Bellies Of Fire

Paul Griffiths on The Fall at The Point

Monday, March 26th, 2007

Pardon me Charlie whilst I go over to the dining table and eat an elephant.

A dickie-bowed fellow with a polished umbrella shuffles through the Daily Mail whilst a monkey sits sewing his slippers. The darkened gothic chapel of the Point sits patiently for the bizarre creatures and audio treats that The Fall pre-match DJ concocts.

A panda bear who had a run in with the pink shirt brigade tells the story:

“Hi, excuse me whilst I finish my whisky; mmmm, let’s see, it began last night… - It was cold and dry and then I had my first drink of the day ... It began with…”

A wondrous Welsh whirling-dervish with blonde locks trapped in an orange boiler suit. Rioting and stamping on the ground like a steaming teenager, her cries animating her band-mates' angular post-rock furrows with sugary hysteria. T'was an interesting, destructive Pop experiment sizzling as it was on the fanatical lips of The Fall worshipers.

Heck were followed by the traditional warm up of Safi. A history collaboration of scratched music visuals that blurred and broke the chatter within the zoo. Visuals of Hendrix, Brown, Lennox and Elvis sneezed and coughed through the arena. People have to work, get up take their kids to school [Ed: Paul you are soooo considerate]. Some of us have to pretend to work! [Ed: and fired] At 10:20 Safi was still playing with Elvis's lips. The delay was welcomed by the growing purses of The Point. Gallons, bottles, crates of alcohol were guzzled whilst people warbled and croaked “Whereee rhte fuck is Mark??” and “fuck off Lennox!!”

The band wander on and perform an extended version of ‘Senior Twilight’. The bass player performs the vocals with a large bottomless beard. A beard of awesome industrial foundation that sneers with contempt at young pubescents. The illustrious riffs of The Fall machines have flowing integral loops of rhythm. A lost drunk from Wetherspoons has stumbled on stage with a £1.99 shirt and garden infested pants. “Get him off!” I shouted. He's surely taking his monthly exercise in the expense of these fine upstanding musicians! Screams of applause welcome the lost drunk as Mark E. Smith, a.k.a M.E.S, the nutter, prick, and surely a lot worse by ex-band members, wives and working musicians.

The misfit from The Ghoolies dances and mutters into the air. Genius, crazyness, and complete shit has never formed so perfectly in one human being. A hell bound God with words of toilet duck grandeur. A true underground outlaw that could have been a Spaghetti Western star. “For Loads More Dollars” featuring Mark E. Smith - a man that pisses down the neck of his enemies and sleeps with their horses.

His puppets smile and play with bellies of fire. A nebula so hot with passion it doesn’t know when to quit. The bass player glances at the brilliant misshapes. Smith twinkling gizmos, nobs, and screaming into everyone’s mic, his jacket thrown, put on again, thrown, his shirt off, and on, off, walking, running, barking and prawling throughout the stage ground. M.E.S’s walkabout antics are bizarrely captivating like Jimi Hendix trying to copulate with his guitar.

Perhaps the band can perform without Mark E. Smith. The bass player can surely demonstrate his vocal subconscious: “You like my beard: it's hairy; the smurfs; turkey muffins; in the deep, deep South…”

Forget it, the show floats around its carrousel. The designer; instigator; a tribal warlord orchestrating his troops, his image a total mis-craft of justice by a five year-old with playdoh. What a staggering introduction to a church's vision. In the fundamentalist churches of the US there are people speaking and dancing in tongue. In the gothic surroundings of The Point Mark E. Smith uses his tongue to transform and command his band and the audience.

The set can move from awful to brilliant through the same track, its unpredictability keeping the audience on their toes. Towards the end of the second encore Smith delivers his philosophies towards the chattering of palms through reformation. A hand grabs the mic and he departs. His work done, the legendry rhythm witch sits out closer ‘Just Step Sideways’ singing from beneath the curtains, his riddles and rhymes still moving through the audience and band, disembodied.

Mark, we'll see you in hell.

© 2007 Paul Grffiths

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