Hey Hey Hey Hey…
"These are the days of the dangerous rays
These are the days that matter"
-- John Cooper Clarke
Right. But there is little chance of any dangerous rays today. Not on a winter's morning on the slide towards Christmas. But the sunrise was magnificent; an ominous and expansive explosion of gloomy yellow and shocking pink. At the other side of the sky a rainbow sat and watched with a vague sense of redundancy. It occurred to me as I headed to the shops that if you saw pictures or films of the scene before me, you would at once yearn to be there, to bask in the atmosphere and feel strange thoughts of romance and lament.
Balls. It was freezing, and half an hour later it began to rain. I felt more than a little weird. The sounds of the street were coming to my ears filtered through a fog of yesterday's Fall gig. Hmm…I hadn't been to see any live music since The Orb back in May, so I wasn't prepared for the sheer volume last night…now even the sound of my keyboard is piercing and unwordly, and from another office a weird recital of Slade's famous Christmas hit sounds like a banshee being tortured in some far-off dimension. (Although I suspect that may be just Ian's singing)
We got to the Boardwalk last night minutes before John Cooper Clarke began his support slot. I headed for the bar and cursed…I realised that I had no money. Shit. This was bad…all around me the crowd of ageing men and nervous students were losing themselves in a blizzard of beer, fags and joints. Their path was righteous and I needed to follow them.
"You're buying," I said to my companion, who shrugged.
"What the hell?" he said. "It's nearly Christmas, and we're about to see The Fall. Why argue about money?"
Well…maybe. His actual words may have involved more swearing and less festive cheer, but let us not concern ourselves with detail.
We muscled our way to somewhere near the front as John Cooper Clarke came on, his black hair bursting out in every direction and his red glasses hiding mischievous eyes. Wild applause and strange anticipation. He grabbed the mike with one hand and his fags in the other.
"What's you name?" he said.
"Jack," said the man in the audience.
"Hi Jack. Got any crack?"
And he was off. The crowd were receptive and in great humour as he rattled through a relaxed and wry mixture of punk poetry, FHM-style jokes and half-crazed observations – he spent five minutes on one riff about why a shop called Friar Tuck's World of Miniatures could have possibly gone out of business. It was crazy and twisted and made everyone stupidly happy.
"John! Write a poem about Mark E Smith!" somebody shouted near the end.
"Don't be stupid. I want to live! I have a rule…never write poems about people you see on a regular basis…"
He finished with a haiku and came back for an encore before leaving the way for the mighty Fall. I exchanged glances with my companion and we began to lay bets on how late they would come on. At the time it was before ten.
"Okay… I suspect it'll end up being at least half past, but I'm in a confident mood and I'll lay money on quarter past."
"What money?"
"Oh, balls."
On the stroke of half past they came on. The current line-up is very strong and confident with the material, and this year Mark E Smith was in apparent good humour. Much of the time he stood imperiously at the front and surveyed the crowd with an austere eye as he played with the microphones. It was a breathless performance with no time to rest up…he never once broke stride, even when he was casting bad mikes to the floor, kicking mike stands across the stage or pissing about with the levels somewhere out of view. Damn it, he even cracked a smile during Mr. Pharmacist.
Hmm..I am terrible with song titles…I recognised almost all the songs last night but I only know a few of the titles. So I can't relate any kind of set list, or even the information as to who the hell it was who joined Mark on vocals singing "Open the box!" during Boxoctosis. But to hell with it…the night was an explosion and I don't need to get into the details of how the dynamite was laid.
Last year at the Boardwalk Mark dragged the band off stage after two minutes for reasons we could only speculate on ("He doesn't like people staring at him…", "The levels are wrong", "He's a grumpy fucker" etc etc), and once back on he stalked the stage and stared at the wall and crouched out of site, barely noticing the crowd of adoring bastards pogoing, waving lighters and closing their eyes in reverie. But here's the thing…the music was still fantasic. The band was as strong as this year and Mark's snarled vocals seem entirely unaffected by his mood.
But was something special about this year, with Mark in fine form and willing to face his audience with a swagger and a growl. He's a man who has felt the fire and refuses to give up or give ground…and when he comes back next year, hopefully with a handful of new songs, I know that I will be there.
These are the days that matter"
-- John Cooper Clarke
Right. But there is little chance of any dangerous rays today. Not on a winter's morning on the slide towards Christmas. But the sunrise was magnificent; an ominous and expansive explosion of gloomy yellow and shocking pink. At the other side of the sky a rainbow sat and watched with a vague sense of redundancy. It occurred to me as I headed to the shops that if you saw pictures or films of the scene before me, you would at once yearn to be there, to bask in the atmosphere and feel strange thoughts of romance and lament.
Balls. It was freezing, and half an hour later it began to rain. I felt more than a little weird. The sounds of the street were coming to my ears filtered through a fog of yesterday's Fall gig. Hmm…I hadn't been to see any live music since The Orb back in May, so I wasn't prepared for the sheer volume last night…now even the sound of my keyboard is piercing and unwordly, and from another office a weird recital of Slade's famous Christmas hit sounds like a banshee being tortured in some far-off dimension. (Although I suspect that may be just Ian's singing)
We got to the Boardwalk last night minutes before John Cooper Clarke began his support slot. I headed for the bar and cursed…I realised that I had no money. Shit. This was bad…all around me the crowd of ageing men and nervous students were losing themselves in a blizzard of beer, fags and joints. Their path was righteous and I needed to follow them.
"You're buying," I said to my companion, who shrugged.
"What the hell?" he said. "It's nearly Christmas, and we're about to see The Fall. Why argue about money?"
Well…maybe. His actual words may have involved more swearing and less festive cheer, but let us not concern ourselves with detail.
We muscled our way to somewhere near the front as John Cooper Clarke came on, his black hair bursting out in every direction and his red glasses hiding mischievous eyes. Wild applause and strange anticipation. He grabbed the mike with one hand and his fags in the other.
"What's you name?" he said.
"Jack," said the man in the audience.
"Hi Jack. Got any crack?"
And he was off. The crowd were receptive and in great humour as he rattled through a relaxed and wry mixture of punk poetry, FHM-style jokes and half-crazed observations – he spent five minutes on one riff about why a shop called Friar Tuck's World of Miniatures could have possibly gone out of business. It was crazy and twisted and made everyone stupidly happy.
"John! Write a poem about Mark E Smith!" somebody shouted near the end.
"Don't be stupid. I want to live! I have a rule…never write poems about people you see on a regular basis…"
He finished with a haiku and came back for an encore before leaving the way for the mighty Fall. I exchanged glances with my companion and we began to lay bets on how late they would come on. At the time it was before ten.
"Okay… I suspect it'll end up being at least half past, but I'm in a confident mood and I'll lay money on quarter past."
"What money?"
"Oh, balls."
On the stroke of half past they came on. The current line-up is very strong and confident with the material, and this year Mark E Smith was in apparent good humour. Much of the time he stood imperiously at the front and surveyed the crowd with an austere eye as he played with the microphones. It was a breathless performance with no time to rest up…he never once broke stride, even when he was casting bad mikes to the floor, kicking mike stands across the stage or pissing about with the levels somewhere out of view. Damn it, he even cracked a smile during Mr. Pharmacist.
Hmm..I am terrible with song titles…I recognised almost all the songs last night but I only know a few of the titles. So I can't relate any kind of set list, or even the information as to who the hell it was who joined Mark on vocals singing "Open the box!" during Boxoctosis. But to hell with it…the night was an explosion and I don't need to get into the details of how the dynamite was laid.
Last year at the Boardwalk Mark dragged the band off stage after two minutes for reasons we could only speculate on ("He doesn't like people staring at him…", "The levels are wrong", "He's a grumpy fucker" etc etc), and once back on he stalked the stage and stared at the wall and crouched out of site, barely noticing the crowd of adoring bastards pogoing, waving lighters and closing their eyes in reverie. But here's the thing…the music was still fantasic. The band was as strong as this year and Mark's snarled vocals seem entirely unaffected by his mood.
But was something special about this year, with Mark in fine form and willing to face his audience with a swagger and a growl. He's a man who has felt the fire and refuses to give up or give ground…and when he comes back next year, hopefully with a handful of new songs, I know that I will be there.
posted by Jamie at 10:16 AM
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