Mark E. Smith R.I.P.

Oh dear g*d, not another one, so soon? I’ve barely begun to mourn Ursula Le Guin, and now the man who was the Fall? Please tell me this is not going to turn into another of those years, there’s still a week of January left.

I was never a lifelong Fall fan. There was a time, from ‘Perverted by Language’ through to ‘I am KuriousĀ  Oranj’, and I still have ‘The Wonderful and Frightening World of…’. I saw them live twice, once at Salford University where they opened with a ten minute plus version of ‘Bremen Nacht’ that was about seven minutes too long for a song I’d never heard before, and I was in a shitty mood to start with, but then they did a version of ‘There’s a Ghost in my House’ that blew the recorded version out of the ocean, and played a stormingly physical set that rescued my entire evening.

Mark E. Smith. You didn’t have to agree with him, you certainly didn’t have to like him, because he didn’t give a shit either way, he was just himself, so absolutely bloody rude, arrogant, uncaring and normal. He was like Manchester rolled up into one skinny, wrinkled, unconcerned body.

The place won’t be the same without him, the bastard.

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