| QUOTE (blackdog @ Feb22nd) |
| Better still my wife has always hated the fall (cant stand it when I put them on of an evening), but she came along. Raving about MES now - what a nutter..he can sing..WHO IS THIS GUY?.. yep she is hooked I can tell.. "says she is beginning to understand my obsession now..! |
| QUOTE (GrannyonBongo's`NewcastleGig) |
| bouncers were forcing people to sit as soon as they looked like they were heading for a dance. Considering this was The Fall it its most danceable for years then we really should have been given the chance to go mad. Also, it was freezing in there. An audience of Geordies sitting with their coats on indoors - now that's the definition of cold. Eleni even left the stage to get her cardy at one point. |
| QUOTE (mark @ Feb 28 2004, 08:21 AM) |
| So Newcastle's hardly a contender for this accolade?! :P |
| QUOTE |
| The Fall with support by John Cooper Clarke. Reviewed by Liz Barnes. [photo] Mark E Smith performing The Fall...in Carlisle? I must admit I did a double take when I saw the flyer and wondered if it was some cringeworthy tribute band, only distinguishable by having a small, troll-like, venom-spitting front man in bri-nylon trousers. But no, it really was THE Fall, as in seminal, god-like northern pioneers with the uncompromising, legendary Mark E Smith at the helm. Not surprisingly, the place was packed. The history The history of the Fall reads like an extended version of War And Peace. If you know it all already, skip this bit. If you don't here's the abridged version. Salford boy works on the docks in Manchester in the mid 70s; loves the Velvets, hates punk, gets a band together; gobs in the face of conformity in favour of the unique sound that is The Fall; John Peel loves them; session on Radio 1; years of critical acclaim (and at times, ridicule), more line up alterations than the changing of the guard, and by 2004 you have one of the most influential and groundbreaking bands ever to come out of this fair isle of ours. Slumping The band now consists of Mark E Smith (of course), Ben Pritchard on guitar, Dingo on bass, Elenor Smith on keyboards, and Dave Milner on drums. At the risk of delivering a big fat cliche, the Brickyard in Carlisle was a fitting venue for them - stark, grimy and more than a little rough around the edges. Their backdrop on stage was a huge painted bedsheet, half-heartedly taped to the wall by bulky roadies. It said all it needed to say: 'The Fall' in thick black print with a Spanish cartoon beneath. Rather unceremoniously, it slowly extricated itself from the wall part-way through and slumped in a heap on the floor behind the drummer. I wouldn't have expected any less. Faker? Wearing a denim mini-skirt to the gig may have been one of my biggest mistakes of the year so far. Being a girl was the second. "You're a fake," I was predictably informed by an open minded, ratty teenage boy of 1982. Apparently because, "I didn't look right" and "I hadn't been there". Oh. Right, then. I can't be bothered to justify myself so I won't, but odds on Mark E Smith wouldn't care as long as I shut up and listened. So I did. Special guest The incomparable punk poet and musician John Cooper Clarke provided a short, sharp, mostly spoken-word support. With a mixture of well-used one liners and acidic comebacks to hecklers (Heckler: "You look like one of the Rolling Stones!" JCC: "If I were one o' t' Rollin' Stones what the f*****' 'ell would I be doin' 'ere?"). He wheeled out a few of his classics, his hauntingly beautiful 'Beasley Street' being one of them, along with a few new creations. He really does look like Ron Wood, though he does actually make Ron Wood look like a puppy. No stranger to the delights of the illegal substance, the man looks as though he's lived and then some. Nevertheless, his electric-shock trademark black hair is still there and the crowd adored him. Standing like a living relic, drink and fag in hand, he was every inch a glimpse at what I'd missed by being born in the mid 1970s. Main attraction And then, there he was. The face that has peered out from the music press at me for all those years, leering and angry, scowling and full of disdain. Mark E Smith stomped on stage, took the mic and launched into 'Open The Box'. The set was sparse, functional and utterly awe inspiring. No time for, 'hello Carlisle', no farting-around between tracks, just an hour and a half of one of the most important back catalogues you're ever likely to hear. With a rock-a-billy break mid set which included the most unbelievably inspired version of 'Walk Like A Man' that you are ever likely to hear, Smith prowled the tiny stage in fag-ash grey trews and non-descript shirt, every inch the working men's club barfly. Chewing furiously, Smith squinted at the crowd he held effortlessly by the throats for the duration of the set. The band were razor sharp, tighter than a drumskin, each track flowing effortlessly into the next with barely time to catch a breath. Wake-up call Knowing the tumultuous history of the Fall, I expected 2004 would mean a shambolic, rambling mess of a show, a shadow of faded glory, another lesson in 'what's gone before'. Instead I was treated to one of the best gigs of my life, a wake-up call to the misinformed assumption that the past is always better. Looking around the crowd, mouths were agape, heads were nodding, but most of all, 250 pairs of eyes were simply wide and fixed on the legend of The Fall. Written by Liz Barnes |
