So, it was the beginning of my first term in my first year at Leeds University. I wandered into the Union Music Library and craned my neck up to gawk at the walls of shelves stacked high with records. I’d just bought my first record player. None of the records were in order and it was a wonderful free-for-all of names I’d never heard of and artwork I’d never seen. After twenty minutes of standing on my tiptoes and trying to subtly jump up to see what was on the top shelves, I realised I was late for a lecture. I quickly grabbed the first record that stood out to me (my decision being based purely on the record having a pastel pink sleeve and pastel colours are what I base all my important life decisions on) and I dashed to my lecture.
The album was Perverted By Language, a 1983 album release by the Manchester post-punk band, The Fall. I stuck it on after an incredibly long and frustrating lecture and I was blasted with waves of driving drum beats and strong, strong guitar riffs that repeated themselves over and over. I was almost in a trance as I tried and failed to decipher Mark E Smith’s poetic slurs, which are juxtaposed with the straight, direct rhythm of their delivery. Dancing around my room, it was like I was reliving my angsty teenage years. But with more pizazz. After working my way through the 24 tracks, I lay on my bed in silence, trying to comprehend the magic of what I’d just listened to.
It’s been almost ten months and my love for The Fall remains undying. I’m not going to pretend I know and have listened to every single song on every single one of their 31 albums, it would be a very impressive feat but I don’t think I have that level of concentration. I did, however, manage to catch their Glastonbury set this summer in light of their 31st album release – Sub-Lingual Tablet – which was released in May 2015. I observed in awe the now predictable unpredictability of Mark E Smith’s character. Stumbling across the stage, slurring into the mic, turning the guitarist’s amp off when he didn’t like his “sound”. It’s England’s answer to Shane MacGowan.
But what I was really doing as I stood their, tired, muddy, happy and as inappropriately sunburnt as only an Irish person can get, was thinking how special a moment this was. I was in a crowd amongst many Glasto-goers much older than me, old enough to have probably been around when The Fall had just formed, witnessing them and their sound through the 70’s/80’s/90’s, up until now. They stood there managing to catch a sentence or two of Smith’s poetic rants and shouting them back to him with as much excitement and enthusiasm as the day they first heard them, much like myself.
I also realised that this moment and the many others of beautifully choreographed dance sequences to records in my room were all down to the Union Music Library, its fantastically chaotic record collection and my lack of good time management.
Words by Tori Clarkson
Leeds Union Music Library 