The Otherwise

by Mark E Smith

  “Definitely,” he says. “I'd like to do something that's really weird and properly frightening.”

  There's a knock on the door and Johnny sticks his head into the room. He clocks the two of us sitting next to each other and laughs, “look at the pair of you!”

  It's time to go and do a photo shoot. First of all Mark, Johnny and Peter are photographed in the loft set. Then Mark, Johnny and I are photographed sitting on the couch in the living room set. The whole time the pair of them are cracking gags and making the entire room laugh. The moment feels so unreal I can scarcely take it in. Johnny turns to me, narrows his eyes.

  “I get the feeling you've engineered a whole three series of this just so you could get in the same room as him.” It sounds so plausible that I have to quickly scan my motivation circuits.

  After the shoot, it's lunchtime. I ask Mark if he wants to come and eat on the catering bus. He declines, saying he'll go outside and have a smoke instead. We swap numbers and say goodbye. I watch him wander out towards the reception. ‘Imagine how insane that would be,’ I chuckle to myself. ‘If we actually ended up writing something together!’

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  It's three weeks later. I'm doing some washing up in the kitchen, when my wife Sarah comes through from the living room. In a comically casual voice she says, “Mark Smith's on the phone for you.” She knows how unexpected and exciting an event this is for me. I dry my hands, walk into the living room and pick up the phone.

  “Hi Mark. You okay?”

  “Yeah not so bad pal. I wondered if you wanted to meet up and talk about writing some supernatural stuff together for TV?”

  Yes, this is exactly what I want to do.

  We make a date for me to go up to Manchester so we can spend an afternoon talking through ideas.

  “I've just got a new office in town to do writing and shit,” he says. “We could meet there.”

  “Yeah, cool. That sounds like a good idea.” I try to give the impression I'm unruffled. I ask him for the address, but he says he doesn't have it to hand and will call with it nearer the time. As I put down the phone, my mind is whirring: ‘Good God… We're actually going to do this.’

  A couple of days before we're due to meet up, Mark telephones again. He says he's decided not to rent the office after all. Maybe we should meet somewhere else? I tell him I'll book a room at the BBC building on Oxford Road.

  So now, here I am: sitting and waiting, and feeling nervous. Because even though we've already met officially, chatted on the telephone and agreed to work together, he is Mark E. Smith and I have been feasting on his thoughts for 30 years.

  He walks into the BBC reception on time. He looks smart and relaxed, dressed as always in back trousers, polished leather shoes, a white shirt and suit cut leather jacket. Whether on stage or in the street, his image is unchanging. We say hello, shake hands and my nerves drain away.

  A young man shows us to a small meeting room, with floor to ceiling blinds covering the glass wall. I've written a few notes in advance, but I didn't want to start working on anything in earnest, until we've had a proper talk about the kind of project it might be. All we've decided up to this point is that we'd like to write a horror/supernatural anthology series. And that it should be, as Mark has pointed out, “really weird and properly frightening.”

  Initially, rather than talk about our own ideas, we discuss our shared admiration of Rod Serling's seminal US TV anthology series The Twilight Zone and Night Gallery. As serious Fall scholars are aware, these shows were a formative influence on the young Mark, and, over the years, he's taken a number of The Twilight Zone episode titles and deployed them as song titles: ‘Time Enough At Last’ is inspired by the 1959 episode of the same name. ‘Paranoia Man in Cheap Sh*t Room’ is extrapolated from the 1960 episode ‘Nervous Man in a Four Dollar Room’, ‘Nate Will Not Return’ is corrupted from the 1960 episode ‘King Nine Will Not Return’, whilst ‘Kick The Can’ is taken from the 1962 episode of the same name.

  My personal favourite Twilight Zone episode has always been ‘The Masks’. Written by Serling, it concerns a family who don grotesque Mardi Gras masks which transform the wearer's features so they resemble the masks. Mark remembers this one too, but his favourite is the segment from Night Gallery entitled ‘The Escape Route’. Also written by Serling, it concerns a Nazi war criminal who is haunted by his past and, having been recognised by a concentration camp survivor, ends up trapped inside a painting depicting his own crucifixion. Both stories have an atmosphere of dread and their own perverse internal logic. We agree that these are the kind of tales we should be writing.

  I mention a thought I've had about basing all our different stories in the North West. Not just Manchester or Salford, but the surrounding towns and villages with old, twisted names like Sabden and Hall-i’-th’-Wood. Or Todmorden: a location with the reputation of being the UFO hotspot of Europe.

  I'm especially keen to set something around Pendle Hill. Between the ages of 6 and 18, I lived in the town of Great Harwood. When I walked out to the playing fields behind our house, I could see the huge hump of Pendle looming over the town. With its history of ancient witchcraft and its damp, green grass, thick with magic mushrooms, it had always seemed to be a site of supernatural potential.

  Mark has long been fascinated by magick and witchcraft. Throughout the decades he's made multiple references to these subjects in his lyrics. 1986 saw The Fall release the song ‘Lucifer Over Lancashire’ – although Mark had been working on versions of the song's lyrics since at least 1977. The final text is ripe with references to ‘a demon's grip’, ‘his cock-eyed moon’ and ‘A useless priest’. It also contains one of the most viscid of Mark's lines: ‘Monstrous kiss, wet dagger’. I'd love to think we could get some of this ghastly atmosphere into a script.

  I ask if he has any potential stories in mind.

  “Sorry Graham, I've not done me prep,” he then clears his throat. “I did have an idea for one called ‘The Death of Standards’.”

  I'm thrilled by the fact he already has a title for it. And what a title! He goes on to outline the bare bones of a story about a woman who works in local government. On her drive to work she perpetrates a hit and run. Upon arriving at the office, she rants to her staff about how hit and run drivers should be executed. Then members of her staff start behaving in the same odd manner: performing terrible acts then raging against those very acts. This sounds exactly like something I'd love to watch.

  We've been working for about 45 minutes when Mark lights a cigarette. The BBC building is, like pretty much every other building in the country, a non-smoking building. Mark knows this. I know this.

  “You're not allowed to smoke in here,” I say dutifully. Mark nods and purses his lips.

  “They'll let us know if they have to.”

  We talk for a few more minutes, then the door opens a crack and a young, dark haired woman sticks her head into the room.

  “Erm, you're not allowed to smoke in here,” she says in a slightly apologetic voice. Mark looks up and gives her a charming smile.

  “Oh? Sorry love – didn't know.” He stubs out his cigarette on the sole of his shoe. She smiles back and closes the door. Mark turns toward me.

  “Let's do another hour, then go for a drink.”

  An hour later, we duly move to The Space Bar further down the road. We sip from bottles of pilsner, as we continue to chew over story ideas. I mention the scenario from the 1979 Fall song ‘A Figure Walks’, wherein a character endures a long walk home during which they have their anorak hood zipped right up, restricting their vision by two thirds, as they are followed by a strange, alien monster.

  “Could we use that idea?”

  “Maybe,” says Mark with a doubtful expression. I shake my head.

  “Sorry, forget that. I know you're not really interested in going back to old ideas.”

  “No, not really. What's the point? I've already fuckin’ done it. It's like I get these idiots ringing
us up, asking the group to come and play Hex Enduction Hour. They wanna fuckin’ grow up! You see, the further North you go, the less interested in the past people are. You get me?” I nod. But I'm not sure if I do get him.

  “And the less interested they are in fuckin’ ‘celebrities’. You get too much of that in London. That's why I'd rather stay here, see what I'm saying? People here, they give you some fuckin’ space. It's like this cunt here. I saw him clocking me when we came in.”

  Mark nods towards the table opposite. The occupant appears to be a casually dressed, well-to-do middle-aged Middle Eastern businessman, on a night out with his much younger girlfriend. That this guy might have recognised Mark, or have even heard of The Fall, seems fairly unlikely. Luckily, neither he nor his girlfriend seems to have heard Mark's assessment.

  We stay in The Space Bar drinking and chatting for another three hours. Thankfully, at no point in proceedings does the middle-aged Middle Eastern businessman come over and ask for Mark's autograph.

  By mid evening Mark is lively, engaging and drunk, whereas I am just drunk. Alcohol isn't really my drug. I can go for a month or so at a time without drinking and not really notice. Neither of my parents are drinkers either. Not for moral reasons: it's just never been part of their or my lifestyle.

  For Mark however, alcohol has been one of his constant fuels. But if truth be told, pilsner and whisky are not his only vices. In fact, earlier in the afternoon, he had referred to having recently taken some acid whilst away on tour. I imagine relatively few 50-year-old men still take acid. And I would venture fewer still regularly indulge in biker's speed.

  We push open the heavy glass doors of the bar. We step out onto the cobbled street. The sudden fresh night air almost stings. Mark still has a whisky tumbler in his hand. He takes a couple more gulps then drops the heavy glass into a refuse bin. He hails a taxi. I tell him I'll write up some notes on the stories. We say good night. We hug.

  “Take it easy cock.” Mark smiles as he climbs into the back of the taxi. I've had such a funny, inspiring and creative day. I'm fizzing with positivity. As Mark drives off I almost wave.

  I hear my brain saying ‘You're developing a supernatural anthology series with Mark E. Smith.’ It seems highly unlikely. Almost like something that might happen in a dream, or in a supernatural anthology series.

  As luck would have it, I am staying at the Palace Hotel, which is conveniently located directly across from where I'm standing. I'm about to stride blithely across the wide road. I suddenly stop, and remind myself that I am very, very pissed and that I should be extra careful. I take a deep breath then make sure I note the location and speed of all the cars and buses so that I can cross safely.

  I step confidently out in front of a cyclist. He swerves to avoid crashing into me.

  “Sorry!” I shout after him.

  “Pisshead!” He shouts back.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Monday April 30th 2007

  I've caught the train from Brighton to London, in order to meet Mark. Following our previous meeting I wrote up our best ideas into three pages of notes and thoughts and posted them to him. He phoned me and said he loved them, and that we should meet again and carry on developing the material.

  He and Elena are in London for a couple of days, whilst he does interviews and publicity work for the release of the album Tromatic Reflexxions by Von Sudenfed: a trio consisting of Andi Toma and Jan St. Werner aka German electronica artists Mouse on Mars, with Mark providing vocals and treatments.

  On the train up to Victoria I was listening on my iPod to the Von Sudenfed track ‘Family Feud’ which has been released as a taster in advance of the LP. It's a lattice of rhythmic electronics and serrated beats, over which Mark declaims ‘I am the great M.E.S.!’ We're so used to rap artists boasting of their skills and magnitude, but it's a rare thing for a left field rock artist to do it. Yet it's been one of the weapons in Mark's lyrical armoury from the very start.

  I arrive at the Hilton hotel on Holland Park Avenue and take the lift up to his room. I knock on the door and a moment later Mark opens up, giving me a broad smile and a hug.

  “Come in pal, come in. I've missed you.”

  This strikes me as an extremely sweet thing for him to say, considering we've only really met properly twice before.

  We sit down at a small circular table by the window. Mark shows me the latest edition of Wire magazine, with he, Andi and Jan on the cover. He then produces two bottles of pilsner. We open them and talk about what we've been up to, after which Mark clears his throat and speaks in a serious voice.

  “So, what's this meeting about then?”

  For a second I feel caught out. Then I remember it was his idea to have the meeting in the first place. We read through the notes and soon we're both sparking off new thoughts about the series.

  Elena enters wearing a dark blue coat and carrying a shopping bag. This is the first time she and I have met, but she's warm, friendly and clearly very smart. Elena and Mark have been married for six years and the love between them is palpable. When they first met, Mark was at his lowest ebb, with no group, and as far as the outside world seemed to be concerned, no great prospects for the future. But with the support and care of the Grecian Elena, Mark has risen again to a new level of artistic engagement and media presence.

  “Can I get anything for anybody? Something to eat? Beers?”

  We open a couple more pilsners as they talk about where they might eat later. Elena asks if I'd like to come along, but I have to decline, as I need to get back for a friend's birthday drinks. Somehow the conversation gets onto diet and I mention that although I don't eat meat I do eat fish, as I don't have any emotional response to fishes.

  “The thing about you Graham,” says Mark, “is you're nice.” I wait for him to elaborate. He obviously isn't going to.

  “So is that a good thing or a bad thing?” Mark lets out a full-throated cackle, takes a sip of his pilsner and clears his throat.

  “Next subject!”

  Elena leaves us to carry on working. We spend another couple of hours elaborating on some of our ideas. Mark also comes up with a new one. This story concerns one of those big Victorian factory buildings in Manchester that are inexorably being converted into flats. The building in question is haunted by the poor-house children who used to toil there in the late 1800s.

  Mark suggests we call the series The Inexplicable. I love it, as it sounds like the title of an album by The Fall that I should already own.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Over the following weeks I start working up the pitch document. Mark posts me an A4 envelope with more ideas and notes. It also contains a loose disc. It's a Twilight Zone DVD. Mark's spidery writing informs me that the disc ‘fell out of the wall.’ As fate would have it, the DVD features my favourite episode: ‘The Masks’. I decide this is a good omen. Mark and I put together what we think is a strong pitch for the anthology series. I send it to a series of production companies. Unfortunately, nobody seems willing to take a risk on the idea.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Nine months later, we decide to retool the pitch, so that the supernatural events all revolve around one character – a hapless electrician. Mark has the idea of developing it into a musical where the characters lip-synch to songs. Like The Singing Detective, but with all Fall songs. I immediately realise this is exactly the project that western culture has been lacking: a supernatural Fall musical for TV. It's so obvious when you think about it.

  Once again, I find myself in meetings with commissioners who don't quite get it. I try and explain how many people believe Mark is a deeply significant artist. How he exerts a fascination even for those with no interest in The Fall. I say people would love to see what he might create for narrative television, and critics would be falling over themselves to write about it.

  “Yes,” replies one commissioner with a thin smile. “But he's not exactly Stephen Fry, is he?”

  “Perhaps he's a working class Yang to Steph
en Fry's posh Yin. Maybe they should star as a detective duo: Yin and Yang.” He wrinkles his nose and replies in all seriousness:

  “I doubt Stephen would be interested.”

  I begin to wonder if the title The Inexplicable is a hostage to fortune. I visualise a sarcastic review in the Daily Mail that concludes with ‘…the one truly inexplicable thing about this show is why it was made in the first place.’ Then I fantasise about putting that review on the DVD cover, in an act of creative spite. After a few more unsatisfactory meetings with producers, The Inexplicable goes back on the shelf.

  In 2011, Mark phones up and asks if I'd like to do a couple of gigs supporting The Fall, presenting some kind of performance piece. My immediate thoughts are ‘God yes!’ and ‘Oh fuck!’ After I put down the phone I ponder for about 5 minutes then I call up my good friend Malcolm Boyle. He's not only one of my very closest friends, and a long time creative collaborator, he's also the biggest Fall fan I know. If there's one person who needs to support The Fall, it's Malcolm. I ask if he'd like to do the shows with me.

  “God yes!” He says, before adding “Oh fuck!”

  In the end, I come up with the idea of doing an interactive quiz with audience members. We write the questions together and Malcolm and I appear as our characters from Ideal. He the pretentious art gallery owner Warren Keys, I the bitchy promiscuous and defiantly queer Brian. The quiz is called How Northern Are You? It involves asking audience members multiple choice questions:

  In June 1976 a concert at the Free Trade Hall in Manchester changed the northern face of the north forever. Who was the concert by?

  a) Emerson Lake and Palmer.

  b) The Sex Pistols.

  c) Freddie ‘Parrot Face’ Davies.

  And…

  The North's best artist Mr Lowry is famous for painting what?

  a) Matchstalk men and matchstalk cats and dogs.

  b) Hatchlings stalking marching men in bogs.

  c) Matt Goss talking in matching hat and coat.