Berlin is right up my Strasse:
A few words penned after a brief trip at the arse end of last year:
If you called Mark E. Smith a National Treasure he’d more than likely smack you in the face, and to be honest you’d deserve it: using such a glib turn of phrase is obviously going to agitate a dissident so long in the tooth. But there is something to be said for the motivation in issuing Smith such a prefix, as he’s been steadfast in his rejection of labels for thirty years. Forming The Fall in the mid Seventies, his atonal diatribes have underpinned one of the most diverse and consciously impenetrable bands the UK has ever produced, the list of albums almost as long as that of the personnel. He has stood at the peripherals of popular culture, piss eyed and peerless, for longer than anyone else would conceive possible and although his singularity can border on the belligerent, anyone with more than a passing interest in music will know exactly who he is, if a little unsure of why.
“We got a bit bored of wearing black all the time, so we’re wearing pink today” enthuses Suzi Horn as she struggles down the stairs with a speaker of monolithic proportions. Following not too far behind and encumbered beneath similarly bulky sound equipment, Tobin Prinz has a spring in his step that belies his six and a half foot frame and the near tonne of speaker he’s carrying. As they deposit the amps, the cabs and other associated kit and caboodle in the studio, the session’s soundman blinks forth into the grey light collecting in the open foyer. He’s clearly a bit nervous
“Guys, it’s only a small room. If we use all of these speakers it’s going to be really hard to get a nice clean sound.”
“Good” With the puncturing brevity of a staple gun, Tobin’s terse reply goes a some way into demonstrating the sheer bloody mindedness that drives pretty much everything Prinzhorn Dance School do.