John McCready "From Manchester With Love" Liverpool Royal Court

(could be the March 17, 1985 gig ?)

Source?, ? date

FROM MANCHESTER WITH LOVE

Liverpool Royal Court

AND SO THEY came, grumbling down the East Lancashire Road - three container trucks full of drums and wires - with love from Manchester. So here we are. Listening to the psychotic violence of Peter Hook's bass leading us into 'The Perfect Kiss' and several hours of dark satanic pop in aid of the 49 Labour councillors up before the beak.

New Order do what they've alway done. Switching on their machines they play Joy-less tunes for metropolitan cathedrals, so careless, so uncomplicated, so uncalculating, that splintered symphonies emerge just when they're concentrating most intently on pleasing nobody but themselves. "Fuck off", requests the bald-headed Barn before scraping away at his guitar, his ear to the fretboard, his face contorted in a "I'm sure this is out of tune" fashion.

I'm happy for them. New Order have jumped all over the carefully shorn privet hedge of a reputation which was always too cruel, too unforgiving to live with! They make mistakes, they steal, they cuss and sweat like human beings (for Christ's sake). For the tits in overcoats who disagree, they conclude with a hallowed exhibit called 'Love Will Tear Us Apart'.

John Cooper Clarke dusts down the pink marble-ette notebook and reels off some gag- infested speed speech. John plays the rabbit, we are the dogs forever chasing him smiling three lines too late. Always handy at an occasion like this those poetfellers. The thin man and his slow-motion explosion that pretends it's his hair plug the gap while a vast collection of wires are re-arranged for the coming of The Fall.

Some morse code from Mark and his starless battalion are off on their remorseless surge for the blackest, barest bones of the species. Squeamish Smiths fans begin to yawn. There are no cosmetics, no visual pleas, just a relentless bread and water thrash possessed of a curious precision. Mark E can delay his fall no further. His mouth is dry; his eyes narrow as he takes his revenge on the form. They have consumed and excreted the real possibilities of guitar and drums. They should knock it on the head and book a front seat for the funeral.

The Smiths fans, by now asleep, begin to shake each other as they sense imperfection at hand. Quaint. George Formby sings of his 'Little Wigan Garden' while the lights dim. I smell a show. I will not be disappointed.

The Smiths saved the worst for first. 'Shakespeare's Sister' gives Morrissey the chance to do all the things you've read he does. The worker Smiths keep a perfect beat. Johnny dreams of a little guitarshop in the country while the tall one revolves on one leg, tugs at his clothing, raises an arm in the air, feigns a fall and sings very, very badly. As I had feared, The Smiths lean towards their live predeliction for fast and perishable rock songs with only occasional relief in the dwindling ways they manage to juggle the cliches.

The songs you skip are all here. 'Rusholme Ruffians' admits its debt to Elvis's 'Latest Flame' and speeds to oblivion. A respite. The new 'Frankly Mr Shankly' thankfully brings the humour a little closer to the surface and shows that the words - oh those cleverly twisted words - will always be The Smiths most redeeming feature. But back to the breathless chase. The chaps speed onwards like they've just been told that somebody has turned the oven out on their cheesebake. All recorded subtleties are trampled underfoot. A foolish waste.

And there is an end to it all. The trucks, their drums and wires, the jolly pop groups and their happy, modern sounds will soon be grumbling back up the A580. Thank you, Manchester. A right nice gesture. But, Steven it was really nothing.