CLUB.THE.MAMMOTH @ Arts Club, Liverpool, 21 Jan

To be a fan of The Fall is to enjoy life’s rougher edges. In Mark E. Smith’s later years it’s about digging for diamonds in the rough. That the band clatter on today in 2017 AT (Anno Trumpini) is perhaps nothing short of a miracle; for all of the scraps and scrapes and pursuit of the fuel, Smith and The Fall – replete with a line-up that has remained undisturbed for an unprecedented nine years – are still releasing records and talking the talk.

Yet for all of the bluster and balls they exude, their headline appearance at CLUB.THE.MAMMOTH.’s Arts Club all-dayer falls flat early on and never recovers. The Fall’s oeuvre in recent years has been fun, but not memorable enough to sit alongside the considered classics from way back when. And that’s fine, things change. But live, the overly familiar ramshackle garage rock groove they’ve settled into doesn’t stoke the fires of the imagination too much.

Smith’s unique brand of on-stage mixing doesn’t help either. A long-time staple of his stage moves, Smith’s autocratic control over his group’s volume and other effects can shift a crowd from expectant to sullen and disappointed in the literal flick of a switch. On more than one occasion, as a song threatens to break from its moorings, the bass disappears, or a blistering stab of guitar tries to pry open your synapses. At one point the kick drum mic goes the way of the dodo and so Kieron Melling’s powerful talents are wrenched away from the song.

Goat Girl, photo: Andy Von Pip

So be it. The Fall will be back around again soon enough, and in keeping with their consistent inconsistency the next show will probably be a blinder. The demographic spread of their live audience gets what it wants: the hardcore get to see their hero and his charges in tow, the casuals get to see ol’ Mark and his totally wired stage patter, and the first-timers and other walk-ups get the shock of their lives.

Smith – anxious, angry or both – seems to stomp off stage, prompting his group with the signal to wind it up just ahead of the hour mark. There's a palpable if odd tension in the air in the lead-up to their sudden exit. Smith walks past the keyboard that has stood unmanned all night, normally staffed by Eleni Poulou, who claims Smith as her husband to boot. When she's on stage, handbag at her feet, coat still on and leading the charge, you get the sense she is The Fall’s disciplinarian when Mark’s off on one. That might explain their poor showing tonight – behind every good man, yadda yadda yadda.

Away from the experienced and to those just starting on the long road, Cabbage give such a loud go of things that the paint of the venue’s upstairs stage from where they hold court could have been stripped bare by sonic means alone. Cabbage have found themselves in a good patch lately (sorry) and they’re one of those groups able to inspire a feral devotion from the kids. Their debut LP Young, Dumb and Full Of… – yes, they really called it that – is an exercise in the folly and brashness of youth (that’s a compliment by the way), matched by their raucous live offerings.

Cabbage, photo: Andy Von Pip

Yorkshire’s own Hookworms are somewhere in the middle of experience and age, having come a long way in a short time and pulverising audiences as they do it. A lot like The Fall, however, something doesn’t sit right. Hookworms’ usual thump of clarity is fuzzy and cloyed; vocals lost amidst the sea of everything else.

The unexpected disappointments in the upper echelons of the bill are at least not matched by Eagulls, another of the day’s representatives from Yorkshire. Retaining the key atmospheric vibes from The Cure and the aesthetics and concepts also projected by New Wave contemporaries, they offer layers of moody pop quality alongside a subtle energy and vitality that can bring a crowd alive – and in this instance, they do just that. They look and sound polished enough, but one may sense that there is a lot to come from Eagulls. It will be interesting to see how they develop and grow.

Elsewhere, the supporting parade of groups making up the rest of the bill provide ample and varied backing to the headliners. Goat Girl are a cynical proposition and most likely a welcome relief for many in these interesting times we live in. Tigercub make with the QOTSA-style  shimmies and shakes with tunes that may or may not owe a debt to Josh Homme’s sinister glam waltzes, Nottingham’s Kagoule are like a Speedy Ortiz revival subplot and psych mob Strange Collective lay a trail of musical breadcrumbs that would entice even the most hardened, cynical gig-goer.

CLUB.THE.MAMMOTH. do indeed live up to their name with this showcase; loud, thumping, occasionally wandering and a little frightening at times. Thankfully for us, they won’t be heading for extinction like their namesakes.