The Primates

1983–1989

originally published March 28, 2007

Broke-ass vans, marathon shows comprised of 90-second songs and a record recorded at the wrong speed but released anyway - these are just a few memorable battle scars of departed '80s Athens trio The Primates. Though bad luck seemed to walk hand in hand with the North Georgia-born transplants, The Primates, nonetheless, remain a famously infamous entry in Athens music folklore.

Greg Reece and brothers Eric and L.H. Sales arrived in Athens, initially, to attend college, but, like many others, ended up getting a crash course in rock and roll, instead. The three had come from their hometown of Ellijay with a past that included Eric and L.H. playing gospel, surf and classic rock covers with their father's various bands. Reece and the Sales brothers were already well-acquainted, having formed a seminal version of The Primates while still attending high school in Ellijay.

"As far as I can recall, most people that were playing around that downtown Athens scene at that time had come up from somewhere like Atlanta," remembers Eric Sales. "We were one of the only groups that had these pronounced North Georgia accents. We were fresh from Ellijay. I guess we didn't really mix very well with all the arty underground stuff going on. It took us several years to develop a following or get a decent crowd. That probably also had to do with the fact that we weren't really that good, either!"

"We would do originals and everything from Commander Cody to Buck Owens to Johnny Cash," says Reece. "We did rock, mostly, that'd gotten countried-up by us or whoever's version we'd learned the song from. We weren't trying to be country, though, at all. We weren't ashamed of the fact we could do it - we were hicks, after all. But with all the so-called 'trendyitis' over here, we were just beating our heads against the wall to get a few people to come out and see us. "

At the Time

As Reece points out, The Primates weren't really full-on punk - they'd grown up playing Thorogood and Creedence covers, after all. Nor were they remotely akin to the New Wave image many Athenians were selling. A short-lived four-man version of the group that included guitarist Mike Wigham, who added more of a twangy rockabilly sound, was formed soon after the band's 1983 arrival in Athens. That lineup wasn't together more than a couple of years though, and most remember The Primates as a three-piece with attitude and ingenuity to spare.

"Our personalities really paired up. Wigham was a South Georgia redneck and we were North Georgia rednecks," says Eric. "He was also older than us and added that really great lead sound that we just didn't have. We played what was probably our best show to date with that lineup, opening for The Replacements. That was in the basement of the old Stitchcraft building. Hootenannyhad just come out, I think, and they were making one of their first runs through the South. So, we come in the Monday after this really big show and Mike's packing up his stuff to head back south. After auditioning and trying out a few other guitar players, we just said 'screw it,' and decided it was us three from then on out. Once we decided that, we kept it super simple. We were thinking if The Ramones didn't need a flashy lead guitarist, then why did we? When in doubt, Ramones it out."

Without expendable finances or many promises of guarantees on the way, The Primates nonetheless toured heavily. Like many bands of the day, they relied on selling of homemade cassettes for merchandise. Their sole vinyl 45 EP - the tongue-in-cheek "Little Opossum Outta Tuna" - was accidentally pressed at 33 RPM speed, but a few copies sold and a few were played by adventurous college jocks. Reece says it got college airplay in locations like Pittsburgh and Tuscaloosa, though the pressing mishap probably "landed it more times, than not, in the garbage can."

The members of Mercyland were the 'Mates frequent touring partners. These cramped, should've-been-miserable road journeys were often the result of youthful vigor, not seasoned experience. Both the Sales boys and Reece recall many unforgettable sticky situations.

"Everything we learned about touring was basically idiot's luck," says Eric. "We'd get out there and not have any way to cover our asses if we ran out of money. So, if you got ripped by a club or something, you were screwed! We'd have to sell blood plasma to get to the next town where there might be some cash waiting. We just didn't know any better. Fortunately, Greg was very industrious and tight with a dollar. We'd take a Coleman stove and a tent, sleeping bags with us so if we didn't find someone's house to crash at for the night, we still had the option of sleeping in the van."

Why the Split?

The Primates quietly disbanded in 1989. At that point, each individual, says Eric, was going in a different musical direction and the band was, pretty much, done. The Primates officially signed off with a three-hour, 53-song marathon show at the old Clayton Street location of the 40 Watt. The 'Mates final performance was prefaced by an opening set by R.E.M., then working on material that would eventually comprise the Greenalbum.

These Days

After the three put the snotty little trio from Ellijay to rest, Reece began to hone the Redneck GReece character that remains his trademark stage persona. L.H. became the drummer for Reece's newly christened Redneck GReece Delux and eventually steered away from performing, though he has since been known to sit in on the occasional Redneck set.

Eric, after a short stint behind Bryan Cooke's pre-Thumb Attack and Time Toy band Brian & The Cooks, joined up with Jack Logan and Liquor Cabinet, remaining with the group through the much-publicized Bulkera that saw the group get sudden rave reviews and appear on "Late Night with Conan O'Brien." Eric recently made his return to live performing after a 10-year absence. Now going it alone as a solo act, he still fondly remembers the good, bad and ugly days of The Primates.

"We were out there to play and get experience. Playing rock and roll on the road was a great, unreachable albatross for us, really," Eric says. "It was a hell of an experience, though. The thing about playing somewhere new every night like that is, for better or worse, it improves you as a band. Definitely not the best thing for your liver, but it willmake you a better musician!"

Michael Andrews

That Beat in Time is a biweekly feature examining dearly departed local acts worth digging up.