The sweat was running down the walls of this downbeat down-at-heel downstairs venue and onto the beer-soaked floor by the time I arrived. The pay-on-the-door option has enhanced the diversity of a decent-sized turnout.
Hard to get a good view of the stage, with unspectacular acoustics, MOHO has its critics. On the plus side, suitably dingy with nooks and crannies galore, it's extremely reminiscent of the Bierkeller, and capable of generating an atmosphere that's just as electric.
Support act SCUMBAG PHILOSOPHER openly displayed their firm belief in the punk ethic. Cranking up a right racket throughout their brief, semi-experimental DIY set, repetition was the only rule, I found myself instinctively scrutinizing their facial expressions for signs of a tongue-in-cheek attitude noise-mongering. There was nothing.
A reaction to head-up-the-arse muso deception they may well be, but their decent instruments seemed to be wasted on them. No doubt it's all part of their shock tactical approach to undermine complacency, but the bass player was bouncing about with a top notch Rickenbacker that he strummed cack-handedly. The fingers of his right hand barely made contact with the fretboard.
Timing? Fuck that! Rattling power-chord rhythms, disjointed, tuneless and ear splittingly loud, the aim is to make the art-prog. rock appreciation society cringe.
Just like the punk poet Thick Richard, who rattled off a similarly scathing verse or two (such as the pseudo plastic waanabee rant 'Bubblegum Punk') their contempt for mainstream rock n roll and the hordes who like it was pure and undisguised as throughout, the piss was taken to the point of sheer cruelty.
Their self-titled theme song is all about arousing the disgust of such comfort-zone MOR devotees, whom I imagine were scattered in their droves elsewhere in town. Manchester, still reeling from the recent Roger Waters rip-off Wall nostalgia show, was tonight also host to the likes of David Gray and Duran Duran (who themselves had fellow 80's celebs the Pet Shop Boys in tow). All this on top of the Take That 'full lineup' comeback show at MCFC.
With fans of mainstream, commercially successful rock music wickedly sent up as the main targets of this cruel and caustic brand of scorn. Current single 'God Is Dead, So I Listen To Radiohead', by far the most structured and melodic tune in their armoury, is typical of what this lot are all about, with fans of Thom Yorke et al mercilessly stereotyped in the lyrics.
The sense of anticipation was hiked up fast during the brief wait for Smith and his troops to appear, and the sweat was drippng off every surface long before THE FALL'S feedback/white noise intro music had subsided.
Suddenly it was bare-chested bodies everywhere, as MES & co got off to an absolute flier by tearing into blistering brand new track 'Cosmos' melting seamlessly into a chaotic rendition of 'Hot Cake'.
Smith, as is well known,is not particularly fond of performing in City Centre Manchester, but tonight he was right on top of his game. Upbeat, energized and simply devastating, his vocals fair glowed with ominously self-reflexive autobiographical detail. Likewise, the usual cryptic wisdom in spades. This meant that his entire vocal output formed a never-ending flow of poignant, if largely inaccessible indecipherable proclamations.
Still pioneering, still loaded with stuff to say, still here, more idiosyncratic and stronger than ever, this was sheer, chaotic bliss!
"Yer better listennameeee" declared the rule-making rock n'roll veteran with forceful (even for him) conviction right from the start of what proved to be a fast paced full-tilt scalding mega-decibel whirlwind of a set that must have stripped the paint from the walls as well as causing eardrums everywhere to implode.
Following the recent period of renaissance enjoyed by Smith and his ever-revolving musicians, there was never going to be any sense of complacency, and so it proved. A'told-you-so' stance seemed to be the guiding force driving MES and co. onwards as they hit brand new heights. Spurred on by sheer, and absolute self-belief, considerable drunkenness and that pill-popper's gurn, Smith rolled back the years.
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As half the audience were in a similar state, the roars of approval quickly gave way to high-spirited scenes of celebration; pure mayhem, vomit stained, with bloody noses and sweating bodies bouncing all over the place.
Smith's penchant for mischief was all the more apparent as he performed without a trace of alcoholic soaked detriment (on the contrary; the man was flying!), but this didn't detract one iota from the dominant sense of triumph or the razor-sharp, cutting edge of his gift for spontaneity.
Written off a thousand times and virtually given up for dead, MES has never looked stronger or more full of self-belief; At the age of fifty-four, he's surpassed his previous best once again, with his unlikely renaissance growing more emphatic by the second. Spare a thought for John Peel - if there's any justice in this life and the next, he won't be missing out on what is unmistakably the finest-ever phase of The Fall's existence.
"Ahh, yeah, there's Mark in the gutter, there's Mark on the slide" he taunted in sarcastic acknowledgement of the critics who were quick to write off the Hip Priest during the darker days that preceded the continuation of this purple patch.
Smith didn't twiddle excessively with the guitar amps, but one quick deliberate twist of the volume knob notably blasted a section of the crowd away from already deafening speakers. There was no escape for the drums however - beaten expertly to a pulp by Kieron Melling all night, they became the eventual target for the gaffer's -ahem- 'deconstructional' flair, as Smith dragged a cymbal stand and accompanying microphone unceremoniously to the floor.
Guitarist Pete Greenway, like many before him, was forced to work hard to maintain the shape of things, holding on with grim and gritty determination as MES's maverick ways verged closer towards vandalism - the no-holds-barred Smith-style of rock n' roll deconstruction brings sheer demolition to the art, but for a crystal clear demonstration of authority, there was a lot of artistic flair!
The chaotic but brilliantly uncompromising set got off to a high-octane start with still-new belter 'Cosmos', while Y.F.O.C. tracks featured heavily during the hour and ten-minute show, strangely without being prominent (due to the renditions of 'Bury.., 'Hot Cake' etc bearing only the vaguest resemblance to the versions immortalized on the record).
'Funnel Of Love' was the second of two covers, after an airing of Fall Peel Session obscurity version of US Garage band The Sonics' song 'Strychnine'.
The carry-bag men had already been blessed by an early blast from the past in the form of 'Dragnet' album-filler 'Muzorewi's Daughter' round about 3-4 songs in, whilst a strong finish saw 'Psykick Dancehall' precede one-tune encore 'Weather Report 2.'
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