Appalling acoustics in this cavernous Civic chamber though there were, the poor sound didn't detract from the power of the main event, as the all-new U.S. post-reformation FALL-reformed trawled on and, once Elena had dropped her handbag by the keys, proceeded to launch head-first into, erm... ‘Reformation’. During a spellbinding run-through of the latest record's title track, the Yanks whipped up a blistering backbeat that went head-to-head with the surge of Mrs Smith's tiny Korg, cutting right through the plush surroundings. Setting a frenetic pace from the start, bass player Dave Spurr and guitarist Pete Greenway (whose style immediately brings Craig Scanlon rushing back to mind) exchanged frequent grins with drummer Keiron Melling as the once under-rehearsed new Fall put their teething troubles behind them, tearing straight into a loud and powerful sonic offensive.
Going straight in for the kill, the new ‘Fall-Sound’ proved as razor-sharp as it was bass/beat-heavy. Beating the civic chamber to the boom, the band cut through the shit acoustics by cranking up a noise that met the huge venue’s cavernous echo coming back in a cutting edge display of all-out attack.
On wandered the bleary looking, padded-out Mark E. Smith to the loud and triumphant cheers of his disciples, wearing a sardonic smile along with (his wife’s?) black sleeveless bodywarmer under his mainstaty ¾ length leather jacket. Both garments were quickly discarded to reveal shirt-sleeves that were firmly rolled up. Smith’s no-nonsense work ethic is still as interwoven into his delivery as ever. Sheaf of notes in one hand, he trawled the stage bent double with self-justification as he ranted out ’50 Year Old Man’ to the transfixed faithful; only a smattering of young ‘uns could be seen in amongst the trainspotters, reclusive types and Fall-mad fans of old for this one. The collective atmosphere in the room however, was strangely subdued despite the high devotee contingent.
“I like orange juice me” Mark grinned, to jeers and cackles of disbelief from us. However, despite the light-hearted wisecracking, it was clear that Smith has also been cracking the whip of late. ’Sparta’ stood out as a big plus moment, anthemic and made more warped than ever by the jubilant Elena, who had temporarily abandoned her deadpan reserve to joyfully belt out the backing vocals at top note. This whilst her synth sounds bubbled and thickened the groove - although it was the heavier percussion and an altogether ‘tighter’ rhythm section that characterised the thumping set in terms of sound. One fitting addition from the vault saw ‘Wings’ resurrected from the distant past. The old Kicker Conspiracy favourite slotted in almost unnoticeably alongside a showcase of brand-new material and it didn’t so much end as melt seamlessly into the still-evolving song-in-progress ‘Wolve Kidult Man’ that followed it. This gem came at a price however; in the light of what was clearly considered a successful experiment Smith’s off-the-cuff amendments to the set-list also saw plans to run through ‘Mr Pharmacist’, ‘White Lightning’ and ‘Strange Town’ abandoned in favour of half-finished material, including one or two instrumentals.
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‘Kicker Conspiracy’? Indeed. The irony being that in recalling this archive body of work, Smith’s uncanny feel for such matters puts one in mind of a successful football manager masterminding team selection. Once again this maverick’s muse is on the move; tonight’s gig was definitely a demonstration of that.
With momentum gathering this fast, Mark E. was in full flow in no time, breaking off from his molestation of the guitar/bass amp controls to brandish two microphones, one of which (after cranking up the reverb on the missus’ synth en route), he dropped into the crowd. Suitably amplified, his name came echoing back to a Smith-free stage amidst further roars of approval, the man himself having already made one of his evening’s three departures.
There was another new one called ‘Alton Towers’ blended into the pulsating groove, along with an instrumental (‘Can-Can’?), and a slower number that saw Smith hunched stage right in melancholy celebration of his unswerving approach (‘I Am Me Mark’)
Tapping back into the immediate past, ‘Over Over’ bounced back to back with ‘Systematic Abuse’. As Smith’s recent work brought the gig to a resounding climax, roadies pushed monitors back into place and straightened the mess left by the hard-drinking veteran as he billowed in and out of view amongst the wing’s curtains. Finally emerging to perch on the edge of the vast stage, he subjected the first few rows to intense scrutiny whilst holding his finest expression of scorn haughtily in place.
Cracks began to appear as the frozen audience finally began to thaw, and there was even a few shuffling feet for the encore, a resounding and final ‘Blindness’, which for me could have been a fitting comment on the crowd’s largely numb reaction (shock? horror!?) to this extraordinary band’s typically wonderful and frightening performance.
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