"I think it's over now, I think it's ending."
Mark E Smith, Glasgow, 2017.
Mark E Smith is dead. The Fall is dead.
You cannot separate the two. Like the man himself, it seems
a marvel that it lasted as long as it did. Amphetamine and alcohol made Smith
wiry and wired, and whilst his body was able to withstand the abuse, his band
pummelled the senses with an astonishing catalogue of work that blurred the
lines between garage rock, krautrock and bubblegum pop.
There will never be another lyricist like Smith. Despite his
continual paranoia about plagiarists and notebooks, Smith’s scattergun approach
was inimitable. Lovecraft, Machen and Wyndham
Lewis were heroes mentioned in interviews but there is nothing in literature
quite like a great MES lyric. Part social commentary, part science fiction, all
delivered in bile-powered stream-of-consciousness salvos.
And the voice. Smith was not a singer. His Salford whine was
the band’s greatest weapon, adding an abrasive texture to the group’s
formidable musical assault.
I discovered the Fall for myself on Friday September 15,
1989. I was due to start at university on the Monday and had just finished my
final shift at my summer job, packing organic produce for supermarkets. It was a shit job for a shit wage but it paid
for my beers and my weekly splurge on records.
There was a second hand record shop on the way to the bus stop and, if I
had time, a lucrative 10 minutes could be spent buying the records that
cash-strapped students had given up in the term before.
The cassette album of I, Kurious Oranj, stood out on the
shelf that day in its orange glow. Like a chemical accident. I had read a
considerable amount about the Fall in the music press, had seen endless
namechecks and live reviews. I was at the age where I was always looking for
the next thing to play to my mates and having had some success amongst my peers with
Pixies and Happy Mondays already that summer, maybe The Fall might be the next
thing to impress them with.
The song titles offered small clues as to the unique
approach of Mark E Smith. “Big New Prinz”, “Guide Me Soft” “CD Win Fall 2088
AD”. Mangled language, gnarled syntax. I
was yet to discover this was a concept album/ballet soundtrack commemorating
the 300th anniversary of the Glorious Revolution.
£3 and the tape was mine.
I missed the bus and walked home eight miles in Ceredigion drizzle.
I still remember the excitement of those first 30 seconds or
so of the Fall on my Walkman. A series of uncertain handclaps, a man
barking “Rocking Records, the guy’s rock records…” and then the greatest rhythm
section Manchester ever produced, Hanley and Wolstencroft, kick it in. I was hooked.
The Fall went on to soundtrack my twenties. Each year a new
album usually preceded by a disappointing single, an astonishing Peel session
and an NME interview which acted as an alternative State of the Nation
address. This annual ritual was
something far more exciting to me than Christmas or my birthday. From hearing
the screeching violin introduction to Sing Harpy in my campus pit to the sheer
exuberance of Touch Sensitive in my damp bedsit, the 90s were my Peak Enjoyment
of Mark E Smith years.
Eventually I begun to explore their labyrinthine back
catalogue, a treasure trove of riches. Though punk had given Smith the impetus
to do something, it is clear The Fall were never punk in the way the Pistols
were. The Fall were indignant, different, diffident and difficult without ever
resorting to shock tactics. Repetition was their schtick and somehow they
stayed ahead of the pack, not so much pointing the way forward (for who can
truly ape genius) as showing their peers just how far ahead they were.
And then there were the live shows. The risk factor of
buying a ticket to The Fall. Because, on his day, when MES cantankerousness and
contrarianism over spilled into hostility and unpleasantness, the Fall could
implode before your very eyes. But it seemed worth it somehow, like walking
away from your football team’s latest defeat, knowing you’d be back, a sucker
for punishment. At their best (and I’ve seen them hit these heights several times), Mark E Smith
was a conduit between the audience’s expectations and the band’s sheer power, a
general on the field of battle, barking instructions like a Lancashire James
Brown. I’ve seen friends that were
previously resistant to even the idea of The Fall converted at those special
performances.
You get older, you settle down. Married, 2 kids. The usual.
At first The Fall seemed a relief from all that conformity you’d allowed your
life to settle into. And then, as the number of ex Fall members grew in turn
with the number of ex record labels The Fall had been signed to, their power
began to diminish. Smith seemed no longer capable of greatness. On stage too,
resorting to fiddling with band members equipment, spoiling for a fight rather
than putting on a show. The sight of a decrepit Smith, King Leer in a
wheelchair, was the stuff of tragedy. The records began to suffer as MES,
seemingly intent on alienating even the hardcore devotees who now made up 90%
of his audience, embarked on a path of almost anti-music.
And now he’s dead. Sixty. No age at all. If Bowie was the
mainstream rock chameleon, able to change his colours and adapt to an ever
changing pop landscape, Smith was a shape-shifter – mythological, restless,
sinister – the fiend with a violin, the paranoia man, the casino soul. His
waltz now ended, I find myself surprisingly devastated at his final demise. And then, just as I was with that other thin
white duke, I marvel at the fullness of those years spent amongst us and stand
amazed at their life’s work.
I doubt Mark’s a new face in hell now, but wherever he is, I'll raise a glass to him tonight. Thanks for all the memories, Mark. Rest in peace.
