GET OUT MORE.....GIG REVIEW

THE FALL at the MEDICINE BAR

16-10-2006

Veteranindie gargoyle Mark E Smith sauntered into town with the latest incarnation of THE FALL last night. Sometimes they're great, sometimes they're rubbish. Last night was pretty good reckons Martin Longley

Could it have been a deliberate technique? A manifestation of Mark E.
Smith's famously ornery stance? As DJ James Fenning warmed up for The
Fall, he looped and extruded the raw matter of Sinead O'Connor, Tom
Jones and Elvis Presley into extended vocal howls, distorting video and
audio to the point where audience members at a crammed Medicine Bar
began to crack, heckling against this aural torture and baying for band
action. When Barbara Streisand began her distended caterwauling, it
looked like the crowd would finally erupt.

Enough is enough, and thankfully The Fall decided to strike up a
riff. Well, a series of riffs, really, as accumulating repetition has
always been their chief songwriting technique. Is it the imagination, or
has the induction of a Stateside band increased the chugging Velvet
Underground factor? These three replaced yet another fleeing line-up in
May, with Smith and keyboardist/partner Elena Poulou also adding second
bassist Dave Spurr for this current spurt of gigs.

As ever, it's the current album that dominates. Pacifying Joint and
The Move's I Can Hear The Grass Grow are lifted from Fall Heads Roll,
and as the tension grows, What About Us? marks the point where the gig
starts to rise up to a higher level. Smith is in an almost extrovert
mood, staring fixedly at his congregation.

The last few Fall appearances around these parts have featured
ever-decreasing set lengths. Not that a gig should be measured by
whether a combo delivers a four-hour value-for-money marathon, but The
Fall have lately been averaging out at around forty-five minutes.
There's a feeling Smith is never quite ready to perform: that he has to
be winkled out of the dressing room. Tonite, after only twenty minutes
onstage, he sweeps off, and the band obediently follow. Turns out there's
some microphone problem, but Smith never wants to use his own anyway.
He always prefers the microphones of his band members.

Thankfully, they all return, but the set's over at thirty-five. Even
shorter than usual. Except that Smith's obviously in a wired-up state,
transmitting his energies to the crowd. He comes back to play two more
numbers, then the DJ just isn't allowed to spin any more sounds, the
audience cheering so determinedly that the band return to play yet
another couple of tunes. Despite the rule of never airing blasts from
the past, it always seems to be Mr. Pharmacist that rides out when
Smith's in a retrospective frame. He even says thank you and goodnight
at the end, an almost unheard-of communication.

This wasn't The Fall at their very best, but they certainly built up a steady curve of power,
Smith invariably motionless, yet channelling massive amounts of energy as the
band around him latched onto a relentless run of obsessive riffs.