Fall Down
Mark E. Smith's platoon system meets its Waterloo at the Knit
By Cole Coonce
"I've always got a reserve force with the Fall. Anyone gets stroppy with me, I've always got subs. I take no musician for granted. I don't like musicians. They elevate themselves, which is detrimental to the name of the Fall. I don't hold auditions, and it's a nasty thing to say, but it's like a platoon sort of thing. If the first three get shot, you have another three behind them."
-Mark E. Smith, on the volatile and tumultuous nature of the Fall
"You call yourself bloody professionals?"
-Roman Totale, a.k.a. Mark E. Smith
couple of weeks ago, a plane landed in Texas, and amongst its cargo were members of the Fall, a first-wave punk-rock band out of Manchester, England, who were across the pond to promote their 25th (!) in a series of perplexing, engaging albums, 2005's Fall Heads Roll. The L.A. date was at the Knitting Factory last Saturday night (May 13).
But by the time the Fall got to Phoenix, as far as hydrocarbonic intake goes, Glen Campbell had nothing on the soppy and stroppy Mark E. Smith, rock 'n' roll's resident Dylan Thomas. Tour reports were rife with incidents of Smith pouring a beer on his tour manager's noggin and also using his head as an ashtray, all while the poor tosser drove the van down the interstate and tried not to crash. Moreover, at that night's show, a member of the opening act assaulted Smith with a half-eaten plantain (!), and the band played on while MES chased the banana-assassin into the parking lot, where a scuffle ensued. This mayhem, coupled with Smith's notoriously fascistic task-making, had forced "the lads" (as he called his backing group) to skulk away under the cover of darkness and catch an aeroplane back to Old Sod.
Which did not bode well for L.A. But, being a "bloody professional" and all, Smith and wife/synthesist sidekick Elena Poulou endeavored to fulfill contractual obligations and finish the tour (a novel concept, if one knows the Fall's history).
Apparently the Fall's record label, Narnack, solicited as replacements a trio of alt-dirge rockers out of Chicago, who were hot-lapped into San Diego in time for the Fall's booking at the House of Blues, and - ka-pow ka-pow ka-pow - quick as a repeating rifle, the notion of the Fall being a platoon system was, in fact, realized.
Luckily for the new lads - guitarist Tim Presley, bassist Rob Barbato, and drummer Orpheo McCord - most of the Fall's latest songs are mere exercises in two-note rock riffs pounded into a repetitive groove, which serves as a foundation for Smith to free-associate lyrically, with gems such as "Dolly Parton and Lord Byron/They said patriotism is the last refuge/But now it's me" or haikus to that effect. In other words, if the riff never really changes, such subtleties and dynamics as a "chorus" are based on Smith terminating his J. Alfred Prufrock-ish free verse and repeating and chanting certain absurdist phrases ("Moderninity ... what is it?" being a particularly catchy and toothsome example).
All of which means, platoon system or no, it is easier to fuck up a brand-new anvil. Which is what the Fall did, somehow.
I say somehow, but I know exactly how: booze, baby. Smith is a chaos-monger and a lush, and when the chips are down, he will find a way to turn over the card table. This night was true to form, as the joint was packed like a bowl of sweaty oatmeal with a legion of fervent Fall disciples, who waited for the gospel from their maniacal messiah. Instead of a pointed, galvanizing performance that would send the faithful to postmodern Valhalla, Smith showed up drunk, staggering and slurring through a rambling collection of dirges. For the duration, he was squint-eyed sauced, stumbling and unintelligible. The "band" struggled to find its cues and vainly tried to follow his meanderings.
At Waterloo, Mark E. Smith tripped on his dick and shot himself in the foot.
Methinks "the lads" had the right idea when they deserted their leader in Phoenix.
Published: 05/18/2006
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