After some 40 years trolling around the perimeter of popular taste, there is practically nothing that can be said about The Fall that hasn’t been said before. The reasonably palatable Festival Hub is probably a venue Mark E. Smith is not used to. It certainly is not the toilet circuit the band would sometimes tour. In usual circumstances, Smith would be contemplating pension-hood, but he just keeps on keeping on.
A three-night stretch courtesy of Melbourne Festival was what brought the Manchester mob down this way. In an age when there are too many bands releasing too much music, generally without any quality control, The Fall roll on unrelentingly. The show was just what you would expect The Fall to be – deceptively simple yet beguilingly complex. While many of their contemporaries from their nascent years are now just a faded montage of scrappy fanzine clippings, The Fall remain mighty.
This is one of the band’s best drilled lineups, regimented and skilled, yet retaining a shambolic sheen. Not messy and haphazard, but just enough tinkling on the edges to keep everything interesting. Playing a generous set, Smith warbled, while the band convulsively propelled the music forward. The repetition became increasingly sinister and singular, as the chugging rhythm section shook the foundations. Smith’s authoritative, distinctive and vibrant vocal rang out over the top, as if nothing had changed in decades.
It didn’t matter what songs they exhumed from their telephone directory sized catalogue, the manner with which they were delivered deserved undying respect and admiration from the audience regardless. As John Peel would have said, “Tha maghty Fall” climbed back into the ring. And this time they were fighting fit and ready to play their moody, discordant noise.
BY BRONIUS ZUMERIS
Photo by David Harris
Loved: Growing old disgracefully.
Hated: Loss of hearing.
Drank: Something local.
