THE PREVIOUS night I had
awoken from troubled slumbers drenched in
a cold sweat, from a nightmare featuring
The Fall at the Venue.
procession of Mark E Smith clones lined
the bar in a queue for cocktails. Manager
Key Carroll reserved tables for
specially-invited record business
dignitaries, not allowing the band on
until all these Very Important People had
been fed. The Fall declare forget
the past, we're going for the Ants
market. A drum duo was completed
with the return of Karl Burns, MES well
into practice for the acquisition of sea
going garb, one hand always hidden,
Nelson style. somewhere in his jacket.
awake reality it makes as much sense for
the Fall to play the Venue as it does for
them to appear at, say. some university
campus, the unwholesome reek of academia
being just as nauseous as the body odours
of full time freeloaders. The Fall never
seem at home anywhere.
do they belong? Not in the working men's
clubs that Smith seems obsessed with, as
they're far too real and potent. Tonight
they content themselves with being
introduced by a ropey looking drag
artiste, although some members of the
audience think it is Smith himself
executing a jolly jape.
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