London The Venue

THE PREVIOUS night I had awoken from troubled slumbers drenched in a cold sweat, from a nightmare featuring The Fall at the Venue.

A 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.

In wide 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.

So where 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.

To continue reading this article and to discover many more (over 140,000 words-worth!), purchase Mick Sinclair’s Adjusting the Stars: Music journalism from post-punk London.