As he staggered along, he swept up a legion of devoted fans (all fifty thousand of them) in this maelstrom. Although on the surface he appears to be simply getting quietly bladdered by himself until he achieves peak misanthro pissed status, he is actually about to rise up, grab the music industry by the lapels and rattled it about like a Skoda going over a cattle-grid, tearing down the icons of all the filthy Bolshevist and backstabbing bastards that he perceives to be in his way. He is Mark E Smith, part genius, part maniac who helmed The Fall like a warlord as they continued to march inward from the far reaches of culture.įor seven years he had slashed through the norm like some demented daemon of the demimonde, whipping up a cyclonic barrage of hellfire. One brave anti-hero sits in the corner of some Salford spit and sawdust pub. The year is 1986 and synths seem to be taking over the entire world like a proto-Daft Punk version of Terminator.
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