The Fall’s legendary frontman and acerbic wordsmith Mark E Smith has died at the age of 60.
In ill health for several months he battled on to the end. May his guttural cackle liveth for ever more.
Endless albums documented the post punk decades with barbed brilliance and sulphuric wit. Confusion and clarity in a world scrubbed too clean. Danger- uh!
I loved the intoxicating noise.
I loved the bass grind.
I loved the fact that they were never your showbiz chums. Remote and awkward. Nice people make boring music.
Yet they were stubbornly loyal to an idea. The white crap that answered back. Ghosts from a rusting last who always felt like the future.
And always a great pop band. With cockroach songs that will last forever.
Smith didn’t shout. He sang. He had a beautiful voice- uh!
I’ve been bitten by Smith, looked after by a perfect host as a support band, slagged off by him, sometimes complimented in an obtuse way but that shit matters little. I’ve seen the band play way over 100 times even a few months ago and have all the albums. A fan.
A taxi for mr. Nelson!