Mark E. Smith of The Fall
photographed at Tut's, July 16, 1981
Photo by Ken Mierzwa,
copyright © 2003-2006
photographed at Tut's, July 16, 1981
Photo by Ken Mierzwa,
copyright © 2003-2006
Summer 1981
I need to take a moment to talk about the people. Of course I never took a formal poll; but my sense was that mostly, they were kids like me. Kids who had lived in the city long enough to be at home there. Kids who had subsequently grown up in the suburbs. As we approached school age, parents had moved to places with better schools. So we were smart kids. There was just one problem. We saw through the smokescreen called the American Dream. Today, at least in some circles there is agreement that the post-war automobile culture produced a mowed-lawn and concrete wasteland, where families were isolated in their detached houses, there was little street life, and a car was needed to go almost anywhere. Of course that didn't matter much, because with no town center, there was no place to go anyway.A lot of us ranted at our parents and anyone else who would hold still long enough. "Can't you see?" Well no, actually they couldn't. A whole generation was so rooted in the postwar progress-will-overcome mentality that there was no thought that parts of it could have been a mistake. Everyone was far too concerned what the neighbors might think, far too busy trying to conform. After weeks or months of futility, we accepted that no one in the suburbs wanted to understand. So while generally playing by society's rules, some of us - a small percentage, really - began to migrate to the inner city. There, we found others like ourselves. Artist's colonies have perhaps always moved to the fringes of society, to the places with low rents; and paradoxically, artists are usually the first wedge of gentrification. They make the neighborhood "safe" enough for others to follow. We were just a new kind of artist.
There were dangers. A lot of people were navigating treacherous philosophical and emotional waters, questioning everything about the human condition. When the underpinning, everything we had been taught to assume, was swept away... well, what else was there? For a while there was a void. We knew how to assemble and analyze information -- I already had some formal training in philosophy, and others had relevant skills -- but it took time to assemble an alternate world view. During that time, one was at risk. These same thoughts can be found in the writings of many great authors and poets: Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Lautreamont, Poe, Artaud, Jarry; most of whom died too young. I lost some friends prematurely, too. Those who made it to the other side came out stronger.
These things, along with a more easily understandable rebellion typical of the youth of all generations, contributed so much to the music and to the parallel and related artforms which developed along with it.
On Bastille Day, 1981, I was sitting at the bar at Exit on Wells Street. I had been talking to Kathleen, the bartender; she had left Tut's a while back. At some point that transitioned into a conversation with the blond-and-pink haired girl sitting next to me. Cheryl was a former art student, originally from Detroit. She was intelligent, but so were a lot of other people in the room that night. She stood out because she had been to the edge. We had both read Lautreamont, and I remember her calling it a "dangerous" book. We talked about dada and surrealism, especially about the paintings of Marcel Duchamp, and about her experiences running codeine across the Canadian border. She had worked as a stripper, by choice, and as a form of self-expression. She told me that she went by three different names, depending on the situation, and I knew that none of them were real. After a while we left Exit and drove out to my studio to take some photos. I showed her the proof sheets a few days later. A few weeks after that she called me, really depressed, and I talked her out of suicide. She seemed OK after a while, but I never heard from her or saw her again. I used one of the photos of her in an exhibit in 2001, and whenever I look at that photo I wonder if she made it.
Two nights later, The Fall played at Tut's. Not exactly a household name today, they were from Manchester, England and were known for their rough sound and caustic lyrics. What can I say about Mark E. Smith? Tall, gawky, a bundle of contradictions, confident but walking a slightly different path than anyone else. He was the one constant. The rest of the band turned over frequently, thus maintaining a coarse barely-able-to-play the instruments sound. I'm told that some of the songs were written by clipping headlines from newspapers, pasting them up on pages, and filling in the gaps. The name of the band came from the Camus novel. Mark E. Smith and his cast of thousands have been prolific, continuing to produce music right up to the present.
Two of the songs played that night, "N.W.R.A.," and "Hip Priest," were recorded live and included on the subsequent album "A Part of America Therein, 1981." Mark's stage presence overcame the cheap aqua-blue windbreaker and brown polyester pants, but the slightly chaotic songs were best of all. It was an outstanding performance. The event organizers estimated the crowd at about 400, although I think that's optimistic.
A small group of people joined the band for a post-show party on Foster Avenue. Despite Mark's thick Manchester accent, we managed to carry on a series of disjointed conversations about American and British culture. At times I think I was catching every third word, while his manager was telling me that she could "understand Americans perfectly because we hear them on the telly all the time." When I framed a tight head shot of Mark in the small north side kitchen, he cocked his head at a strange angle and closed his eyes. It's an appropriate 6:00 am portrait of him. A little later a petite and somewhat wasted girl bared the tattoo on her breast for the camera, then smeared spaghetti sauce from a pot on the stove all over her face. Later she discarded her shirt, applied additional spaghetti sauce, and ran out into morning rush-hour traffic. Miraculously, there were no arrests despite the fact that the Foster Avenue Police Station was less than 200 feet away.
July 16 was also the night I officially joined the music press. Craig Schmidt, editor of a local fanzine called Coolest Retard, was at the party. He asked if he could run some of my photos. Three shots were included in the September issue, the eyes-closed photo plus two close-cropped head shots taken during the show. By the next issue I was on the masthead, and was writing reviews as well as providing photos.
Perhaps the greatest innovation of the punk and immediate post-punk era was self-publishing. Independent record labels blossomed almost overnight, circumventing the control of the major companies. Simultaneously, homemade fanzines began to appear in record stores and other alternative outlets. Anyone with something to say and willing to do a little work could now reach an audience.
Today we take self publishing for granted. Anyone with basic computer skills can produce a newsletter and run off hundreds of copies. But until about 1980, it wasn't so simple. Guy Lawley [in R. Sabin (editor), 1999, Punk Rock: So What? The Cultural Legacy of Punk, Routledge, London] summed up the crucial event which made self publishing realistic:
"One other factor probably fueled the small press boom more than punk: the photocopier, increasingly available in offices, libraries, and high street shops after 1980. Paying a printer to produce a comic or zine usually meant printing hundreds of copies which weren't going to sell, as printers would only take on larger print runs. Photocopiers meant you could print as few as you needed, then give them away or sell a limited print run to break even or make a modest profit."Coolest Retard was produced on typewriters by the individual authors. Early personal computers were available but still expensive and mostly limited to larger offices, and they were hobbled by limited memory and crude software. So we did it the old fashioned way. The articles and photos were then delivered to Craig, who spread them out on the floor of his Bissell Street apartment, cut them to size with a pair of scissors, and glued it all together. The completed originals then were taken to the recently opened Kinko's on Lincoln Avenue. By the time I joined the staff they were working on issue #16, and had a circulation of about 1,200 copies. Most of those sold through Wax Trax Records, just a few doors down from Kinko's, and a few other alternative record shops in Chicago. A few hundred were shipped off to be distributed in New York, London, and Liverpool. The cover price was 81 cents.
I'd been reading Coolest Retard for a while, and still have copies of all but the first few issues. It was a central source to learn about obscure music. The staff had diverse interests, and amazing energy. Each issue had reviews of recent live shows, record reviews, notice of upcoming shows, and ads by clubs, record stores, and other alternative merchants. The zine was all about, and only about, the latest music. As I was to learn later, expression of political opinions was not encouraged... or more likely, it was not well understood.
In retrospect, the 'zine was crude. The articles vary tremendously in quality, with some riddled with typos. Reproductive quality was primitive at best. But the chaotic appearance was typical of early 'zines, and somehow fitting for the times. There were no formal staff meetings, and there was no scheduling of who would cover what. We just went to whatever we wanted to. I met most of the rest of the staff one by one over a period of several months. Everyone found their own niche.
Although none of us were paid, the job had it's benefits. I rarely had to pay to see a band. Often my beer was free too. Backstage access was routine. The bigger acts on tour were already a little jaded, and probably did interviews only to sell records. They probably heard the same questions in every city. But the smaller bands clamored for attention. After a while, unsolicited records and demo tapes began to appear in my mailbox.
The British bands were usually well covered, with most of the staff turning out for the interviews. Mostly I concentrated on taking pictures in those situations. Karen and Diane covered the rockabilly shows. Coverage of reggae was limited to the bigger name acts, and the new romance dance bands were mostly avoided.
I pretty much had coverage of the art bands and industrial bands to myself, because it was kind of a fringe area and the other staffers were already busy with other things. The art bands often played together only once or twice, or if they lasted longer changed names and styles. There was little publicity, and it took a lot of networking to keep up with what was happening. I covered one bunch from the Art Institute three times, with three names, and three distinct sounds; same four people. They were actually pretty good no matter what they were calling themselves that week. The industrial bands could be just as unpredictable, and often they were trying to mess with society anyway. The best ones, like Cabaret Voltaire or Throbbing Gristle, pulled it off. The worst I ever heard was a local bunch called O No (a fitting name), guys in white sheets creating the most awful out of tune noise I've ever heard. I walked out after 10 minutes. The better local acts included The Men and Max Grey.
I also did a lot of the up-and-coming hard-core bands, even though I had mixed feelings about the music. Usually I was the only one on staff crazy enough to wade through the slam dancers to get to the edge of the stage to get good photos. I don't think the term "mosh pit" was invented til a few years later, but that's basically where I had to stand for 20-30 minutes at a time to get enough good shots. It was easier after a few beers, but also required good peripheral vision and almost a sixth sense to detect human bodies hurtling through the air. It didn't hurt if you were able to get a shoulder into them and push back.
There were two problems with the hard core, or thrash, bands. First, they all started to sound the same after a while. Loud fast angry music and incomprehensible vocals. Even the strongest lyrics didn't mean anything unless you had the hard copy of the words. It was kind of summed up by one experience with Articles of Faith, basically a good band with a University of Illinois straight-A history major writing the very political lyrics. One night, in the middle of a set, one of the guys broke a guitar string. The rest of the band improvised while he found a new string, but at about half of the usual frantic pace. Made up on the spot, it was the best thing they ever played in public. I told them that after the show. They never slowed down again.
The second problem was the negative attitude. Yeah, we already know things suck. After listening to enough angry young men sing songs to that effect, it seems fair to ask the question: "OK, what are we going to do to change things?" No answer from the thrash bands, just more angry lyrics and even faster music.
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Kenneth S. Mierzwa shadowplay2@mac.com
February 5, 2003 - Updated: March 27, 2006
February 5, 2003 - Updated: March 27, 2006