From: Chip Cox Date: Thu, 9 Feb 1995 23:36:01 -0500 Sorry about getting this out so late, the early semester has been too busy to deal with some things. That said, a review of the Mighty Fall from late last year in York. As you will see, taken from the Guardian, 12/30/94. Amazing how we get hold of such things in Missouri ... Chip cox@law.missouri.edu HEADLINE: SMITH AND MOANS; Live review: The Fall in York BYLINE: Dave Simpson BODY: Forget Coronation Street, the most enduring and entertaining British soap opera of modern times has to be the continuing story of Manchester's The Fall. For 18 years, their haphazard "career" has resembled something written by Hunter S Thompson. There have been innumerable line-up changes and record company bust-ups, in-band marriages, torrid affairs, sordid tales of drug abuse and fist-fights onstage. The central character is vocalist Mark E Smith, an eccentric figure something like a deranged Percy Sugden. He rules his band with a rod of iron and his surreal, sardonic, social sci-fi rants take pot shots at everything from U2 to Australian tourists. Recently, Smith's inner scriptwriters have upped the violence, with stories of scuffles with photographers, fans and journalists. An innocent enquiry to the band's PR regarding the guest list prompted the improbable inquisition: "Have you ever had a run-in with Mark E Smith?" The Fall at the Barbican was the most gripping episode yet. For starters, there was scant promotion, leading to the bizarre spectacle of seeing one of the UK's most popular leftfield groups performing to a barely populated hall. Furthermore, there was a twist in the plot in the return (after five years) of Smith's estranged wife, Brix. Seemingly recovered from her dalliance with Nigel Kennedy, she smouldered like a rock-chick Elsie Tanner and her brittle riffing added an extra tension to their already compelling northern rockabilly, which often recalls The Velvet Underground as if they'd been reared on flat beer and working men's clubs. A solitary festive touch was provided by Smith's silver shirt, which complemented his traditional Man at C & A look with perfect awkwardness. For a time, the script ran along familiar lines: The Fall blasted out the most recent examples of their metronomic boogie to an audience composed mainly of thirtysomething blokes as curmudgeonly as Smith. Then the spanners flew into the works. During Free Range, Smith hurled his microphone to the ground and took over his wife's equipment, getting tangled up in all manner of leads. A hapless roadie attempted to sort it out and was immediately admonished, Smith delighting in hurling the mike stand next to where he stood. We were then treated to several scenes of which any director could be proud: Smith clatters microphone again, Smith manhandles security man from stage, Smith cuffs roadie round ear, Smith removes microphone from bass drum (rendering them inaudible), Smith rearranges keyboard monitors (rendering them unworkable), Smith storms off, and on, and off. And so on, ad infinitum. His lyrics were by now almost indecipherable ("Your mother is a Communist!" he seemed to sneer at one point), while the band stared resolutely at the floor and Brix gave the impression she'd seen this act a good few times before. None of this, though, overshadowed the music. Glam Racket in particular was a brilliant parody of a Glitter Band stomp. The instalment ended with the unforgettable sight of Smith as Hero Wronged, ranting through Big Prinz and its chorus "He . . . is . . . not . . . APPRECIATED!!!" A point with which one might tend to disagree. But then, one wouldn't want a run-in with Mark E Smith.