If anybody says to me I’ve got a problem with the drink, I tell them I do have a problem – like where to get it after eleven o’clock.
I’ve stopped drinking anyway – stopped half an hour ago.
I find it quite telling that the likes of Bestie and Alex Higgins were castigated in the way they were. The English are jealous of mavericks. You only have to look at Maradona. He’s a national hero in Argentina, but not in a sentimental way, like with Bestie – always harking back to what he once was. They love him as he is now, today.
What do people mean by ‘lifestyle’ anyway? It’s a ridiculous phrase. Half of them can’t even look at themselves in the mirror in the morning, and they haven’t an inch of the talent those fellows had.
I remember meeting Alex Higgins at Maine Road in the mid 80s – he used to practise up the road from me at Riley’s snooker hall. I think he still does now and again. Apparently it’s very nice there.
It was a David Bowie concert – the Spider Tour or something, boring as fuck. Tears for Fears were there – I was sat behind them.
Higgins said to me in the bar, ‘I’ll talk to you later – I’m going to go and see how the match is going on. Very nice to meet you.’
Thinking it’s match day!
He walks out of the room and there’s all these VIPs there and Tears for Fears are sat on the end, and he clocks into them, fucking falls into the little curly-haired one as ‘Space Oddity’ is playing. And he carries on falling down the stairs, fell flat on his stomach. I thought it was hilarious.
I like the snooker guys. Higgins and Jimmy White pissed all over the football lot. They were proper sporting heroes in the 70s and 80s; and they were plastered most of the time away from the table.
It’s funny how the BBC never shows highlights of Higgins any more. Elena and I are snooker fans, and you hardly ever see footage of him. He refused to keep his trap shut and he was a wild-card, but without him snooker wouldn’t be what it is today. He broke the door down and the rest just cleaned up after him. It’s a disgrace. I like that quote from Jeffrey Bernard about Jimmy White – ‘He looks like a man who has seen trouble.’ You can’t say that about lads nowadays; about Beckham and Lampard. They look like they’ve just got ready for bed after polishing off their mam’s supper on a Sunday night.
Once we’d nailed Hex and returned from that tour of Australia and New Zealand we went back to the eighth wonder of the world – Rochdale – to record Room to Live (1982).
It’s a very underrated album, if you ask me. I think it has one of the best album covers. Good picture of us on the front with a dog. I think that was the same dog that wolfed Karl’s passport. Actually, I’m not such a big fan of dogs. I prefer cats.
There’s a good mate of mine who drinks around Prestwich. He’ll be out every day, unlike me. We used to hang around together in the late 70s/early 80s; getting pissed and stoned and whathavya. He’s a lovely bloke. He goes everywhere with his dog. He can only drink in certain pubs, because of his dog. He’s a bit of a pub philosopher; the sort who always has a question or an answer for you. He’s a good talker, but unlike most pub philosophers he knows what he’s going on about. You don’t need to look far for your lyrics when you’ve got characters like that in your local.
People have a funny relationship with their dogs. Blokes in the 80s used to buy them because they were soft cunts and wanted to look hard – you’d see them prancing around with these slavering beasts, these sharks on leads. It seems to be on its way back, all that shit. There’s no real need to have something like that around the house, is there? It’s a bit disturbing. Cats are much brighter. I used to have quite a few of them around that whole Room to Live period.
I was living near Heaton Park. The Pope came to visit the park in 1982; that’s where the song ‘Papal Visit’ on Room to Live originated from.
I was in the top flat for a couple of weeks before I moved on. I could see all these Jesuits in the gardens below, rooting through the trees for bombs and things. But the best part was when this Loyalist from Belfast ran at the Pope with this big butcher’s knife. All these bishops and cardinals struggled him to the ground. He’d come flying out of The Ostrich pub, just over the road from the park. He was pissed out of his head, draped in a flag – I think he’d just swiped a rugby flag off the wall – Sedgley Park rugby!
It’s a big Catholic area, Prestwich. The last thing they wanted to see was this Geoff Capes type with a load of lager in his gut and a kitchen sword in his hand. It was a very sensitive period. What with the Falklands and job shortages … I said at the time that people need stimulation more than ever when things are that fucked up. You can’t buckle when it gets rocky like that.
But I wasn’t in the minority when I stuck up for the army in the Falklands; not in the pubs, anyway. The music industry and the press just saw it as another ‘Narky Mark’ stance. They had no pride, that was the bottom line. They were only socialists when it suited them. They were like your classic Christian: cunt all week and then a saint on Sunday. I was more of an active socialist than all of them put together. And that goes for the people who I drank with as well.
Weekend socialists, that’s what they were. You’d never get them hiring people from outside of London; or if you did it was in a similar vein to that Lenny Bruce joke about the token black man at the party. They didn’t have to worry about paying wages to a bunch of lads who hadn’t a penny to steal. For all my so-called badness I always make sure the group get their dough.
I can’t abide all that forced liberalism. In a strange way they’re like fascists: walled off in their own little groups, not listening to people if they’re slightly right-wing. How closeted is that?
I hope this book turns out like Mein Kampf for the Hollyoaks generation.
I think Kay’s part around this period has been overlooked. She was like a financial wizard. Totally on the ball. She wouldn’t take any shit. She was up on all the shenanigans.
The whole ethos of the music business is built on outside manipulation. It’s borderline criminal. If you don’t keep your eye on this, that and the other you find yourself in a terribly murky place. You need people behind you, like a platoon. That’s what a lot of people don’t understand. That’s where a lot of the arguments begin. Too many of them couldn’t get their heads around this. We don’t operate like most everybody else. I’m not your standard front man. My job’s not finished when I walk off the stage, or finish a vocal recording.
Kay was the first one to realize that something was amiss at Kamera; that things weren’t tallying up as they should. She had it right as well, as they went bust soon after. I was a bit gutted about that. They had the right idea there.
All this meant that we had to fuck off back to Rough Trade, which I was very unhappy about. It felt like going back to a job that you’d confidently walked out of six months ago, telling everybody about the lucrative future that lay in wait; only to find yourself back there six months later, looking like a prize pillock. Not that I felt like a prize pillock … Sometimes you’ve got to bite the bullet in these situations. It’s all experience.
The main beef I had with Rough Trade was that I’ve never been able to relate to that indie attitude. It’s not in my nature to embrace mediocrity, or defeat even – to be content with a record deal. There’s a lot to be said for one, I’m not knocking that, but if you’re good enough you can get a deal anywhere. The point is to take it further, and not solely in a monetary sense.
It’s too easy and safe to follow on from where you left off, to listen to the sycophants and the detractors. They’re there for a reason. It’s the same everywhere. People are beaten down by bogus wisdom every day, bogus notions of management. You only have to look at those two violent Fagins – George Bush and Tony Blair – to see that. This all came about in the mid 90s, when everybody revolted and became their own boss; setting up all these shitty businesses and treating their staff worse than a so-called proper boss.
But I know that only
a handful of people can truly tell me something worthwhile, and that’ll do me.
I see where they’re coming from when they’re advising me to go solo or to sit down and just write. Because it’s a job in itself keeping your eye on new knives in your back, on vendettas and vampires from the past. It’s a carnival of wolves out there. I know the people telling me this are looking out for me. And I do appreciate it – more than they think, probably. But they’re missing the point.
In a way, I don’t have a choice. I’ve hung on in there this long, so why fuck off now? That’s all part of who The Fall are anyway: the persistent effort that goes into it, the coping, the getting by, and the times when the group’s tiptop and you go and have a drink. It’s all as one.
Voices 3
All he does is barge in barking orders after he’s had a few. He’s a total fraud … He’s not a particularly nice man … We were all fucked up on that tour … He has a lot of different sides, you see. I’m not with him as another hanger-on. He’s helped us out loads of times. He took us on tour when no other fuckers gave a fuck about us … I can hear them again. Word salads. I’m this, this and this … The dogs leap with their tongues. And then back down on thin legs … I come back to a TV unwatched … They’re a grind to be around. But someone must become the bloodhound … Frontiers. Reparations. Guilt … Going to the grave with all those unlived lives inside of them … Asexual desert heads … Still ’80. Still wanting it as it was then. Fixed … There’s only so much you can look at yourself. Before simple insanity … The retarded consistency of their nagging … Journalist thief stick. Fat for cash. More dough than his subjects … It does you good a bit of food; keeps you going. Through the lowlights of the day … He went for him. Tried to strangle … First time I met him he walked up to the van and said you’re the psychedelic drummer I’ve been hearing about, then, eh … And walked back inside. He does a lot more good than people say, though. He knew I was down. He just got on the phone and said I need that kit behind me again. I’ll always appreciate that … The burden of disappearance. Escape in water. Walking sick … CCTV knows more than most … This cough seems to be telling me to stop smoking … Failed to acknowledge the crowd. Angry crowd. Crowd unhappy at being ignored … I couldn’t be arsed hanging around. I thought they were supposed to be on at 10.00. It’s not the first time. It’s not asking much. All he has to do is lay off the pop for an afternoon. He’s fucking it up … I’m falling asleep in a big car and it’s not fucking England … I’m awake in a big car and it’s not fucking England … Body fogged in cruel uncertainty. In the space of a day suddenly you know nothing … He was nobody. He was a tumbleweed … I’m back in the pub. Whistling. He’s waiting for me again; dictaphone at the ready. Pedantic fucker … At least it’s flowing better this time. I’ll wing him some dust. I’ll wing him and watch. I’ll sit whiskyed. Make light of his heavy questions … Perhaps it’s me, but I am still drunk. I’m writing this just after the gig. The traffic was really bad. I wish they’d play all the tunes that I like. That beer we had was good, wasn’t it, Totale? I’ve watched them now for nigh on thirty-nine years and never have I encountered such a … Is it me or is Rob’s head the next to roll … I hope so. There’s no place for beards in The … This is the worst line-up since … And why has he asked for the forum to be closed down … What happened to freedom of speech? I can’t believe he’s asked for the forum to be closed down. Just because he’s not that way inclined … Bus station café stares. On my wedding day as well … The young obese. I’m hearing about you all the time. Hungry kids are new. I never saw them when I was a kid. The young obese. I’m hearing about you all the time … Back on the Whyte and Mackay. Only tonight. I’ll share it with him. He’s not a bad lad … There’s too many books. I’m now another … Lord of the urban jungle … I’d rather watch traffic signs than The Fall … Surly … Curmudgeonly … I train-surfed myself once. Heard Knut Hamsun had done likewise. It cleared his cough. Up there on top of the train. The wind. That’ll see to your cold. I got up there myself. Felt great. Not like the spare cunt who set on fire … Prestwich Clough. Rafters … A 70s Manchester. Then 80s. And 90s. And a now that isn’t quite so … ‘Identity cards. But nobody’s got a fucking identity. They’re all Robbie Williams-ites and Graham Nortons.’ ’97 humour. Ideas of fun border on retarded … And you’re on a plane with people you know are out for what they can get … But still you pump on. Past the darkling. It’s my job to find out what lies at the end of the night … More brown bills unpaid … Plague-irists … Guess-timates … I miss my dead mates. I see only trawl ends. And coarse grass … Meet you in The Forresters … ‘If it gets any livelier in here it’ll break out into a funeral.’ Diamond takes preference over Stella. Rare … ‘Bird in the Hand’. I don’t understand the rules of Killer. Pool-keen blokes making it up. Delaying night and the wife … I’m somewhere in England. I’ve seen a lifetime of pylons. Duped by faulty car clocks. Road maps … I’ll open a can. Pass them round … In chaotic times all clichés are true. And Kung Po King Prawn … Nick Cave appeals to surly virgins. Always corduroy … Disconnected. All they have in common is food. Talk of last night’s food. Bland porn. Black trees. Keep left where possible except when you are overtaking … Driving when you are tired greatly increases your accident risk … our … accident … risk … Skinny … Brittle … Rhythms … Blackburn night … Tomorrow Wigan …
11. The Wife
Women are more in tune with rhythms than men. It’s very hard being in an all-male group. They don’t get anything I say to them. The tunes in my head don’t go past three chords. But men can’t get it. There’s something in their brain that’s out of touch with this idea. I always feel alienated from men musically, whereas women can transform my ideas into reality a lot more accurately.
The Slits were great at knocking out stuff like that, until they turned reggae. But with a lot of groups who have female members it’s just the ‘icing on the cake’, so to speak. Eye candy. Get a female bass player – that’d be good! It’s amazing how sexist these so-called liberal newspapers are, too – ‘So that’s why you’ve got so and so in the band.’ No, it’s because she can play the fucking flute, you idiot! Or because she can sing better than some daft bastard from Manchester who sounds like a coalminer shouting down a pit. That’s why they’re in the group.
But it’s incorrect to say that Brix smoothed the rough edges off the band. People only said that because of the way she looked.
It wasn’t my idea to rope her into the band. I didn’t really want my wife in the band. But she came on tour with us and as we needed a guitarist she ended up in the band. There’s a lot of shit that needs clearing up about that whole period. For a start, I don’t know where the idea originated from that we were rolling in it. We might have had a little more dough than usual, after the relative success – if you can call it that – of ‘Victoria’ and ‘There’s a Ghost in My House’, but I’ve never been rolling in it. It’s all been distorted. What with that and the idea that Brix glammed us up – that was actually my idea. It’s an old Salford thing – if you’re skint, don’t let them know you are. That’s what that period was about. It wasn’t as if we were having monthly number ones, playing Wembley and all that.
I’ve always tried to dress smart. It’s important. There’s no need to look like a demick, you don’t have to. Primark sells some alright stuff at a fair price. Go and shop there; you don’t want to be walking around like an urban scarecrow. Nobody takes a scruff seriously, that’s one thing I’ve learned. It’s all fine dressing in this anti-fashion style if you’re on the piss in Camden Town, but imagine doing business with a berk dressed like a vagrant … It just doesn’t work.
I remember my jumper being a big thing all of a sudden. The NME ran a story about my Armani jumper, and how Brix had altered the appearance of the once purposefully unimmaculate loudmouth. What a joke! They started losing it then, the NME. Started revelling in tittle-tattle. It’s come full circle now because they influenced
the celebrity mags and now they’re aping the celeb mags themselves.
I don’t have anything to do with her any more. I hear secondhand that there’s an interview with her somewhere and she’s always Brix Smith – even though we’re no longer married.
What amazes me is what interests the journalists about this. About her boutique or her new line in fashion or whatever it is that month – ‘Brix, who used to be married to so-and-so, ex-guitarist of The Fall …’ What’s that got to do with her new range of trilbys? It’s a curious world when this sort of thing is read with interest.
I’ve always believed very strongly in marriage. There’s nothing worse than living with a woman if you’re not married – from my experience, anyway. Because they’re never sure what’s going on. I’m conservative with a small ‘c’ in these matters. For a start, you don’t get fucked over as much – you can say, ‘That’s my wife,’ and blokes will leave her alone. And she feels alright too. All the time I’ve lived with women it’s been a case of, ‘I’m going to do this …’ and I’ll say, ‘Well, I’m going to do that.’ And nobody knows where they are. It’s alright if you’re single and fancy-free and you just have a bird in for a couple of days. I’ve done all that shit. I just don’t think it’s fair on the woman.
I don’t judge people by their looks. You’d never meet anybody if you did – that’s my philosophy. What’s the point of only hanging around with people that look like you? Nobody looks like me, anyway. They’re all the same actually – all different but the same: hippies and Goths and all the others.
It’s intelligence with me. It’s not physical. None of that ‘opposites attract’ shit, either. I think you can waste a lot of time believing tosh like that. I think I’m quite unusual in this respect. It doesn’t turn me on at all, that page three sort of shit. Never did as a kid, even. I don’t understand it. All that voyeurism is beyond me. It gets to a point where people are sustaining themselves on a shallow diet of cheap pleasures. There’s no longevity in it. After a time it dies down, and then they go out looking for the next kick. It’s all a bit soulless.
Renegade: The Lives and Tales of Mark E. Smith Page 11
