London The Venue

THE PREVIOUS night I had awoken from troubled slumbers drenched in a cold sweat, from a nightmare featuring The Fall at the Venue.

A procession of Mark E Smith clones lined the bar in a queue for cocktails. Manager Key Carroll reserved tables for specially-invited record business dignitaries, not allowing the band on until all these Very Important People had been fed. The Fall declare “forget the past, we're going for the Ants market”. A drum duo was completed with the return of Karl Burns, MES well into practice for the acquisition of sea going garb, one hand always hidden, Nelson style. somewhere in his jacket.

In wide awake reality it makes as much sense for the Fall to play the Venue as it does for them to appear at, say. some university campus, the unwholesome reek of academia being just as nauseous as the body odours of full time freeloaders. The Fall never seem at home anywhere.

So where do they belong? Not in the working men's clubs that Smith seems obsessed with, as they're far too real and potent. Tonight they content themselves with being introduced by a ropey looking drag artiste, although some members of the audience think it is Smith himself executing a jolly jape.

The music is tight and the current line up plays far better than any past combination. In Fall terms it is a long-serving team, even allowing for the welcome home of old boy Burns.

Craig, Paul and Steve lock the tasty rhythms into gear. Marc Riley flits from keyboards to guitar, while Karl occasionally forsakes his skins for a bash on the same keys. Mark has a go too, leaning on the manual.

He also (for the first time before my eyes) kneels down and reaches a hand to Riley's guitar that is standing idle against an amp. He starts plucking. it's very loud and out of key, putting a raw blister of twang on the overall sound. The result is a wonderful racket, just like sitting at home and listening to the Velvet Underground.

Other outstanding recollections? The stunning atmospherics of 'Hip Priest' being savagely pursued by 'Lie Dream Of A Casino Soul', and that in turn giving way to 'Fantastic Life'. 'Who Makes The Nazis' (I think this is the title) closes the set. The crowd don't cheer. They clap hard, but very politely. This is uncomfortably like a reaction to seeing a Work Of Art. Not disheartened, the Fall return and give us the Dick Barton-theme soundalike 'Prole Art Threat'. Then they depart again.

Most of the punters exit as well but those sly Northerners troop back a second time for another one (for the road?) before a half-empty auditorium.Nowadays the Fall are a thousand times more accessible than the often sloppy noise of yore.

Their raw energies, once unsteady and easily dissipated. are becoming fully harnessed. Releasing well produced records and playing the Venue (dump that it is) shouldn't incite purist sneers.