began to circulate. A rushed, cautious disavowal: unsure, at first, if the claims could be substantiated, but firm about the venue’s stance. “We take any instance of antisemitism extremely seriously... Any acts of hatred, discrimination or prejudice are entirely unacceptable.”Leave it to rock and roll to blur what’s real and what’s performance, though some lines—historical, moral—linger, even when guitars wail and strobes flicker. *XTRMNTR* had always been a record laced with barbed political fury: critique American militarism, call out state violence, play with danger. But the swastika and Star of David aren’t pieces on a game board. They’re wounds and identities—one, a horror; the other, a shield for generations.There’s no elegant segue from celebration to calamity. Some in the crowd, expecting an anniversary show for the ages, must’ve felt almost tricked, jolted from nostalgia and camaraderie into something rawer, darker. Images, especially ones so freighted, have a habit of refusing to stay in their lane. Suddenly, the gig wasn’t a refuge from the world’s mess, but an extension of it—complete with outrage, confusion, and the hum of controversy that refused to flicker out even after the final chord.Primal Scream’s silence in the days following—Bobby Gillespie and his bandmates saying nothing—hung over Camden like a cold fog. No easy explanations, just the echo of that show: video clips bouncing from phone to phone, online debates as polarized as the world outside. The closing images lingered too, Gaza’s devastation, the onscreen words (“Our Government is complicit in genocide”) lingering long after the amps cooled.Performance art is meant to provoke, maybe even unsettle. But sometimes, in the scramble to jolt an audience awake, meaning slips through the cracks and all that’s left is pain. How do you dissect a moment where opposition to injustice accidentally stokes another kind? In 2025, with the world’s nerves exposed and history heavy on everyone’s lips, perhaps there’s no tidy solution—just the uncomfortable reckoning that follows.It could have been a night that reminded everyone of music’s power to unite. Instead, it spotlighted how one blunt image can deepen division, even in a room where, just minutes earlier, fans assumed they were gathered for the same reason.Perhaps it’s too easy to say that rock has always been about shaking things up. After all, when Pete Townshend smashed his guitars or Nina Simone’s voice cracked over tragedy, the audience still knew, instinctively, where the art ended and the real world resumed. Last December, that border felt unnervingly thin.At its root, this episode is about more than just one gig gone wrong. The stage—so often a place for collective dreaming—is also a crossroads for accountability. Symbolism isn’t neutral, and provocation without care can wound rather than rouse. The lessons here—as messy, open-ended, and unresolved as they feel—linger long beyond the final encore. No pat conclusion, just the pressing reminder: stories, and the choices we make in telling them, can echo in ways no artist, or audience, can ever fully predict.