Last week we went to see The Fall at the Astoria - a warehouse of drunkenness, experience, harsh bass that breaks apart Paolozzi's mosaics inside Tottenham Court Rd station, a place where people meet to make sensation mean something real to them - soon to be sold to commercial developers - another turreted outpost beneath the omphalos of CENTREPOINT. In the crowd was Frank Skinner & the drummer from The Horrors. In that tensile thrum before they came on stage, the sense that something special is going to happen only once like this - at our feet a stash of Red Stripe cans - we stood on the top tier looking down at the moshpit & stage. A man in a leather jacket & jeans, shaved head, seething an undercurrent of repressed violence and dissatisfaction - skin pitted through acne and alcohol like a kind of hairy red lemon - tells us he's called D es & starts talking at us. He says The Fall could only happen in England, where else would people pay to see a drunk take ...
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