ABSTRACT
Late one evening I was sitting at home reading out extracts of Mark E. Smith’s autobiography (who sadly died in 2018) to my partner. While I found his commentary on modern celebrity culture hilarious my partner was less than impressed. I have long been a fan of the Fall (the band with whom Mark E. Smith is the lead singer) and have seen them play live many times over the years. A Fall gig is often an event to meet up with old friends or sometimes to connect with new ones. Not surprisingly then I sprang to Mark E. Smith’s defence. However, as I listened many of her objections that Smith was a drunken bore sounded entirely reasonable. I tried in vain to persuade her of his creativity and importance within British popular culture, but I could tell the arguments were falling on deaf ears. She doesn’t like the music and especially does not like him. A few days later I went into a local record shop and noticed they were playing an old Fall album. I then got into an excited conversation with the young man behind the counter. Yes he was a Fall fan, and he wanted to know how many times I had seen them, which were my favourite recordings, and what did I think of the by now notorious autobiography. We both admitted that if we were ever to meet Smith in person it would probably be an awkward encounter (Smith has a deserved reputation for taking no prisoners when it comes to meeting fans or journalists) and yet there was something about the band that kept drawing us back. It was not even that we liked all the music or that we had always enjoyed watching them live. However, we shared a connection. When I got home later I began to think, well, this is how attachment works: despite the entirely reasonable objections that other people might have that you can’t let go of a figure that you have probably never met and who really means something. Yet there is an aspect of this felt connection that is hard to communicate.
