The Fall at Glastonbury- an extract from "Feels Like Going Home"

with Glastonbury 2016 just around the corner, here's an extract from "Feels Like Going Home" about the Fall's performance of 2015...

At precisely 7.30 p.m. some sort of synthy sound blasted over the P.A. and The Fall trooped onto the stage.

“We are The Fall, from the long, long days. Not used to the countryside, they’re half asleep…group. They’re so happy to be here……in Salford of Manchester. They think they’re in such a great place.”

This was Mark E Smith, looking like Ken Barlow’s older/younger pisshead brother, dressed in what can only be described as a pair of slacks, a blazer, a fetching sky blue jumper and a white shirt. Littlewoods catalogue circa anytime between 1965 and 2015. Not sure if there actually still is anything like a Littlewoods catalogue anymore. I know this isn’t a book about fashion although some description at this point doesn’t probably go amiss.

I had no idea what Mark E. Smith was going on about. Not a clue. But it was good to see them back on stage again after all those missing years. It was strange as it was the first time that I’d seen them in the day time and outdoors instead of some ungodly hour in a (back then) tatty smoke-filled club.

Mark E Smith hadn’t lost any of his customary charm with the technical crew. He waved an arm in the direction of the missing desk.

“Thanks for turning the monitors down. On the desk. Cunt.”

Now that was certainly something that would not be broadcast by the BBC.

“Here we go,” he shouted into two microphones he was holding and they launched into “My Door Is Always Open” from the “Post Reformation TLC.” It was a great start, all driving drums and chopping and twanging guitars. Sometimes you know when you’re about to see a brilliant show, right from the very first note, something instinctively tells you it’s going to be good. This doesn’t just apply to The Fall of course. You know it when you‘ve listened to too much music and been to too many gigs.

Although Smith messed around with two microphones throughout the first song, he kept the knob twiddling to a minimum, only wandering over once to an amp and half-heartedly messing around with the settings. This was a good thing because I’ve seen Fall gigs where he’s been getting close to whipping a soldering iron out his jacket and rewiring stuff half way through a song and I believe that tendency has not diminished at all in the last few years.

There was a lot of jumping around from what was by now quite a large crowd. A large crowd comprised of what might be termed indie folks. Not indie kids but indie folks. There was a smattering of people about my age and indeed most of the crowd looked like they were well over 30, if not a lot older. A lot of long-term Fall fans forged from the white heat of 1980 and post-punk. A veritable Saga gig. Not the Canadian prog rock outfit, but the well known insurance/cruise/holiday specialists catering exclusively for the over-50’s. It wasn’t all bald old men however because there were enough kids in their early twenties to drag the average age of the crowd down to about 45. These kids were the ones who were by and large doing most of the leaping around in front of the stage. Well, you can’t really expect all us old Fall fans to be doing that sort of thing, can you? Dodgy knees and bad hips are a bit of dampener on moshing. Nodding heads is as good as it gets. I noticed a few cans getting thrown through the air. Only a few mind. A bit of a token gesture and one that took my back to the halcyon days of 1978 when you’d spent a lot of your time at gigs ducking nervously as cans of Skol would be flying hither and thither. I turned around and peered towards the back of the field. While there were a few folks wandering around on the periphery, it seemed almost as full as it had been for Spiritualized the evening before.

The Fall had recently released a new album, but you could say that at any time as they’ve done that every year for the past 35 years or so. And like a lot of Fall albums, it was critically praised as “a return to form.” For me that kinds of begs the question as to how can it always be a return to form? Every time? It’s a bit of a contradiction really. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no form to return to in respect of The Fall. Anyway, this set at Glasto was their opportunity to flog the “Sub-Lingual Tablet” album to a whole new audience, not just at the Park Stage, but across the net on the BBC and on the TV. I wasn’t wearing those rose-tinted glasses that blinded me to the fact that commercial considerations would surely enter Mark E Smith’s mind somewhere along the way.

It didn’t matter to me though. The new album, whether it was a return to form or not, was a cracker and after the first song they played three songs from it; “Venice with the Girls”, Dedication Not Medication” and “First One Today”, all rattlingly good tunes (in a Fall way), and one that kept the set bouncing along at a good old pace. Smith gurned, grimaced and indeed, grinned his way through them all and the band, while for me, not hitting the heights of the Fall in the early 1980’s, were tight and solid. At least they took his limited on stage mixing with good grace. There is always for me something that sets The Fall apart from all other bands, some sort of Northern taut mysticism that‘s impossible to define or indeed quantify, but it’s always there. The essence of The Fall. Fall-ness.  

Halfway through the set and at the end of “Junger Cloth” (another new song), Smith grabbed the guitar neck of the lead guitarist and shouted down his microphone, “Dropout, dropout. Go, on you can do it. Go on! Droput!”

For a second I again hadn’t a clue what he was on about. More alcohol induced ramblings? But as the band looked at each other somewhat quizzically before the drummer kicked things off, it dawned on me that they had launched into Captain Beefheart’s “Dropout Boogie.” The Fall covering Beefheart at Glasto? Could it get any better than this? And it wasn’t even raining! The sun was out! I couldn’t stop grinning to myself!

It was a sublime, growly version of it as well and hit the mark perfectly. As it came to a crashing end a stray thought came to my mind. How much would have John Peel loved to have seen and heard it? 

A great moment tinged with a certain amount of sadness.

There wasn’t much time for an overt displays of sentimentality because they rounded off the just under an hour long set with the classic “Sparta F.C.” ( a cue for what had become a quite large crowd to go collectively bonkers) and finished off with “Auto Chip 2014-2016” (the best song from the new album and surely a future classic as well.) During the latter Smith wandered backstage with microphone in hand for a good few minutes, something that might have surprised anyone who was new to The Fall, but something which was pretty much expected for seasoned Fall watchers.

But after 54 minutes it was all done. A full set by The Fall at Glastonbury. Something I didn’t think I’d ever see. The fact that it didn’t end early or that it actually started at all was a bonus. As for the rest, all I can say is that I’m certainly not going to leave it another 15 years before I see them play live again. For purely rational reasons mainly. I’d be 68 and Mark E Smith, if he was still alive, and that is a moot point, would be in his early seventies.

In passing, I do have a sneaking suspicion that Smith plays the pisshead that can’t be stopped, the man with the bionic liver card a bit too much. I have no basis for this save that being an intelligent and quite savvy chap it’s to his advantage he gives out the impression of being an old soak and therefore somehow more or different than just a talented wordsmith with a knack for being ahead of the curve. It seems like his art comes naturally to him, it’s something natural and unforced whereas in reality, I think he works very hard at it. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Yet this is just a theory and I’ve nothing to back it up at all. Speculation and nothing more.

"Feels Like Going Home" - the fourth Glastonbury book is available here both in Kindle or paperback formats..

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Feels-Like-Going-Home-Glastonbury-ebook/dp/B018J1PAMY 
  

Womble 4-new extract! The problems of being a music fan...

So, for the 50th post on the blog, here's a rough and ready, unedited and unpolished extract from the forthcoming Glasto book.

It's the Friday morning of Glasto 2015. I've just polished off some breakfast and and wondering about the nature of music and fandom... 

And that got me to thinking as I sat and had my belated breakfast. I was heading off to watch Courtney Barnett play the Pyramid in a couple of hours and I was really looking forward to it. Whether she’d played a blindingly good set or would be overawed by the whole thing and crumble a bit seemed irrelevant. It didn’t matter to me. Seeing Courtney Barnett at Glastonbury was going to be one of the highlights come what may. I’d paid just over £200 for my Glasto ticket; I’d be seeing Courtney Barnett twice and The Fall once. Just for those three sets alone £200 was money well spent. I was more than simply looking forward to watching Courtney Barnett. I had to admit that I was positively excited by the prospect. This was more than a bit unnerving. So unnerving that I found myself questioning the entire idea of feeling this way about music. It’s something that since that moment I have been unable to fully figure out with any significant success.

This is the thing.

You can tell that I’m still wrestling with this because my ideas are half-formed and not totally worked through, and while this might not seem like much to do with Glastonbury, maybe it’s got everything to do with Glastonbury.

It’s all down to music. 

This is the thing that’s still kind of baffling me. Like many people my age (early fifties), I guess that music has played such an important part of my life that it would be hard to imagine not having music. It always seems to be there. There’s been barely a single day when I’ve not listened to music since I was 10 or 11 years old. In fact I can’t think of a day when I’ve not listened to music. There’s been music when I was at school in the 1970’s (70’s pop/glam rock/ prog/ rock/ punk/soul), at college in the 1980’s (post punk/industrial/blues), when I was married and we first had the kids in the 1990’s (dub/indie/noise) and thereafter to date, well, anything else I can listen to. I’ve gone through  listening to daytime Radio 1, to the still massively missed John Peel, to On the Wire on Radio Lancashire (a great show by the way), Radio 4, Radio 3, Radio 6  and any number of radio programmes from around the world on the net. You think of it; I’ll listen to it. I’ll get the records, listen to the radio, hear it on the net, download it. Thousands of CDs, mp3s, records and tapes. Hundreds of gigs. Music in any way, shape or form. I think the only blind spots I have are folk music and opera, but God knows I’ve tried (and failed miserably) to get into those genres. Anything else is fair game though. Classical, jazz, electronic, hip-hop, grime; there’s not much left.

I sometimes worry that there’s not enough time left to listen to all the music that I want to hear; that I’m flitting from one genre to another, hardly scratching the surface. And yet...

And there’s always new music to hear. Always something new just around the corner. This is what keeps me going. Searching endlessly for that great new sound. And when you just think that it might all be getting a bit boring, well, something incredible pops up that blows your socks off and makes you realise that this is what it’s all about. That record that gives you a shiver down your spine, makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, brings a lump to your throat and a tear to your eye. (Maybe not all at the same time; that would be close to heading towards a medical emergency, but you get the picture.)

If I’m not listening to music, then I’m reading about it, or writing about it or just thinking about it. It’s such an integral part of me that I kind of take it for granted. That’s not quite right; I don’t take it for granted at all. I still find myself marvelling at something new, something jaw-droppingly good, so good that I need to tell people about it. Music still has the power to amaze me. What I do take for granted is, I suppose, that music is so important. I simply cannot understand anyone who “isn’t into music”. It’s simply beyond my comprehension. It’s like saying, “well, I’m not really that arsed about breathing. I can take it or leave it, really.”         

This kind of brings me back to Glasto. Sort of full circle. Because however much I love the place for what it is; that sparkling, magical place like nowhere else I’ve ever been to, well, I have to admit it, I suppose I’d have never really gone if it wasn’t for the music.

As I finished the last of the toast and brushed the crumbs away, I took a ciggie out of the packet, lit up and sat back to think about music. See, always thinking about music.

Now, despite sounding as if I’m slightly obsessed with music, it all seems fairly natural and obvious to me that it’s the right way to be. There doesn’t seem anything wrong with being like that. It’s just like a hobby, I suppose. Like playing Crown Green Bowls or having a shed. Things that maybe I should be getting into at my age instead of fixating on music. But music is my thing.

I watched people queuing for breakfasts, bleary-eyed and hung over. It was like the day before. Nearly everybody who was there was considerably younger than me. I wondered how many of them were at Glasto for the music or if it was something else. What did it mean for them? Was going to Glasto a rite of passage thing for them? Would they still be going to Glasto when they were my age, in twenty or thirty years time? Would Glasto still be going? Would I still be going? I’d be 73 in twenty years time if I was still around. Would I still be into music? Of course I would! I’d be still searching for the next big thing, the new discovery just around the corner, just waiting to happen, just out of reach.

Would I still be into music? Would I still be a fan? Would I still be excited about legging it down to the Pyramid Stage to see 2034’s equivalent of Courtney Barnett? Or maybe I’d still be going to see Courtney Barnett in 2034!

But this was the thing that got me wondering and it sort of relates to sheds and Crown Green Bowling and all that age-appropriate stuff and music and Glastonbury. Yes, I am a music fan and yes, I’m into music. Maybe at my age I should have moved onto something else. Maybe it was time to put those childish things away. Christ, I was a Grandad now! Music- and pop music at that- it should really be something that was part of my past and not of my present or future. But I couldn’t see that happening really. Not really. There would always be music.

I looked up at the sky. It was completely blue by now. Not a cloud in sight. I thought about scribbling a few notes down yet everything was a bit unfocussed. I was still thinking about it all. Maybe thinking about it all a bit too much.

This was the real kicker though. I worked out that it was ok to be into music and be a music fan at my age, however ridiculous it might sound but could I call myself a fan of Courtney Barnett and The Fall and all the rest? Isn’t it a bit daft to say the least to call myself a “Fan”? I think it is. But I was exhibiting all the fan-like signs. Buying all the records, reading about them in the music press, scouring the net, Googling and looking for live recordings? Getting overly excited about seeing them play at Glasto? What is all that about if not being a fan?

Then there’s Dylan of course, Bob Dylan. Although he wasn’t playing Glasto (I might have just mentioned it if he was), I’m sitting here writing this bit and looking at the bookshelf in front of me, I count 27 different books just about Dylan. A whole bookshelf full of nothing else except books about Bob Dylan. To my left is a CD tower with 100 plus live Dylan recordings. There’s three more in the other room. In yet another CD tower there’s all the studio albums. And there’s DVD’s and radio documentaries. And mp3’s all over hard drives on two laptops, three iPods and an external hard drive (just in case). When Jackie says, “Do you really need another book/CD about Dylan?” I suppose she has a point. 

Maybe I'm an afficionado rather than a fan.

Maybe being a Dylan aficionado is acceptable. It sounds better than being called a fan. You can put it down to being a bit eccentric. That’s more of a hobby, a pastime.

But being a fan of Courtney Barnett or The Fall? Or Miles Davis? Or Nils Frahm? Or all the others? 

At my age?

The word “fan” has connotations of being in some awful 1970’s Offical Fanclub thing, you know? Badges and stickers and cheap-shit iron on t-shirts. Membership cards. Pre Smash Hits. “I’m a Courtney Barnett fan.” Or “I’m a Fall fan.” Well, it just sounds...odd.

This is the dilemma then. The question that I can’t still answer. If I tick all the fan-like boxes (the records, the magazine and internet stuff, the gigs etc) then am I a “fan”? There’s not that blind devotion, that hero worship, that they-can-do no-wrong stuff from me. I am not that naive and I’m old enough- much too old enough- to realise that they are just ordinary people with flaws and faults like the rest of us and yet, I do think that they have some extraordinary talent for making great music and great art. I can admire their work, I can love what they make and still not admire them as people. Maybe that’s the difference.  It what they create that’s important. The rest is slightly irrelevant.

So what do I do? Call myself a fan? Or is there another word, another term, a word that fits the bill a lot better? If I don’t call myself a fan then what should I call myself? There must be another word! One that doesn’t sound so daft and geeky when applied to someone in their middle-age? I would love to know!

(Since that late Friday morning in June I’ve been wondering about all of this. Not to the point of worrying. More in a sense of being curious and slightly perplexed. As far as I can tell, I’m not listening to music in a different way or made me listen to any less music or any different music. I’ve not taken up a latent, dormant and deep-seated interest in DIY or some similar middle-age hobby. Music is still there, at the forefront. And it always will be.)   

 

My previous three books about Glasto are all available here-

either as Kindle e books or in paperback:

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Turn-Left-The-Womble-Glastonbury-ebook/dp/B0060YCKGW 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Left-Again-Womble-middle-aged-Glastonbury-ebook/dp/B00IBK2V6M 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tea-Toast-Rock-Roll-Glastonbury-ebook/dp/B00Q1UJACC