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Bend Sinister
by The Fall
(Beggars Banquet/ 1986)
I own 18 albums by The Fall – far more than by any other band and
indeed far more than most other bands have even recorded. Bend Sinister
perhaps catches the band at their popiest, but it doesn’t quite
rank alongside some of my all-time favourites such as Hex Enduction
Hour, This Nation’s Saving Grace and The Unutterable.
Nevertheless, it is the album which most reminds me of a period in the
mid-1980s in which me and my friend Rob B travelled around a good part
of the country seeing The Fall play.
Milton Keynes was the unlikely setting of one such gig and the scene of
our most triumphant Fall-related adventure. That particular show was a
stand-out even before the extraordinary course of events which followed
it. It took place in the distinctly un-rock ‘n’ roll environ
of overlit sports hall which had a rudimetary stage constructed down one
end. And because this stage was quite low and we were right at the front,
we soon found ourselves having to clamber on to it because of the pressure
of the crowd pushing forward. And this is where we sat out the rest of
the gig, revelling in our closeness to the band.
After the show and emboldended by a few cans of Red Stripe, we decided
to forgo the last train home in favour of trying to get backstage. And
after waiting outside the dressing room with two or three other Fall devotees,
we were eventually allowed in.
Disappointingly Mark and Brix weren’t there but the rest of the
band were, including keyboardist Marcia Schofield who told us we could
help ourselves to whatever beer was left on the rider but under no circumstances
were we to touch the whisky. Only trouble was, there was no beer left.
Then, to my horror, I saw Rob pouring himself a large glass of whisky.
Marcia had spotted him too.
‘Right, you two. Out!’ She hollered. ‘I warned you not
to touch the whisky.’
We mangaged to plead with her to give us another chance and perhaps, seeing
the desperation in our eyes, she relented.
I directed Rob away from the hard stuff and then, keen to exhibit my rock
’n’ roll credentials, I proceeded to knock up a very loosely-rolled
spliff which I offered around. There were no takers, and before too long
we concluded that hanging out backstage with The Fall wasn’t as
much fun as we’d hoped it would be.
We decided to leave. Then, on our way out, we bumped into Mark E Smith.
Now, because Mark has a such a sarky, spiky reputation, I always figured
that should I ever get the chance to address him, then the best way was
to go on the offensive. I’d actually bumped into Mark a year or
so earlier at Manchester Boardwalk, during a gig by New York No Wavers,
Live Skull. I’d found myself stood next to him at the urinals, desperately
trying to think of a suitably smart-arsed and non-sycophantic way to acknowledge
the leader of my favourite band. I was consumed by the need to say something
so withering and loaded with sardonic wit as to suggest to Mark that he’d
certainly met his match in me.
In the end, aware of his oft-stated opposition to the NME/ Red
Wedge-led leftist consensus amongst many musicians at the time, the best
I could muster up was a sneery: ‘So Mark, are you gonna go and vote
Tory in the next election?’
Drying his hands, he just looked at me and chuckled…
‘Well, I didn’t vote Tory in the last election.’
Flushed with shame, I subsequently reported my brief encounter with Mark
E Smith in the bogs to friends as some kind of victory. The truth was,
I felt totally crushed by the utter feebleness of my post-urinal verbal
ejaculation and the bemused casualness of his response. Also, I cursed
Live Skull for not drawing a bigger crowd in which I could hide myself.
Particularly as I kept imagining Mark — who was sat at the back
of the venue — pointing me out to the mirthful amusement of his
companions.
So back in Milton Keynes, having not learned my lesson, I found myself
berating Smith again. This time for what I considered, at £12-a-pop,
to be the excessive price of tickets for his musical play Hey Luciani,
which was due to run at the Riverside Studios, Hammersmith. Mark, who
naturally didn’t remember me, explained to us that the pricing of
the tickets was done by the theatre and so was out of his hands.
‘But it just means that hardcore fans like ourselves who may be
students or on the dole, are priced out,’ I whinged. Until…
‘Well, what if I put you on the guest list?’ Mark suddenly
said.
It was so totally unexpected. After giving him our names, we managed to
maintain our display of cool for as long as it took for us to get out
of the building, after which we punched the air joyfully and pogoed around
the car park, not caring a jot that it was November and we were now looking
at spending the night on a railway station concourse.
A few weeks later, we travelled down to London to see the play, not feeling
entirely convinced that we actually would be on the guest list —
after all, he’d only scribbled our names down on what looked like
the remnant of that night’s set list. Thankfully, all was in order.
Starring key members of The Fall, the late, great Leigh Bowery and the
then enfant terrible of British ballet, Michael Clark, Hey Luciani
was based on the conspiracy theories which surrounded the death, just
33 days into his papacy, of Pope John Paul I. However, as a piece of experimental
theatre, and not knowing a great deal about such conspiracy theories,
I can’t claim to have known quite what the hell was going on. Still,
it was a novel experience and watching The Fall perform in a theatrical
setting was a genuine thrill. At the same time, I was also aware that
former stripper Marcia Schofield’s ample chest — thrown in
to dramatic relief by a tight, black, leotard-style top — was proving
a particular point of interest for Rob B.
After the play, we were keen to express our gratitude to Mr Smith but
were far too sober to attempt crashing the dressing room again. Instead,
we saw Brix manning the merchandise table, so asked her to pass on our
thanks. Brix, who we’d long considered to be a babe of the first
order, was smiley and friendly. She even attempted to engage us in conversation
by asking us what we thought of the play. In response, we shuffled about
and stared shyly down at the floor before muttering something along the
lines of, ‘it was great’ and, ‘we really enjoyed it’.
After which, fearing that we might then be asked for something a little
more incisive, we made good our escape by saying we had to go and catch
our train.