Outspoken singer Mark E Smith has led his group the Fall for 32 years, surviving continual fights with an ever-changing cast of musicians to create dozens of albums in his own maverick style. At 51, he remains one of rock's most individual voices. In this first extract from his autobiography, introduced by Dave Simpson, he looks back at the formative moments of his childhood and the birth of the band
Mark E Smith has been called a drinker, a druggie, a tyrant and a nut. He has spent a night in the cells following one punch-up and been ordered to attend anger management. With his group the Fall, he has become one of the most influential musicians of the past 30 years. However, he is as famous for sacking band members as for his music, having dispensed with more than 50 musicians - including various wives and girlfriends - while making approximately 26 albums (there have been so many that no one seems entirely sure).
Smith formed the Fall - based in Salford - in the punk movement of 1976 and fired his first musician, a drummer whose name no one can agree on, before the group had made a record. Since then, he has been the sole ever-present member, in a reign that has seen off five prime ministers, the Falklands, Balkans and Gulf wars, more than a dozen record companies and innumerable changes in British music, while making the hard-driven, repetitive music that John Peel described as "always different, always the same". The Fall have never been a household name, but have had more non-top 20 chart hits (16 in all) than any other group.
The Fall's fans, who include everyone from Alex Kapranos to Frank Skinner and David Bowie, routinely hail Smith's "genius". It's less certain what that genius is. His horror-humorous lyrics - inspired, perhaps, by the sci-fi writers HP Lovecraft and Philip K Dick, along with hallucinogens - are pored over like the Bible as fans chuckle at his descriptions of British People in Hot Weather ("beached whales in Wapping, drunk before ya!") and ponder the true meaning of bizarre songtitles such as To Nkroachment: Yarbles.
Apparent prophesies, such as the song Powder Keg, released just before the Manchester bombing in 1996, convince many that he is psychic. And yet this musical colossus can barely play a note. He is reliant on musicians - whom he holds in contempt - for his lifetime's work.
Thus, Smith operates like some sort of cross between an old-fashioned site manager and Brian Clough, inspiring his teams of unfashionable "players" (often recruited in the pub) while hiring, firing and overseeing performances based on a philosophy of "creative tension". This is the most hallowed and secretive area of his art. Tales abound of bizarre commands ("Play it like a fookin' snake!") and guitarists abandoned at foreign airports.
That creative tension produces both music and mayhem. Line-ups have imploded before and even during gigs - after one punch-up in 1998, Smith managed to lose an entire Fall. Some ex-Fallers - notably fashion queen Brix Smith and DJ Marc Riley - have gone on to other things, but most have disappeared faster than Lord Lucan. Meanwhile, Smith just dusts himself down, finds more willing recruits, and ploughs a unique furrow in British music. This month's new album, Imperial Wax Solvent, is among the Fall's very best and suggests that Smith's eye for observation is undimmed. "I'm a 50-year-old man," he declares, "and I like it. What are you gonna do about it?" Dave Simpson
Twelve going on 60 - that's what people used to say about me: a 12-year-old wanting to be a 60-year-old man. I couldn't stand music when I was that age. I hated it, thought it was vaguely effeminate. Music to me was something your sisters did.
And I couldn't stand my sisters. Sometimes in the school holidays when my mam and dad were at work, I'd be looking after five fucking girls: my three sisters, this adopted kid, and another whose parents were abusive to her. This was late the 60s or early 70s, and they'd have been about four or five at the time.
I devised this thing called "Japanese prison camp". I'd make them sit in this room under a table with a big cloth over them because the air force might be coming. I'd be the Japanese guard. "You can't go out. You must stay under there," I'd tell them. Then I'd shut the door, say I was going to the bridge on the River Kwai, have some pop, go out with my mates and, half an hour before my mam and dad came home, I'd return, saying, "Japanese prison camp is now over."
If they escaped, the punishment would be "No lemonade." They used to love it. Throw sweets under the cloth. Good laugh.
They always remember it, my sisters, when they get a bit pissed: "We remember Japanese prison camp. You don't fool us, you pop star." And my mam's going, "What's Japanese prison camp?" Today, we'd probably get investigated by the social services.
Anyway, my three sisters all had posters of Cliff and the Osmonds over the house. I was more into causing trouble, forming gangs and things like that. I used to have a few - Psycho Mafia, the Barry Boy gang. We'd fight other gangs. It was quite interesting; there used to be Irish gangs and Orthodox Jewish gangs. But the Psycho Mafia was a real melting pot, and I was the vice-president.
If there was somebody from another gang on the same paper round from another newsagents we used to set his papers on fire. Or put notes inside saying, "Piss off missus - your paper boy!" Things like that, little things.
We had a camp in St Mary's park, Prestwich - a little tent behind some trees, where we'd put knocked-off Kit-Kats and Lion bars, and copies of Playboy; made a lot of money flogging porn mags, selling them to the suckers behind the bike-sheds. The Irish lads would be like, "Who the hell wants to look at some woman with no clothes on? I can see it every day with me sister." But the fuckers would still buy them. We used to sell it per page. But Playboy was quite literary in those days, so some kids would say, "Have you got them four pages of Playboy?" And the front page would be a Playboy bunny, and the other three pages an interview with Norman Mailer: His Life in Question, or Hunting and Fishing in Nevada . Sometimes we'd even substitute it with pages from Woman's Own - some romance story.
I feel deeply sorry for a lot of kids nowadays. They're missing out on things.
As for school - Stand grammar - I never really liked it. By the time I was 14, my main ambition was to get out. I just wanted to sign on. Couldn't understand these lads and girls who wanted to stay around and be told what to do. I just wanted my own place. You could do that then - sign on and live - but not now. I started writing around that time as well, when I was 14, 15. I wasn't particularly influenced by anybody, just used to write short stories and little pieces to amuse myself.
I spent a lot of time in the library. Solitude. I was living in a small house with six or seven other people. It never bothered me much, really, but if I'm doing anything, I need room.
The thing about school was, I couldn't get my head around any of the prescribed books - The Hobbit, for instance. The master used to read us The Hobbit - can you believe it? That's all we used to talk about - small men in holes. We had a protest about it, against him. He used to room with JRR Tolkien, and that's all he'd ever talk about, his days with JRR. The prefects actually backed us up; because we were saying, "This is supposed to be English literature and we're reading this shit, this fairy story, when we're supposed to be reading Shakespeare and medieval poetry."
Another thing I objected to was the way they tried to tell you which university to go to, or, if you didn't want that, they already had a job worked out for you when you were 13 or 14. For instance, I was a two-O-level boy who was supposed to go and get a job in Kendals department store or, if not that then go and work in the civil service or the army. Unbelievable.
I started smoking when I was about 16. I don't think you need it really before then. I couldn't see the point to it. We used to write our names on walls and garages with Capstan Full Strength cig-ends. They were that strong, like black chalk - better than a pen.
I took acid before I had a packet of cigarettes, though, at 15. I was on acid before I even had any pot; pot was for hippies. I had no problem with the acid because it was proper LSD. I remember my sister giving me a copy of I Can Hear the Grass Grow by the Move - a second-hand copy. And I listened to it on acid. Couldn't believe it - knocks all that other psychedelic shit into touch.
If anything, I was doing acid to get away from the cider clubs and the sherry clubs. Kids of about 14 used to nick their mam's "British Sherry" and be sick all over the house. You could tell where they lived by the drink and vomit stains on the carpet.
My ambition at the time was to get a flat, take drugs, and not work. But I needed to be earning. My dad never gave me any money. I used to go to work on plumbing jobs with him in the summer holidays. Everybody else would be out playing or doing whatever, and I'd be cleaning toilets and drains out. I remember sweeping up and hearing the Move and the Kinks on the radio; good education.
My dad was very tough: a hard-case. Not in a violent way, but mentally. It must have been hard for him. I appreciate it now, though. He reminds me of the copper in Life on Mars, the Gene Hunt character. Characters like that were quite fair-minded in their own way. I'm not saying they're a perfect type, just that they have a lot of instinctive common sense. You see dads nowadays, always hanging around their kids. It's ridiculous. It's more about them than the kids, their ideas. My dad worked all day and he'd be out at night. But that's how it was in those days.
When I was on tour in the early days I used to ring my dad up and ask him to collect the mail, and he'd be like, "What are you doing?"
"I'm in Germany ."
"What you doing there?"
"Doing very well."
"You must be mad."
Because he saw Germany as just a load of old women walking round with sticks and a load of rubble; still thinking it's 1946.
"Is this what it's come to?" he'd say.
I used to love it. I'd tell the other fellows and they'd go, "I'd cry if my father said that to me."
I couldn't afford to go to college; went for about three months but I never had any money. Looking back, I never liked college anyway - I educated myself better. But my dad was good like that. His philosophy was: "Look, if you've got a fiver in your pocket on a Friday night you're made." Real English working class - what you once thought of as a handicap comes in really useful later on when you're down on your luck or the band's got no money. I'll never forget that.
Fred, my grandad, was another pragmatist. He had a big plumbing shop in Salford near Strangeways prison on this green hillock. Eighteen apprentices. His idea of a good time was reading a book on plumbing, on how to dispose of shit.
He'd stand outside Strangeways and recruit ex-prisoners, get them making lathes and pipes. At the time they were recruiting for the army and he'd say, "You've got a choice - you either go to Ireland or you come with me."
I bump into them when I'm in Manchester sometimes - fellows who are about 55. They just come up and say, "You're Fred's grandson, aren't you?" and I'll be thinking, "Oh fucking hell. What are they going to say now?" But they're really complimentary - they say things like, "Your grandad met me outside Strangeways one Wednesday afternoon, and he turned my life around." Different times then, different people, unlike the ungrateful musicians I employ.
They say that there's a generation gap: you're not actually like your mam and dad, you're more like your grandfather or grandmother. In this respect I had more in common with my grandad than I did with my dad - just hiring people off the street. If they go, they go, if they don't, they don't. I'm not really bothered where people come from. Mind you, I don't understand why everyone makes such a big deal about where they go, either. The other members of the Fall came, they saw, they fucked off, and now I no longer see them. I find it all very boring, to be honest.
One of my first jobs was at the docks in Salford as a shipping clerk. They were much more free and easy. I was 16. People were great; I was working with dockers and shipping agencies. At the time it was incredible: big ships coming in from Canada , Nigeria , Ghana , full of fruit. I enjoyed my work. It was better than being at college. Got to see all sorts of people - Yanks, Nigerians, all wanting a pint as soon as they'd got off the boat - but I had to clear them, make sure all their insurance was all right.
In a strange way, I'm still very clerical about most things I do. I suppose I'm still in the Fall because it forces me to make something of myself, which in its own way is a very desk-job attitude to have. It's probably why I record so much. If it wasn't for the Fall,
I'd be at home right now trying to motivate myself to write, but probably doing every other thing possible not to write. Fucking around with this and that. Going to the pub. Watching TV. It's that old writer's dilemma. Unless you're forced to work, you find yourself cleaning out the backyard as an excuse. I used to write in my lunch hour, jot things down. The docks gave me the time to do that.
But it's a good thing the Fall did happen because I got fired by this dickhead; got fired because I was a bit late. I'd been late a few times, but they'd just got this new management. Things were changing. Three-day week, candles on your desk ... One day there's no boats from Nigeria . All of a sudden it's machine parts from Germany . We're part of the Common Market now, so the dockers were mooning about, all miserable, blaming I don't know who.
I remember having a distinct feeling that this was all going to collapse around me. One minute I'm in the office doing imports and exports, going to work in my shirt and pants, normal-like, the next there's these twats there in Rod Stewart suits, running the fucking company. But they had this old accountant there, about 70. I'll never forget him: Trevor. He was like Rumpole. Smoked a pipe. He'd been in the Royal Navy, and he was always telling me: "Get out, Mark, get out now. You're too intelligent for this job."
He used to follow me to the toilet, asking me why I was still there. He was looking after me.
The new bosses came in like New Labour - a total overhaul. It all changed - the whole office - and eventually it all closed down. But I'd got the push long before. I knew it was coming: they'd always be getting me on my time.
I didn't mind being on the dole. I had a lot of time on my hands as a result. Other people went to university, but I read books, smoked cigs and looked around most days. It's good to have a period like that in your life, when you're not being forced to think like others. Don't get me wrong: I had my fair share of dull days and my diet wasn't the most healthy, but I read a lot of good books and wrote a lot, most of which found its way on to our first LP. I didn't think of it like that when I was writing, though. I just felt an urge to write.
If you're a cod-psychologist, I guess you could trace most of the Fall's output back to this period, to the wilderness years, the dole days - back to young Mark laying the hard foundations for the rough and brilliant years that he hasn't yet seen!
I never felt better than anybody, though, never felt superior, in that sort of arrogantly artistic way. That's why I never really liked John Lennon. He seemed very arrogant. It was all about being an artist with him - the living part was secondary to his stance. I think it's more important to be a man than it is to be an artist.
To certain people you've got to be a bit poetic, or a bit aggressive. They have their image of you - and I play up to it. But it's a protection, a screen. I can pull it out when I need it, because with some people you do need it. It's hard enough to draw breath some days, never mind with some daft scourge wanting to infect me with his shit. And invariably it's a bloke. It's funny, because with people like that, who feel the need to really press themselves on you, you can see the lad they were 20 or 30 years ago in their faces. They're disappointed with the way they've handled those years. Fuck all to do with me. I don't get it a lot but when I have, I've just pulled out my other side, the malevolent Mark side. That's always been enough to see them off.
Come the mid-70s, I was sharing a flat in Prestwich's Kingswood Road with my girlfriend, Una Baines. I wasn't in love with her, but you're stuck when you're on the dole - nowhere to go. We lived at the back of the mental hospital where Una worked. Biggest mental hospital in Europe ; serious mental patients. I'd invite patients in for a cup of tea. Sit them down, play them some rock'n'roll, a bit of telly. Sometimes I think I did more good than all the nurses put together. They'd go out all cheerful.
Prestwich was quite a going place at the time. You could go in the Wilton , or the Priest's Retreat as it's called now, and you could get anything you wanted - acid, dope, anything. People talk about there being a lot of coke around now ... they should have seen it then.
The Fall just came about, really, with four of us holed up in that flat, doing our thing. Martin Bramah was the singer because he had the looks, Tony Friel was the bass player, I played the guitar and Una had the keyboards, once she had saved up to buy them. As far as I was concerned, it wasn't about trying to get our pictures in some paper or magazine or other - like it is with a lot of bands nowadays - it was because of sounds, of wanting to make something, to combine primitive music with intelligent lyrics. The punk scene had just started, and when I first saw the Sex Pistols at the Lesser Free Trade Hall in '76, I thought, "My lot are not as bad as that. We're better. We just need a drummer." So we got one in: a little bald man from Stockport called Dave.
A lot of people have lumped us in with punk, but I've never aligned myself with it. I didn't want to be part of a scene, never have. And I knew it wasn't going to last. Once that quick statement was over, most of the main players couldn't handle the fall-out: they were like a bunch of shell-shocked army majors stuck in time, endlessly repeating their once-successful war cries. When you're dealing in slogans like the Clash and the Pistols, it's hard to keep that shit fresh.
When the Fall played live it was: attack! People at the back of the room would be like, "Whoa! What the fuck is this?" Quite confrontational in a way ... But the songs were more like short stories; unlike every fucker else, we didn't just bark out wild generalisations. It was hardly surprising that nobody liked us.
We played all sorts of places, but used to get a better reception in youth clubs - kids' clubs. You go to a punk club in Middlesbrough and there'd be 20 strapping guys with their hair all stuck up - weekend punks, we used to call them - spitting at you all the time. But we always thought on a different level from the punks. What carried us through was the strength of the music - that's how we won people over.
To be honest, though, it wasn't a happy time. I've never been matey with musicians, even then. I think that's where I got off on the wrong foot. I'd had enough of gangs at school. That's where they get upset. Musicians don't like it if I spend time with other people, non-musicians. But who wants to hang around with the group all the time anyway? You spend enough time with them on the road, for fuck's sake.
© 2008 Mark E Smith. Extracted from Renegade: The Lives and Tales of Mark E Smith, to be published by Viking on April 24, price £18.99. To order a copy for £17.99 with free UK p&p, go to guardian.co.uk/bookshop or call 0870 836 0875.
Dave Simpson's book, The Fallen: Searching for the Missing Members of the Fall, will be published by Canongate in September. thefallenbook.co.uk
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