Behind the Counter
Telephone Thing
Green-Eyed Loco Man
And Therein
Mountain Energei
Theme from Sparta F.C.
Last Commands of Xylarothep via MES
F-‘Oldin’ Money
Kick the Can
Mere Pseud Mag Ed
Protein Protection
I Am Damo Suzuki
Mr. Pharmacist
Big New Prinz
There’s a Ghost in My House
Dr. Buck’s Letter

NOTES

From the Chicago Tribune:

The Fall rewards fans with jagged, snarled sounds By Bob Gendron
After visa problems caused The Fall to abort its previously scheduled dates in April and October 2002, Saturday’s sold-out concert (the first of a two-night stand) at The Empty Bottle was no sure thing. Just three weeks ago, the band inexplicably cancelled two Canadian stops before their tour had even started.

For most artists, such unpredictability would be ruinous. But for The Fall, the prolific but inconsistent post-punk group that’s endured more than 30 lineup changes and released more than 70 albums since its 1977 origins in Manchester, England, eccentricity is the norm. On this night, The Fall’s autocratic founder and sole original member, Mark E. Smith, rewarded the cult followers who continue to stick with the band’s every ebb and flow. Nearly 10 years removed from their last Chicago appearance, he and The Fall turned in a venomous performance that drew heavily from their ’90s catalogue and forthcoming “Country on the Click” record.

Although his worn, wrinkled face made him seem older than he really is, Smith remains a spiteful vocalist whose prickly, vitriolic tone has few peers.

Dressed in a black leather jacket, white button-down shirt and gray slacks, he looked like a disgruntled high-school principal who just lost his job and couldn’t have cared less. Focused and bitter, Smith didn’t crack a smile and seldom made eye contact with the crowd. During his tossed-off sing-speak deliveries, he garbled the vocals by shoving microphones toward his mouth and cupping his hand over his lips. Rather than muddling, these detached mannerisms helped elucidate the music’s message and intent.

Save for keyboardist Elenor Poulou, who stood motionless and played the same ominous refrain on each song, this incarnation of The Fall was tight, sharp and jagged. While Smith growled, snarled, stuttered and sneered, the four-piece band poured over repetitive two- and three-chord passages, regurgitating and bashing them into submission. Single guitar notes were skewered, served up as bait, then stabbed. Aluminum-tinted bass lines constantly collided with Smith’s splintered vowels, causing the music to boil over with resentment. Particularly confrontational were the scathing “Bourgeois Town,” on which Ben Pritchard made his guitar sound like a gravel-chomping lawn mower, and the hypnotic “I Am Damo Suzuki,” where drummer Dave Milner sheared the heads off any melodies that dared crop up. During a run through the stomping “Mr. Pharmacist” and “New Big Prinz,” The Fall became a primal ’60s garage band. But nothing came close to topping the ferocity of “Sparta FC,” which sounded purely murderous. As Pritchard and Poulou barked, “You have to pay for everything/but some things are for free,” they brought to a close what is the best new
Fall song in an age.

Though it would have been nice to hear a longer set (the band played for 70 minutes) or a few selections from their seminal Rough Trade period (which was completely ignored), that The Fall showed up was enough for most. That their newest music sounded so vital was a surprise – another summit in Smith’s ongoing roller coaster of a career.

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