The Rise and Rise of The Fall...

I could quite comfortably sum up this particular gig in one word simple yet all encompassing word - mesmerising.
However, for the sake of those unfortunate enough to have missed Mark E. Smith and co’s display of assault-by-volume, I will further elaborate on the shape of the evening…
In this instance, the word mesmerising is intended to convey that aggressive and shambolic DIY style so prevalent in the punk and new-wave movement. Anarchic riffs clashed with slurring vocals, and unrelenting drum beats battled against disobedient reverb. In layman’s terms, the performance was a mess. But, as any punk rock aficionado will tell you, that is entirely the point.
If I had been presented with a sober and polite Mr. Smith, I would have been sorely disappointed. If the music of The Fall had suddenly taken on a crystal clear and over-produced sound, I would have turned on my heels and left. And so, as a direct result of this delightfully chaotic performance, I did not once catch myself thinking “They’ve lost it.” Not least as everything fell apart at the seams.
Since emerging from the backstreets of Greater Manchester in 1976, the band has experienced an almost bewildering number of line-up changes. However, The Palace performance cemented the notion that neither frontman Mark E. Smith nor the distinctive ‘Fall Sound’ have strayed too far from what was once championed by the unquestionable tastes of John Peel. The recent inclusion of Elena Poulou on keyboards (who is also married to frontman Mark, and is indeed not the first of his spouses to join the band) makes for some extremely hedonistic boy/girl vocals between husband and wife. Her deliberately aloof presence perfectly compliments the repetitive, abrasive style in which she plays - almost taunting the crowd with every aggressive jab of the keys, and every sarcastic roll of her eyes.
Presiding over these mocking electric notes were dark and brooding guitar riffs, punctuated with Kubrick-style abstractions. This willingness to experiment with creative distortion gives The Fall a somewhat psychedelic edge when compared to the typical punk rock outfit, and although this may be a paradox in itself it only serves to add continuity to an already paradoxical band. What indeed is a singer if he does not actually sing? The answer is Mark E. Smith.
Smith, who that evening appeared to be channelling the vocal style of Iggy Pop and the unsteady swagger of Shane McGowan after fifteen ebony Guinness’s, seemed to play the parts of both martyr and puppeteer in equal measures. Taking it upon himself to manipulate the volume of the guitars from deafeningly loud to eerily silent whenever he saw fit, Smith compensated for his lack of poise by commandeering the roles of his fellow bandmates. It would also seem that a wedding ring did not immune Elena from being ousted from her station, as Smith showed no hesitation in pushing her aside in order to pound on the keys himself.
Darting about the stage like a frenzied pinball, Mark single-handedly left the area in an avalanche of sound equipment, stepping carelessly in amongst the wreckage whilst delivering such sardonic lines as “I think it’s over now. I think it’s done.”
The work of The Fall, however, is certainly not ‘done’. For a band that have been leaving a wake of anarchy in their trails for over thirty years, Friday night’s performance certainly did not show any signs of a collective slowing down. As acerbic and raw as they were in the late 70’s, Mark E. Smith and company proved that they are as relevant now as they ever were, and with a current social and economic climate in Britain that mirrors their own heyday, perhaps even more so…