Renegade: The Lives and Tales of Mark E. Smith

by Mark E. Smith

  It’s a strange phenomenon that, people discussing their lunches. Kids used to do that at school. But now I’ll get on the bus, or I’ll be sat in the pub, and all I can hear is people discussing the contents of their guts or the meal that they’ve got in their heads: ‘I had some nice tomato sauce last night with chips.’

  I don’t know why they’re telling you this. It’s the same when you ring people up and ask them how they’re doing and they say something like, ‘I’m okay, Mark. I’ve just had a curry. I wish I didn’t have this headache, though. I’ve not been feeling too good lately.’

  You’re not supposed to react like that. You’re supposed to say, ‘Yeah, I’m alright. How are you? Now what do you want?’

  But I really can’t stand it when blokes feel the need to comment on your drinking habits. It’s rampant, all that malarkey: New Labour trying to keep people alive for ever. I don’t see them berating the royals or their backbenchers about having a cig or a large gin at 3 o’clock in the afternoon. If you put it in the context of the current climate, having a few pints and a Benson after work is hardly the worst crime on earth. It’s the same when you go to the doctor. I don’t know what it is with them and smokers. It’s common knowledge that some doctors are the worst degenerates in existence. They’ve been on everything in their time. But as soon as you tell them you’ve got a bad back or a gammy leg, their first question is, ‘Well, are you a smoker?’ What the fuck does that have to do with it?

  People are infected by all this guff. You can tell them anything. They’ll eat anything that claims to stop them burping or ‘may’ prolong their lives by a few seconds. Red meat and liquids – that’s all you need.

  I’m annoyed by the lack of smoking on TV as well. It’s terrible. It’s funny seeing old interviewers lighting up, the likes of Russell Harty pulling on a Three Castles or a State Express or a Churchman Full Strength or a Passing Cloud. I think it’s a shame that we don’t get to see this any more. We should have more ashtrays on morning TV and presenters wheezing.

  Alan Wise got the shock of his life. He finished a tour with us a few years ago and afterwards he said, ‘I’m glad to get rid of you lot, drinking whisky all the time. Bastards, The Fall. Ignorant north Mancunians. I’m going on tour with Jerry Lee Lewis and Chuck Berry: a nice tour.’ Totally ignorant. Totally Mancunian. It’s totally isolated, Manchester.

  He goes, ‘It’ll be good to get on the road with two old men like Chuck and Jerry.’

  I said, ‘Fucking hell, dream on, mate!’

  Jerry just locked himself in his dressing room every night, then kicked the shit out of his piano. He only played a short set, then kicked the stool over and fucked off back to his dressing room.

  He wouldn’t talk to Chuck Berry, hated him. All the Chuck Berry fans, all the John Lennon scouser fans, were dressed up in their 50s gear. Jerry just stared them out; he didn’t even let on to his group.

  What a great show – brilliant! I saw it in Manchester. I was standing up, shouting, ‘Jerry, Jerry!’ This is just after I’d fucked my leg up in Newcastle. The funny thing was I went to see it with Shaun Bainey, our manager at the time, and a mate of mine, James Fennings, who DJs for us. Both of them were freaking out – they couldn’t handle it. I loved it. Morrissey turned up as well, waiting around in his best suit backstage to see Chuck – his best mate. I left after Jerry had done his thing. My work was done.

  On the third day of the tour Wisey finally mustered up the courage to go and ask Jerry what he’d like. Jerry wouldn’t talk to him. He thought he looked like a junkie. So Wisey’s like, ‘You didn’t tell me they were like this. Nico wasn’t like this. New Order are not like this.’

  I said, ‘I told you, it’s The Killer, man!’ He hadn’t a clue who he was dealing with, hadn’t even bothered to read up on them. Because if you’re a promoter in Manchester most of the time all you’re doing is driving Barney out of New Order to the guitar shop for some new strings. That’s what it’s like in Manchester. They live in a fantasy world. It’s not rock and roll.

  They expected two old fellows in wheelchairs. Not The Killer with his two limousines – one for his group and one for him.

  And not Chuck Berry striding off the plane with his guitar, demanding five thousand quid now or I’m gone … He wouldn’t play otherwise. Everybody knows that’s the way Chuck Berry operates. But they’re so Hacienda – Wisey didn’t have a clue. ‘Oh we’ll have to go to the bank first.’

  So he walks back to the plane. Damn right. That’s what I’d do.

  All of a sudden they find five thousand quid. Two minutes later, he gets driven to the nearest Hertz van hire.

  ‘Get me a car now – the best you’ve got!’

  He hires a car and asks them to write out the address of the first show. Promoters just can’t do this sort of thing. A child can, but not them – they’re incapable of simple things like that; it’s the same in America. They can’t just write down the itinerary for you – your hotel, the street, first gig, etc. It’s beyond them. After fucking around, they finally get him the address. And he blasts off on the wrong side of the road wearing one of his suits. He’s already had his clothes sent to the hotel; all his suits. That’s rock and roll.

  Wisey thought he was dealing with Donovan. He thought he could have a nice little rest, cup of tea. How Manchester is that?

  I liked the way everybody started jumping on the Johnny Cash bandwagon as well. If you were a Cash fan in the 70s people thought you were a racist. Nobody admitted to it. He and Elvis were more unfashionable than the so-called dinosaurs like Pink Floyd and Led Zeppelin. That’s what Julie Burchill and Tony Parsons thought – they even said it to me, they called it redneck music. It’s a different story now he’s dead. Suddenly Parsons has been a Cash fan all his life. Nobody gave a fuck about him in the late 70s and 80s and then all of a sudden he’s the new dead icon.

  I find it horrible the way they’ve made money out of him, releasing all these maudlin recordings. Give me early Cash any day. People love it, though, all that sentimental shit; they can’t be arsed discovering what he was really like. It’s a shame that. I’m sure his family aren’t too happy about it either.

  That film was a disgrace as well. Not that I watched it, I refused to. What’s the point? It’s the same with all those music biopics. As a fan you might as well just watch the real thing. You can’t replicate it. Would you rather see Walk the fucking Line with River Phoenix’s daft brother or Cash Live at San Quentin? It’s not as if Hollywood’s going to give you all the facts, anyway. It’s just some watered-down, sanitized version. It’s pointless. It’s all about people, Hollywood people mostly, who just want to attach themselves to this type of character; cool by association.

  Guys like Cash and Jerry and Link Wray and Iggy Pop even are very special to me. Their art comes from rich experience, you can’t fake that authenticity. It can’t be manipulated. They just go where instinct tells them, and more often than not it works. I admire that. There’s not enough of that around.

  It’s a thin line but I think the point is not to get what you want or to settle for what you’ve got, but to understand what it is you want and to go for it; it’s in the understanding.

  Guide to Manchester

  There is a lot business and also a cheerful place.

  Kera Ellis said Manchester is a lovely place to live.

  In the shopping centres, they are busy.

  The streets are olvaring and lovely.

  The streets have lots of trouble at night.

  My place means a lot to me.

  It’s a brilliant place to live in – nice culture too, many nice people like Tony Wilson for instance, or Ding.

  Like Fay McGlochin said watching lovely food – belies description.

  As do the Security Staff at the former Fab Caff – one hired from Cheshire – one hired PE teacher training – the rest obligatory black and tan ex-convicts from the council who pretend they like Morrissey.

  Going up out of it –
you can easily spot it – turning right they’re Red twats like Rob Curtis ready to guide your way to Chorlton or Didsbury – getting your way out, organizing yr luggage you will find a mate to help you whose dad was in the Air-Force-Polish.

  Chain-Chelsea-Putty

  By now your hands will be changed Chelsea-like putty.

  Already, like most Manchester musicians group you will be crying hysterically

  And artistically in a false way. It makes sense for you by hour, 2 stay in the hills and avoid the enzyme of the virulent city centres!

  Like Noel (that popular dwarf), or Clint – you can go back, return and scoff your face.

  Historically it makes sense for you 2 stay in the hills and don’t experience city centres!

  Manchester – my Manchester

  I love the place so well.

  I also love the people –

  Who have a tale to tell.

  It’s a city you’ll never forget.

  I’m Pauline – Summat

  Some say that M/cr is often cold and cruel

  But once you’ve been here …

  I’m the History of the World

  Please call me:

  All

  RAKES.

  As All is as one,

  As all damp on all stone,

  I hold the time,

  And can Entreat At once,

  All Jets and trains, lead panes,

  Spin complete.

  And real rebellions spawn/complete

  Revolutions.

  Spawn Follies and Theorem;

  Crossword United programmes

  Misread Easter. I stand, Put

  Butter on Plague-Stile

  And I Alter,

  Tree Rings so What Are You After

  In Historytown

  You Won’t Find

  BEGGAR in East End,

  Lice-ridden before nite

  Imagining thru hunger a

  BREAD tree spinning

  In complete revolutions.

  I’M THE HISTORY

  OF THE WORLD

  I’M HISTORY

  Yo Cheeky World.

  Sufficiently Strenuous 2 deter flirts

  Go out little tyke –

  Meet at crossroads

  Early morning

  The sick hills near Buxton

  Softly roll

  I got to do it

  Prefixed about it

  Gotta meet Jim with the

  Roll –

  He’s a lazy hill-person

  Late – and slow as usual

  A Ted Hughes human

  Semi Mole.

  My Top

  BUT, the last and final straw. They at first appeared wrong. Then it started – first the ash down the back. Modern and chic – an Abundance of style.

  Rachel-warm and friendly. Busy and bright.

  Tune in the tube

  day time.

  At night, I love my

  1 p.m.

  THAT WAS MY ROOM.

  Words found on a Cassette of 23/01/06

  1/ A – Systematic.

  2/ Clasp Hands.

  3/ Ben plays Clasp Hands.

  4/ I Am Mental by Ben.

  5/ I Am Mental/Gray Hair.

  6/ Typhoon Reggae Police.

  7/ TV – Music – End.

  8/ A FATS PACE SONG.

  16. I’m on the Hard Road Again

  I never use hip studios. If I’ve got the money I always make sure I use the straightest and the best. That’s where half of the money has gone. I don’t want the studio where The Pet Shop Boys or Morrissey have recorded. I don’t need it. I know it’s going to be shit.

  Even when I was skint after the divorce, I still insisted we use a top-quality studio for Shift-Work (1991). In the end we used UB40’s recording studio; I’m talking a really good studio here. As well as complaining about us robbing their tea bags, UB40 were saying things like, ‘Why aren’t The Fall recording where Nick Cave or Sonic Youth record – a real cool joint, with all the facilities, where you can stay over and all that?’ I’d rather record with guys who don’t know who The Fall are; fellows who’ve been working with Status Quo, which was the case on This Nation’s Saving Grace. Quo was their standard. These are guys who won’t put up with sloppiness. They don’t like The Fall, but they’ll do the job. If you’re going to play it out of tune, then play it out of tune properly. The idea is you get a group like us in there and everybody’s getting a boot up the arse. And it does show in the work. The sound on our LPs is actually a damn sight better than on, say, Oasis LPs. It may have cost a fraction of what they’ve spent, but it is good, because it’s properly engineered.

  Recording is another world altogether. You shouldn’t do what some groups do, and go with a mate of a mate who’s bought his own studio. It’s a mistake.

  I was very disappointed with the studio in LA where we went to finish Reformation, because they were making out it was a proper heavy metal studio and it wasn’t. Ben and that lot had done some dismal stuff in Lincolnshire, and the idea was we’d wrap it up in this studio. It was no cheap affair, either. That’s another thing that pissed me off. We’d booked a substantial amount of time in this place. The group knew the deal. In truth, they bottomed out of the contract, because we entered that place with a completely different band. Fair play to The Dudes, they did what they could.

  The engineer wasn’t on the ball, though. He wasn’t a bad bloke, he was just having a few domestic problems.

  Whether you like them or not, a proper London engineer who’s worked with The Stone Roses will tell you you’ve got to do things again and concentrate. And it works. You can’t just bang it out live – it’s totally different from a gig.

  But in the same respect, I’m not such a fan of albums being re-mastered. It’s usually to the detriment of the listener. Once they start fiddling with it, adding tracks and embellishing this and that, it takes the heart out of the thing. It’s the same with filmmakers who can’t stop fiddling. Having said that, it seemed to work on Hex. It unearthed a lot of things, a lot of sounds.

  I remember recording ‘Mr Pharmacist’ at Abbey Road in the mid 80s around the time when CDs were the new thing. The second day I was there I walked up the stairs to the cutting room and I couldn’t get in the door due to a stack of mail. I asked one of the producer guys what it all was, and he told me it was complaint mail for The Beatles. The Beatles were one of the first bands to get the whole re-issue treatment, but the fans couldn’t listen to it. Years of listening to the original vinyl and then this … to them it might as well have been a different band.

  People aren’t as daft as you think. There were so many of these letters they had to stick them in the back room – they couldn’t answer them.

  It’s the same with Elvis. ‘Heartbreak Hotel’ on CD is almost a completely different song from on vinyl. You’ve got forty-odd tracks to monkey around with on CD, and not four – as was the case with the original recording. And you can hear all these nonsense noises. It’s flat. Instead of having all the sounds at the front, like they did with the original, they’ve flattened it out across forty-odd tracks; one here, one there.

  What a lot of people don’t realize is that you’ve got these total strangers in the cutting room fiddling around – that’s what they mean by re-mastered. You might as well ask a fellow in the pub to do it, at least he’ll have some knowledge of the music he’s butchering. It’d probably work out better that way. It’s not as if the people working on the re-mastering give a shit about the acts – to them it’s just a new way to waste time, and the record companies know full well that they’ll wangle a bit more dough out of it. It’s just dolling up the dead. Instead of using their energy to promote the living they’d rather go down the Burke and Hare path. They always make a big thing out of it as well: the re-mastered version. It’s just another cynical record company trick. How many versions of Sgt Pepper can one man own? The daft thing is that people do buy that shit. They must have rocks in their head. It’s
a racket. We’re living in a re-issue world, filching from the past like magpies with a Tardis. I used to take tape recordings of the original vinyl on tour with me. Record them in the kitchen on to tape. You get a bit of fuzz on it, but it sounds better than the CD. Tapes and vinyl are very underrated. It’s like the difference between reading a book and reading something on a computer.

  The Infotainment Scan (1993) was all about regressive idealism. You can’t live in the past like that. It’s a lot more dangerous than you think. Kids growing up hearing their mams and dads talk about how great 1976 and 1981 were – it’s bullshit. There have never been any great years. You get the odd moment here and there, but never a clean year of wonder.

  It died down a little after Infotainment, but then Oasis and Blur started name-checking The Beatles and The Small Faces and it returned like a wave of sickness you thought you’d seen the back of. And then all of a sudden you’ve got those ridiculous list programmes – One Hundred Great Horror Films and whathavya.

  On the other hand, I can’t stand these lads thickening up their accents and singing about shit kisses and cigs and chip shops, this affected realism – it’s not that far removed from George Formby.

  People have a go at things like Coronation Street for adopting a similar broad northernness, but if you watch it and listen to it closely its use of language is quite cutting edge. The scriptwriters have a good ear for any new phrases that are circling Manchester.

  In the mid 90s I used to drink in a pub called The Grapes near Granada’s studios – Vera Duckworth (Elizabeth Dawn) owns it now. It’s a good pub. You get a few cast members and scriptwriters in there. I’d have a couple of pints with Simon Gregson, who plays Steve McDonald – nice bloke. And there’d be scriptwriters dotted around, scribbling. It doesn’t always work. Sometimes the dialogue’s very clunky, as if the writers have been too keen to use new phrases, but when it does work it’s far superior to a lot of things out there.