The stage presence of Mark E. Smith

It is somewhat contradictory that, despite the bathetic decrease in the quality of their recent output, The Fall continue to be an astonishing live act. Over the last ten years or so, their recorded music has become stodgy - often turgid. Of course, one could never expect their magic alchemy to yield delights for so long. The Fall's manifesto was 'Repetition in the music and we're never gonna lose it.' True to their word, they never have. This formula actually worked extremely well for over two decades: the snarling voice, the gritty repetitive open chords, the undulating bass and the primal drumming. This was always a pared down, austere way of going about things - ratcheted up to full volume! The 80s produced their greatest albums and throughout the 90s they never lost their mojo.

And while their latest releases may seem flat, drab and desiccated, their live performances are anything but. Actually, the songs improve in a live setting. To me, The Fall exemplify what is so great about rock music. Rock isn't really music, it is an effervescent frisson of energy and attitude. This mentality is completely appropriate in a live setting. A bunch of young thugs brandish their instruments - sometimes they play them moderately well, other times they don't know how to operate the thing - in a room teeming with fans. The musicians attack their instruments, the singer snarls. The crowd reacts with indefatigable glee!

Though this has not been the only appeal to The Fall. There is a literary slant to the group. They are named after a novel by Albert Camus and literary references often surface in Mark E.'s lyrics. A lot of the time, though, he obfuscates them. He slurs, so half the time you hardly know what he is on about. Most of the albums don't come with lyric sheets. In a live performance, you are lucky to decipher a single syllable he utters. When you consult a fan site online, further head scratching ensues. His songs are strewn with cryptic utterances, which a lot of the time do not really cohere. 'Jesus Christ in reverse.' 'I cast the runs on your soul.' 'Entrances delivered.' If this is not the case, he writes meandering fantastical narratives, where pillars and buildings suddenly morph into Gothic gargoyles. Nevertheless, once you know what he is saying, you realise how well-conceived these words are. Their greatness comes alive orally. They are meant to be heard, not read, and they are very exciting indeed when the backing band is on full throttle.

Now M.E.S. has acquired even more charisma as an old man. He has grown into his age well because he was born as a grumpy old man. There is a certain cranky, cantankerous wisdom about him. And yet, while you are certainly in awe of him, you fear him as well. There is a dictatorial aura about him. I've always said that seeing Mark E. Smith live as a Fall fan is like seeing Hitler live as a Nazi. You have heard stories about his treatment of band members, you know about his chronic alcoholism and you have heard all sorts of tales about his odd behaviour. He is also very volatile and unpredictable. He might do something rash and impetuous at any moment. He may also make a slip, his whole life may fall in disarray and The Fall may cease to be. That's why you, as a Fall fan, want to go to his concerts and continue to buy his records (even if they may not be very good). You want to support this man and his livelihood, because a life without The Fall is unthinkable.

Yet the greatest thing about these concerts, ironically, is his aloofness. He completely ignores the audience. He trudges through the stage, slurs, messes with the guitarists' FX, has a go on his wife's keyboards. It is almost as if this is a public event of private histrionics. (Is that a tautology?) When you are at a Fall concert, you fix your sight on him. The whole audience comes alive when he stumbles on stage. His stage presence is unparalleled.

But there is a moment when he acknowledges the audience (and what a moment that is!). He throws the mic over to the audience and they usually chant the line 'He is not appreciated.' The audience finally partakes in this private ritual. The aloof dictator recognises how much his adulatory audience loves him. Then he stumbles back on stage and continues to slur.