I thought it’d be good for the group to prove themselves to a whole new audience, and I was at that stage where I’d had enough of Manchester. I’d had enough of the music scene; all that psychedelic shit and white honky monody. I get like that sometimes. I felt like Schopenhauer, the German philosopher who kept to the same strict regime every day. He’d get up at a certain time, walk the same paths, write for the same length of time. When I get in that kind of fix, I bugger off somewhere and return with a brighter outlook.
The tour began at the bottom and it pretty much worked its way further down. Karl Burns missed the first few gigs because he’d lost his passport. A dog with a squint had eaten it and failed to spew it back.
We’d been there a few days, we all had jet-lag, and we were all young. We played a couple of gigs and we started getting some really bad reviews. The Australian press were ramming it to us. Reviews were like, ‘Why are we putting up with this Pommy shit?’ – this is in their version of the Sun. ‘They obviously can’t play. They tried to play “Totally Wired” – this rubbish punk song from England.’ And on the second page there’s a list of twenty-five Australian groups who are better than any Pom group. It was like a Gary Bushell review, only worse. Racist rubbish – they wouldn’t have had us if we’d had a black member.
Australia’s not what it’s made out to be. I never liked the place.
I must admit, though, we were shit. We had more fans before we went out there than after we came back.
We went to this stupid heavy metal disco after the first gig – which was awful – and the group all started dancing to Deep Purple. I told them to sit down, have some dignity. I was young at the time, but I know when people are taking the piss. But Riley couldn’t see this, couldn’t see people laughing at him. Blissfully oblivious, he thinks he’s The Beatles in New York. He’s dancing around with all these Australian cunts, like Patrick Swayze. And I’m saying, ‘Get off the fucking dance floor!’ and I’m grabbing hold of him.
There are loads of long-haired heroin addicts laughing at us because we’ve got short hair.
‘Get in the hotel, and stay there till I tell you. You don’t need to be dancing to “Smoke on the Water”.’
And then he started hitting me, in the middle of this disco. He gave me this black eye. The funniest part of it was that me and Riley had to go on this kids programme the morning after. Riley thinks he’s on Pop Quiz, or Tiswas. But this was Australia. The presenter was vicious, he had a bit of the Enoch Powell about him. Riley thinks this guy’s going to tell him he’s the new Paul McCartney. Riley says, ‘Well, we’ve played a couple of gigs, and it’s going really well, we’re looking forward to playing the rest of Australia.’
And this guy just goes, ‘Isn’t it true, Pommy, that you had a fracas last night?’
I started laughing. And then sure enough it cuts to me with my big black eye.
‘And here’s the lead singer from Pommy-land. Is it true, then?’
I handled it, though …
‘Ask Marc.’
I enjoyed that.
Their answer to Top of the Pops was hilarious – it’s called Countdown. It was presented by this gay bloke called Ian ‘Molly’ Meldrum. He was Australia’s answer to Jimmy Saville – but not quite as flamboyant. Iggy Pop featured on it in ’79, zipped out of his brains. It’s brilliant footage – he doesn’t answer the questions properly and he’s really edgy, narco-edgy. Tracing his finger down Molly’s shirt and saying ‘G’day’ all the time in this rubbish Aussie accent, and then he goes on stage to mime to ‘I’m Bored’. The kids in the audience are terrified of him. It’s great. He makes Molly look like a gawp.
Apart from guff like The Sullivans, the rest of the TV was Yank stuff and British comedies. The cheeky bastards – having a pop at us for being a bunch of talentless scrawns and all they could come up with was this funeral-type entertainment!
I didn’t like the place.
They were right behind us in New Zealand, though. They were brilliant. All the local labels put us up in their houses. They gave us the time to prove ourselves. I respect them for that; they could very easily have just listened to the Aussies and taken it as read that we were little more than a new form of headache.
Even after all this, Riley still didn’t get the plot. He was acting like President Johnson, saying he’s the spokesman. He and Craig still thought they were Lennon and McCartney – that’s why I chose that picture for the front cover of Fall in a Hole where he’s parading himself like a chief swan to all these imaginary fans at the airport. He was deluded. He’s from Sale, with two LPs under his belt. It wasn’t exactly The Beatles in America.
There was nobody at the airport – just five guys with long hair saying, ‘Get in the van!’
I remember going to my local when we got back. I’d been back a couple of days. People were asking why the fuck I’d gone out there. Nobody could understand it. You’ve got to remember it was after Hex that we went out there. I think people were taking us for granted. I’d heard enough about us being this very English group. That sort of talk ties you up. It’s hard to vacuum it out of your senses. But my mates were cool about it. It helps to have people like that around you. Proper friends. They’re not arsed about The Fall really. I’m not that arsed about what they do. We just have a laugh and get pissed. You can go too far sometimes – with the group and travelling. That’s one of the reasons why I’ve never upped sticks and fucked off to London or wherever. You’ve got to have a base; and people who’ll take you at face value.
Tours are very hard to get out of your head. You’re still very much there for weeks afterwards. You have these distinctly vivid dreams about it. I can see how it fucks people up. Your body’s all over the place. You get these heightened sensations. After a bit you get used to it, but at the start it’s an odd feeling.
I’m not surprised when young bands get flown around the globe and return like zombies. All aged and disgruntled and unenthusiastic.
Personally, I don’t mind it now.
But nowadays record companies are more ruthless, especially in America. Rob and Tim were on the road for a full year with their band, Darker My Love. No let up. You’re that disposable. If you’re not willing to get out there, then they’ll just cross you off their roster.
I don’t need any assistance with that. I’ll do it myself, gladly.
Lofty told me he’d seen one of them at the petrol station in the small hours. Said it smelled of rank meat, of ancient eggs.
The thought sits in my gut like a broken bottle …
10. Operation Cavemen!
Hex Enduction Hour (1982) was a big fuck off to the music industry. It was probably the first time I’d got to a point where I knew I was alone with my ideas. And you can go one of two ways: either you curb your thinking, rein yourself in and buy what they’re telling you, or you follow your own path, regardless.
And so I just went for it on that album. But, I must admit, throughout parts of the recording I thought that this is it. This is the last one we’re going to do. To a certain extent I always think like that, with every album – even now. But the feeling was a lot more acute with Hex. When you’re mired in the shit of the times with bland bastards like Elvis Costello and Spandau Ballet, you start to question not only people’s tastes but their existences. You’re not going anywhere with all that shit. I wanted an album to be like reading a really good book. You have a couple of beers, sit down and immerse yourself. None of those fuckers did that. I don’t even think they attempted it. I’d rather listen to the Polish builders clanking away next door than any of that crap.
I’m still very proud of that album. It’s the one that everybody talks about, and I can see why. I went through a period when I couldn’t listen to it because I thought that I’d never be able to improve upon it. But then I stopped thinking like Costello and realized I had bills to pay and got back on the beat.
I was trying to get the group to play out of time. It’s very cyclic this; I trie
d to do the same thing with Reformation: taking musicians out of their comfort zone, getting them to think about timing in a distorted way.
It’s weird because I never sing in time. Last thing you want is a regular time. That’s the good thing about Hex – I was experimenting with speeding up on a track and slowing down. I don’t know what was in my head – but I can’t think of anybody else doing that sort of stuff. It probably works best on tracks like ‘Winter’ and ‘The Classical’; in fact that song sums up the fuck-you-very-much attitude best. It’s the only anthem in there.
We recorded parts of it in Iceland, which was a very inaccessible place at the time, totally unlike what it is now. Beer was against the law. You could only drink shit like pints of peach schnapps. I remember firing into it one day and night. I thought my legs had been stolen afterwards.
The buildings still had swastikas emblazoned across them – they were occupied by the British in the war but they didn’t want that, they wanted to be on the German side. That’s been covered up.
There was an American base there as well. The Yanks used to practise there because it was the only thing that looked like the moon. But they weren’t allowed out of the camp.
It was a great culture, actually – a real Viking culture. But since then it’s become just like anywhere else. That happens to me a lot. It’s like when you return to the house that you grew up in and it’s smaller. The studio where we recorded was fantastic – it was made out of lava. It was like a big igloo. The only people they’d ever had in there were the local poets, who did ten-hour monologues in Icelandic with traditional accompaniment.
We did two gigs, and about a third of the youth population turned up to see us. They’d never had rock groups playing there. I feel guilty for spawning The Sugarcubes and Björk.
We recorded the second half of the album in Hitchin, in an old cinema. There was a great atmosphere in there too. Old cinemas have their own feel like that.
The title had something to do with witchcraft, and ‘enduction’ I just made up. There’s a barrage of ideas going on there. But I don’t want to start raking through them. It’s a good album, simple. No need to exhume it. I’m pleased with the way Sanctuary re-issued it. They did us proud there. I know for a fact that a lot of kids have got into it as a result. What pissed me off was journalists ringing me up and telling me how brilliant it was, and how ahead of its time it was, and then saying things like, ‘Yeah, it sounds much cleaner now.’ We’re talking about the same journalists who hated it all those years ago. They think I’m so daft, or drunk, that I’ll not remember who they are.
At the time though they were all having a pop, saying it just sounds like one long drone, and it’s toneless and anti-rockist or whatever stupid phrase was buzzing around the office at that particular time.
I always thought the pure essence of rock and roll was a completely non-musical form of music. Rock and roll is surely not a ‘music’ form. I hate it when people say, ‘Oh, but the production’s so bad on it and I can’t hear the lyrics properly.’ If they want all that then they should listen to classical music or Leonard Cohen – who’s nothing but ‘poetic’. I’m not about that. Writers like that are too serious and precious about their ‘craft’ as they call it. There’s no fire or danger there, because they’ve thought all of it out.
I’m not a big music buff, but every song I hear reminds me of some other fucker, and give or take a few tracks here and there you can’t say that about The Fall. Something that is original does stand out to me, always has.
The weird thing is that cover versions that are modernized for today’s market do work; things like ‘Stuck in the Middle with You’ by Louise – that’s a good cover version. Everything else reminds me of ‘Stars on 45’ – they were a novelty act from Holland in the early 80s. They’d string all these bits of music together, like The Beatles and Madness and The Buggles. But they’d use the original backing tracks and stretch them so it’d fit in with the beat and the vocals – which is a lot like what they do nowadays. To me it’s laughable. I used to piss myself at stuff like that when I was sixteen.
Madonna, for instance – spending two million or however much sampling Abba’s ‘Gimme, Gimme, Gimme’. What’s the point? If you spent a week working at it you could whistle a tune as good as that. It’s not just her, though, they’re all bone idle. If I was her I’d fling some composer £50,000 to sit in a room for three days and come up with a tune as good as Abba – why not?
I’ve worked with people like that in Germany, sitting around sampling Can all day. And I’ll say to them – why don’t you just do something like Can now? Why don’t you just write something in tribute?
They get away with it because young kids haven’t heard it before. It’s shabby. Alvin Stardust trying to be Elvis was cool in my eyes, or Shakin’ Stevens even. I thought they were quite funny. It wasn’t deadly serious, and they sort of upheld the idea that it was their duty to go out and entertain. It was a thing in itself; not like today, where it’s more akin to dot-to-dot drawing. And, in a strange way, they did manage to come up with something new. But you couldn’t get away with that today. I always say that about The Kinks: if they tried to get signed up today nobody would have them, no big label anyway, because Dave and Ray’s guitars are out of tune and their singing is out of tune as well. And you simply can’t have that in today’s market.
That’s what I liked about Kamera. I have few good words to say about record companies, but they were very good; a world away from the limp stuffiness of Rough Trade. I’m glad I worked with them on Hex. I got the right people on that occasion.
It was an old rockers’ label. They were heavy metal fans. They’d just say to me, ‘Anything you wanna do is alright.’ All they were really bothered about was bringing out the best of Black Sabbath and Deep Purple. They wrote these blank cheques out for us. They thought we were cool because we were working class.
They’d just made a load of dosh from the Grease soundtrack album. Old-fashioned rockers – out every night in London. They were all like that Steve Coogan character, Saxondale. He got it spot on there.
They thought we were dead original. Cover? ‘Fantastic, Mark!’ And it’s just me with a felt tip. People forget that a label should support their bands. I used to chop and edit all over the place. But they were always right behind you. And they always hired the best press people – all dolly birds. They had no pretensions at all. You could have just given them a tape of Black Sabbath and they wouldn’t have known the difference.
Sadly, they all went insane with Roger Chapman from Family in East Germany. You’re talking the Ozzy Osbourne lifestyle here: bake-heads.
I liked those blokes. They’re not a bad bunch, the heavy metal lot. They keep themselves to themselves, and enjoy their music. Those old acid-head bikers were like that.
I was very unfamiliar with London at the time, and the bloke who owned the label was always trying to get me out for a drink. A real old-school fucker – he was a good laugh. He took me to Stringfellows. It was great. I was at the bar. There’s all these birds walking past us. And George Best is stood next to me. This bloke from the label came and introduced us. Bestie asked me where I was from and what I was doing there. He had about six dolly birds with him and when we were talking he said to them, ‘Can you just leave me alone for a bit, I’m just talking to a friend of mine from Manchester.’ I thought that was very nice of him.
I told him about being a Blue and how I used to go and watch him with my dad. People did that in those days – one week City; the next week United.
He gave me a lot of good advice really. He said to me, ‘Why should I play to 50,000 people a week and get paid fuck all for it? Just get kicked to death.’
I remember seeing him just standing there for eighty minutes on this shabby pitch, holding his sleeves. United were basically playing without him. But then in the last ten minutes he got the ball, dribbled all over the place and scored the equalizer, and just walked off on his own. Nobo
dy even patted him on the back. It’s all very well those United players saying how they all liked George. You could see the reality then – they just totally ignored him. They weren’t playing with him. He was a different school of football. And I told him that, and he said, ‘You’re quite right.’ It wasn’t the drink talking. ‘Stick with your game – it’s better for you because you’ve got some control over it,’ he told me. It was nice that he took time out for a complete stranger. I can’t see Rooney or Lampard doing the same nowadays.
Then I ran into him four or five years later on this programme hosted by Suggs. And he remembered me, strangely enough; he must have been that type of guy. We were on this show, some pilot show, and Suggs is interviewing him, saying, ‘You’ve come off the booze now you’ve had this implant?’
And he’s going, ‘Yes, yes, I have,’ winking at me.
Suggs says, ‘Now we’re having a commercial break and when we come back we’ll be talking to George about how he’s beaten his alcoholism.’
I said to Best, ‘That’s a bit fucking much – “How George has beaten his alcoholism”!’
So we’re taking the piss out of Suggs, and Best says, ‘Never mind, Mark,’ and from behind the couch he pulls out two bottles of champagne. Suggs is gutted at this, as we’re drinking away waiting for the adverts to finish.
End of commercial. ‘And now George will talk about how he’s beaten the bottle.’
Great bloke, Bestie …
I reckon he would have loved it when the Liverpool fans started chanting ‘Alky’ throughout his one-minute silence at City. That’s proper football.
It was a good earner for him, going on programmes and talking about his problems, just the way celebrities do now. I guess he was one of the first to do that. He said to me he earned more from doing all that shit than he did playing football and living in a goldfish bowl.
I understand it. I don’t agree with it, but I do understand. Why should he go along and get people spitting at him? People attacking him in the street. Every full back wanted to break his legs. Then he’d come off and get an earful from Bobby Charlton and that piss-head Tommy Docherty. What did they know?
Renegade: The Lives and Tales of Mark E. Smith Page 10
