The Fall / Chalkie Davies / "Wot? No Fish!!"

It has been pretty much 35 years since I first saw The Fall, in Cardiff University’s Great Hall, and have caught up with them at intervals ever since, although the last time was at some point during the last century, at St David’s Hall, which seemed like a poor fit. When I saw a gig announced for The Globe, a short walk from my residence, I felt that it would have been impolite to resist.

First up on the night were local 6-piece, Chain Of Flowers (melodic, electro-inflected punk-pop, charismatic lead singer); followed by (slightly older) Manc quintet As Able As Kane (industrial indie, beat-based but with live drums; keyboardist and female bass-player/vocalist periodically instrument-swap; co-lead vocalist looks like Peter Hook’s bricklayer brother).

Then came the mighty Fall themselves, Mark E. Smith growling from off-stage, referencing J. G. Ballard, before emerging, to huge applause from a capacity crowd of devotees of all ages. Dressed in his customary “1970s geography teacher” style, he was on vintage form, his remarkably tight band (including two drummers) laying down something of a “solid groove” over which he ranted and snarled poetically, whilst wandering to all areas of the tiny stage. As far as I can tell, he seemed good-natured: no-one got sacked, he spent a good deal of the time actually facing the audience – even briefly handing over a microphone to a thrilled fan – and actually played a hit: the vaguely topical “Sparta FC”; although the bulk of the set was devoted to new album “Sub-Lingual Tablet” (at least, I presume so – I have yet to catch up with it). There was even a crowd-pleasing, sing-along encore – “White Lightning”, which sent me and my fellow worshippers out into the drizzle dazed and ecstatic. Wonderful and frightening indeed.

The Fall

In further rock’n’roll nerd news, I can heartily recommend the Chalkie Davies exhibition at the National Museum of Wales. The Sully-born photographer was on the staff of the New Musical Express in the late 1970s and was one of the founders of biblical style magazine The Face. The cliché is true: his moody snaps truly define an era of working-class (or faux-working-class) defiance. Expect the museum to be crawling with teary-eyed old punks for the next few months.

The Clash (Chalkie Davies)

As I recall, there’s no mention of the punk rock revolution in “Wot? No Fish!!” my most recent reviewing assignment for the British Theatre Guide. The story of a London Jewish family, told via a series of drawings presented to East End shoemaker Ab Solomons to his wife Celie virtually every week of their lengthy marriage, it’s lovingly presented by performer Danny Braverman. Alternately heart-breaking and heartening, it is a beautiful, deeply involving experience.

NME Tour 2013 - Cardiff

Occasionally over the past few years, I’ve managed to organise myself sufficiently to purchase a ticket for the Cardiff University Students' Union date on the NME Awards Tour – thus I’ve managed to catch such acts as The Killers, Florence and the Machine and Everything Everything before they became inaccessible to the casual concert-goer. This year, the show came at the end of an intense weekend at a writing workshop, so I was in the mood to celebrate.

I got there in time to catch most of the opening set by Birmingham band Peace; a fuzzy, raucous but disciplined sound, with plenty of catchy guitar licks. Next up were the Parma Violets, who set their stall out by being played on by a Damned song (obviously released long before they were born) – looser and more rambunctious than Peace, with fewer distinctive melodies, but with impressive use of organ, alternately playful and portentous; some amusing interaction with the audience as well. The natural headliner was Miles Kane, which was why it was a surprise when he came on third:- one was instantly impressed by his seemingly effortless swaggering professionalism, and his tunes, especially “Inhaler”, have the epic qualities to back it up. Headlining were Django Django, who made an immediate impression with clever use of video screens at the back of the stage; rather more heavily rhythmic than I’d expected, given the glitchier, electronic nature of their singles as heard on the radio; maybe it was my fatigued state, combined with a couple of glugs of cider (and possibly satanic messages being beamed into my brain via video), but I found them somewhat hypnotic and charming. Didn’t quite top Miles, though.

 

Maybe the show suffered from a lack of variety (not to mention females), but there was more than enough spirit and inventiveness on show here to suggest that the “indie slump” is truly at an end.