Mark E Smith, lead singer of The Fall.
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Totally mired: The Big Midweek reveals the dark side of The Fall

Steve Hanley and Olivia Piekarski's new book lifts the lid on one of the most turbulent bands in pop.

The Big Midweek: Life Inside the Fall
Steve Hanley and Olivia Piekarski
Route, 400pp, £17.99
 

No other band – or “group”, as their outspoken boss, Mark E Smith, insists on calling them (“A band is what plays in Blackpool”, he once said dismissively) – could have more insider stories than the Fall. To date, 66 members have had a hand in their frequently exceptional but occasionally disastrous 39-year career.

Most were reduced to minor roles before they were sacked or left of their own accord to preserve their ebbing sanity but not Steve Hanley, the dutiful bass player and one-time embodiment of the much-admired “Fall sound”. Second only to Smith in terms of longevity, he served his time from 1979 to 1998.

The Big Midweek is the first of its kind. Previous books about the Fall and Mark E Smith (including, to an extent, Smith’s 2008 autobiography Renegade, which I co-authored) have been written by outsiders who have focused on his eccentric style of leadership, the sackings and heavy drinking. This is not the whole story.

While there are many fascinating anecdotes about the great enigma that is Mark E Smith – such as a funny passage about the difficulties of choosing his birthday present after failing to impress him over the years with a series of war-related gifts, including the board game Risk (he couldn’t decipher the instructions), a set of model soldiers for his collection (from “the losing side”, unfortunately) and a Dad’s Army video (“What the f***’s this you’ve got me?’) – Hanley has wisely opted to balance the narrative by detailing the rich supporting cast as well.

Brix Smith in Hamburg, 1984. Photo: Wikimedia commons.

Here we have his old mate and ex-member Marc Riley; the bulldog-like Kay Carroll, who was both the group’s original dogma-driven manager and Smith’s girlfriend; the enigmatically aloof guitarist Craig Scanlon; Smith’s first wife and later guitarist and songwriter, Brix; and the drummer Karl Burns, an adult Bash Street Kid with a love of igniting (literal and figurative) fireworks.

With Olivia Piekarski’s assistance, Hanley has ditched common rock memoir histrionics in favour of a deadpan tone that recalls a bass-wielding Alan Bennett. Hanley mainly did his best to carry himself with a loyal dignity through it all: touring, recording, recovering from ale and amphetamine hangovers, riding the mood waves that regularly infected the whole group and being a father.

The sound he created throughout his 19-year stint, however, was the fierce flip-side of this image of a self-deprecating Manchester Everyman. Too humble to admit it in print, he had it all: power, aggression, melody, rhythm and originality. An often overlooked facet of the Fall’s extensive output is the consistent quality of the musicianship, despite all the comings and goings – like Pink Floyd or Genesis but with far more idiosyncratic results.

Similar to the way in which Bo Diddley’s guitar (one of Smith’s few mainstay influences) sounds like the automobile engines of the 1950s, each Fall album is a document of its era. Their last great release, Your Future Our Clutter in 2010, sounds like a barrage of grumbling roadworks, computer wheezes and intrusive digital supermarket bleeps.

And then there’s Smith’s voice: a gnarled racket spouting spiteful, clever, obscure, sarky lyrics. If, as Martin Amis recently said in this publication, “Art is about tension,” then Smith is a grand master. A proud anti-musician, his directorial style harks back to the age of maverick film-making, to the likes of Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Werner Herzog. Not for him learning the rules then breaking them: his rules are self-taught, outlandish and unbreakable. But for it all to work, he needs strong and talented musicians such as Hanley – just as those directors needed their intuitive cast members – to interpret his impulsive commands into some feasible reality.

This special connection falls apart in the final 30 pages. More bridges have been burned and Hanley and Smith are by now two scattered men trying to put themselves together. Every other gig is a dark pantomime: a rehearsal for the end of the world. Onstage in New York in 1998, the journey reaches its grim conclusion. There is a violent row; Smith is later arrested. Hanley, along with the drummer and guitarist, feels that he has no choice but to leave. In his post-Fall life, he becomes a school caretaker. As for the mercurial frontman, he’ll just go on. And on. The Big Midweek is a vivid and sensitive testament to an enthralling (anti-)musical family and the glorious chaos they can rightly call their own.

Austin Collings’s latest book is “The Myth of Brilliant Summers” (Pariah Press)

This article first appeared in the 06 February 2015 issue of the New Statesman, An empire that speaks English

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Drama without sensation: A Separation is an unsettling novel of distances

In Katie Kitamura’s novel, it is the distance between the narrator’s two selves that causes her most discomfort.

In a 2013 interview with Guernica, the online magazine, the novelist Katie Kitamura discussed how publishing’s “deeply patronising attitude” towards female readers results in overtly feminine book covers, featuring, for instance, women in bathing suits. “That’s not the kind of book cover that makes me want to buy a book,” she said.

The cover of Kitamura’s latest novel, A Separation, does, surprisingly, feature a woman in a bathing suit. But there is something quietly unsettling about this picture: the woman, who has her back to us, is awkwardly cropped out of frame from the elbows up, and she is sitting at the edge of an oddly shaped pool. Most of the cover is solid turquoise – a bright wash of negative space.

Kitamura’s unnamed narrator is a poised literary translator. As the novel opens in London, we learn that she is married to Christopher (a charming, haphazard non-author) but, in secret, they have been living separately for the past six months. When she receives a telephone call from Christopher’s mother, Isabella, informing her that he has seemingly gone missing in Greece, she doesn’t let on about her disintegrating marriage but boards a plane to look for him.

Much of the rest of the novel takes place in Greece: at a “very pleasant” hotel, in “perfect weather”, the pool “heated to a very comfortable temperature”. The area has recently experienced a string of devastating fires, leaving patches of scorched earth. The location has an almost eerie surface stillness that jars with the mystery at its heart. In this way, Kitamura (an art critic as well as novelist) creates a setting somehow reminiscent of David Hockney’s A Bigger Splash, Christopher’s sudden disappearance leaving behind no visible ripples.

The narrator, too, has a glassy composure at odds with the tumultuous events. On deciding to end her marriage formally, she shows neither despair nor relief, but anxiety about the etiquette. “I assumed – I had no prior experience to go on – that asking for a divorce was always discomfiting,” she says with typical understatement, “but I could not believe it was always this awkward.” Of her feelings for her new partner, Yvan, she notes that they seem more like “administration rather than passion”, and then offers a moderated gloss of Hamlet, “You cannot say you did it out of love, since at your age romantic passions have grown weak, and the heart obeys reason.

Her emotional separation from the trauma of her circumstances allows the narrator to examine the facts of her husband’s disappearance. She knows Christopher was unfaithful and she immediately identifies the hotel receptionist as the object of his attentions. We never see the narrator professionally translating, but the novel is concerned with her attempts to read the deeper meanings behind the remarks and behaviour of those around her. She finds it easy to imagine unseen contexts to conversations: an argument between Christopher’s parents, an embrace between her taxi driver and the hotel receptionist. As she writes, “Imagination, after all, costs nothing.”

Her propensity for projection is such that some things remain lost in translation. Even the most minute interactions can be misread. When Christopher’s mother comments that the two women’s love for her son connects them, “she was looking over my shoulder, as if watching someone approach . . . she was staring at nothing”. The novel occupies this imaginative negative space: the gap between what people think and how they appear.

Ultimately, it is the distance between the narrator’s two selves that causes her most discomfort. How long will she allow others to read her as the concerned, loving wife? Should she admit she wants to find Christopher in order to request that they separate officially? As her search continues she notes, “There was a small but definite wedge pushing between the person I was and the person I was purporting to be.”

There is a suspenseful and menacing tone to Kitamura’s prose that might trick a reader into thinking, at first, they are in the territory of thrillers such as Gone Girl and The Girl on the Train. Both these novels, like A Separation, have narrators who defy readers’ attempts to fathom their emotional depths and to deal with questions of how well you know anyone – even your own partner. But this is a work free of sensation, or even resolution. As the narrator notes, in the shock of an event it is natural to look for a more dramatic narrative. “But in the end,” she says, “this is only chasing shadows. The real culpability is not to be found in the dark or with a stranger, but in ourselves.”

A Separation by Katie Kitamura is published by Clerkenwell Press (231pp, £12.99)

Anna Leszkiewicz is a pop culture writer at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 23 March 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Trump's permanent revolution