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Live reviews

When I saw Fugazi, they performed on the White House lawn and it was completely insane. The venue was outside in the rain, but despite that, Fugazi put on an excellent hardcore show, with songs that were socially relevant and in protest of the war.

Fugazi performed in front of about one thousand protesting high school and college students on a wooden platform that ooked like someone had just pieced it together at the last minute in their high school woodworking class. It was surprising that the stage was able to support Ian MacKaye and Joe Lally jumping around and gyrating all over the place.

Fugazi was in rare form with Ian MacKaye and Guy Picciotto growling lyrics about teenage angst, alienation and the corruption of society at the crowd. The music created a chaotic harmony that completely got the crowd pumped up. The crowd was so into the show that despite the wet and muddy conditions there were several mosh pits. I think the best song performed that day were "Reclamation" and "Dear Justice Letter".

Definitely go see Fugazi if you get the chance.

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Fugazi on november 4, 2002.

2002 Fall UK/Ireland Tour

The Forum, London, United Kingdom

Note: The last Fugazi show before the band went into hiatus

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Ian MacKaye’s New Group With Fugazi, Evens Members to Debut This Weekend

• By Kory Grow

Fugazi may not reactivate anytime soon, but its members are starting to play music with each other again. A new band featuring members Ian MacKaye and Joe Lally and MacKaye’s bandmate in the Evens, Amy Farina, will make its debut at a benefit concert in Washington, D.C. this Sunday. A rep for Fugazi’s label, Dischord, confirmed the appearance and said that the band did not yet have a name and that it was unclear what the group’s plans are beyond the gig.

The concert will benefit Loaves and Fishes , a nonprofit organization run by the St. Stephen and the Incarnation Church in the nation’s capital. Its goals are to feed people in the community who are hungry and to educate people in the community about hunger and homelessness. The concert will take place at the church.

Earlier this summer, Lally revealed that he had been jamming with MacKaye and Farina, who are also married, to The Blade . He added that he’d been playing with MacKaye again since 2015 when he moved from Italy back to D.C.; he also plays in the Messthetics with Fugazi drummer Brendan Canty. That group will be playing a few shows around the East Coast next month with Clutch.

Fugazi went on an indefinite hiatus after their last shows together in November 2002. Since then, each of the members have played in other projects or produced albums by other artists. MacKaye formed the Evens with Farina and put out their most recent album, The Odds , in 2012. Lally, who has played with the groups Decahedron and Ataxia since the hiatus started, released his first solo album in 2006, There to Here , featuring appearances by both MacKaye and Farina alongside Fugazi’s Guy Picciotto.

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Full Disclosure: Fugazi's Best Live Moments, Remembered

Daoud Tyler-Ameen

Full Concert: Fugazi Live In Amsterdam, 1999

Fugazi on stage in 2000. Naki/Redferns hide caption

Fugazi on stage in 2000.

Fugazi, the pioneering punk band from Washington, D.C., played its final shows in 2002. In their decade and a half together, the group's members — singer-guitarists Ian MacKaye and Guy Picciotto, bassist Joe Lally and drummer Brendan Canty — played more than 1,000 dates across the U.S., Europe, South America, Asia and Australia, most of which cost $5 or less to get into.

Music Interviews

Interview: ian mackaye on the fugazi live vault.

What's less widely known is that many of those shows were recorded by the band's sound engineers and carefully filed away. On Thursday, Dischord Records, the label founded by MacKaye in 1980, launched the Fugazi Live Series : an online archive of 800-plus live recordings from the band's collection, to be released in installments. In keeping with tradition, fans can download each show for $5 each — or set their own price if they choose.

Even for the most diehard fan, 800 concerts is a lot to sift through. To give listeners some entry points, The Record asked members of the band, the staff at Dischord, and figures from the D.C. music scene to tell us about the moments they remember best from Fugazi's live career.

Ian MacKaye Singer and guitarist, Fugazi

I'm interested in documentation. My mother used to just run a Panasonic cassette deck in the house and record us kids coming and going, people talking, people arguing, whatever. I still have about 200 of the tapes that she made. When she died, I realized those tapes weren't even for her — they were for us to have.

In Fugazi's case, the documentation was inadvertent. Our sound guy, Joey Picuri, who started traveling with us in 1989, would make recordings of our shows for fun. We told him, "You can record us, but we never want the documentation to interfere with the moment." We did a show once in Austin where this guy had a stereo mic set up on a tree, and he stood right in the middle of the crowd holding it. I was like, "You know I'm going to tell you to move. Why should the rest of the crowd have to look at your microphone?" But with Joey, we were like, "Just run the tape, and we're not even going to think about it."

There's no editing on these recordings — we don't cut stuff out. So if there's a 15-minute break in the action while a guitar amp is fixed, or I'm out pulling a security guy off of a kid or something, you hear that. When we say something humiliating, which we did quite often, that's on the tape. If the cops cut the show off, that's on the tape. If the tape runs out, if we play a bad note ... it's all there.

Ian MacKaye examines some fan-submitted live photos in his home office. Mito Habe-Evans/NPR hide caption

Ian MacKaye examines some fan-submitted live photos in his home office.

Joey Picuri Fugazi live engineer (1989-96)

I always recorded every band I worked with, just because I like to record, so when I got on board with Fugazi it was a natural thing. Even though they had that crazy independence and that streak of rebellion, everyone had enough focus to know we had to prepare for out-of-the-ordinary situations. That's where they liked to venture — they'd want to play a weird VFW hall in Columbia, S.C., because they wanted the kids there to see them. And those gigs always had dreadful PAs, no stage, horrible conditions ... so I tried to be as prepared as possible — even to throw a mic up with a portable cassette player if I couldn't plug in all my gear. We did a show in Belfast one time where we missed the ferry from the U.K. and got there 15 minutes after we were supposed to be on stage. And I still recorded that one. I don't think I missed any.

Mary Timony Singer and guitarist, Wild Flag Formerly of the Dischord band Autoclave (1990-91)

I saw one of Fugazi's first shows in a church basement on 16th Street NW in 1987, when I was 17. I remember being totally blown away, and looking around at other people in the audience and seeing this amazed, captivated look on their faces. For the next few years, while I still lived in D.C., I went to see Fugazi almost every time they played. I tried to learn how to be in a band from watching them, but their music and energy were so far beyond anything I could ever imagine being capable of imitating. The music was angular, emotional, necessary and urgent. Fans danced on stage — everyone was a participant. I remember looking up at one show and seeing condensed human sweat dripping down the walls.

Brendan Canty Drummer, Fugazi

I remember a lot of sweaty, combustible shows, but the worst was in Gainesville, Fla. We played in a grange hall that was not only not air conditioned, but the promoters kept the doors and windows closed out of fear that the neighbors would shut things down. I remember the sight of two kids' noses gushing blood — then my vision went all fuzzy, and I fell off my drum stool and briefly passed out. I spent the rest of the night miserable and exhausted, pleading with my eyes for us to stop playing. But Guy and Ian were happy as clams, shirts off and dancing, and had us play what seemed like the longest set of our lives. They are truly gluttons for punishment.

Detail of the flyer from Fugazi's first show in 1987. Courtesy of Dischord Records hide caption

Detail of the flyer from Fugazi's first show in 1987.

Ted Leo Lead singer and guitarist, Ted Leo & The Pharmacists Formerly of the D.C.-based band Chisel (1990-97)

The Anthrax in Norwalk, Conn., late 1987 or early 1988: This was one of their first shows ever, and certainly the first time I ever heard anyone suggest that slam-dancing might not the best use of one's energy. I didn't agree at the time, but I did respect the band's wish that the audience not mosh. However, there were some friends of theirs who'd driven up from D.C. and who were grabbing people in the pit, physically stopping them from dancing. I thought that was ridiculous and thuggish, if not downright fascist (in the language of 17-year-old me, which is not a whole hell of a lot different from that of 41-year-old me), and at least as bad as the negative aspects of slamming itself.

I told Ian that, in a letter I wrote him in red ink. He wrote back and explained that those friends had come of their own accord; that he hadn't seen them restraining people and didn't condone it. He also explained a little bit more what was behind this "no slam dancing" idea — which, you have to realize, was insanely radical in the punk world at the time. Years later, after I'd moved to D.C. and we'd become friends, he put two and two together and assured me that he still has my letter. He's occasionally threatened to embarrass me by whipping it out — but I wouldn't be embarrassed. I'm pretty proud of the both of us for the whole interaction!

Maxwell's in Hoboken, N.J., summer 1988: The usual confrontations with the crowd over slamming came to a head toward the end of the quiet breakdown in the song "Suggestion." The walls were dripping with sweat and practically heaving, as if the room was the interior of a giant heart, beating through the most important hour of its life, and Ian said something simple like, "Here comes the breakdown." And an angry skin in the middle of the pit said back, "Can we dance to this part?" Ian looks him in the eye and says, rising from a spoken question to a scream, moving upward as the music surges to a crescendo along with his voice, "Why don't you listen for JUST! ONE! SECOOOOOOOOOOND!" They crashed into the chorus off that, and the room exploded. Incidentally, this was the show that the cover photo for the first album came from.

The cover of Fugazi's 1990 debut album, Repeater . Courtesy of the artist hide caption

Mark Andersen Co-founder of Positive Force , a social activism group formed by members of the D.C. punk community in 1984

There are some great performances of "Suggestion," but I don't think there's any version better than the one they played Dec. 29, 1988, at the Wilson Center. We had been doing benefit shows there with Fugazi for about 15 months, and the last one had drawn about 500 people. At this one, we were swamped. I really have no memory of the opening bands playing, because we were just desperately trying to deal with this crowd, which ended up being about 1,000 people. Suddenly, Fugazi had just taken off.

"Suggestion" started with Amy Pickering [of the D.C. hardcore band Fire Party] singing the opening part. When Ian assumed the lead vocal role, he started into a bit of a soliloquy about something that was on his mind. A week before the show, there had been an article in The Washington Post about white-power skinheads and their relative absence in D.C. Leaders of the skinhead community were quoted, saying how proud they were to have chased that element out of town. But they also talked about queer-bashing — attacking gay people, particularly gay men around Dupont Circle and P Street Beach. And what was astonishing and heartbreaking for us was that they justified it. They distinguished that violence from their opposition to white power. Ian had seen the article, I had seen it, and we had come to the same conclusion: This is bull----. So Ian took that on directly. He turned a song that's usually about rape, and specifically women's experience, into a song about gay men getting attacked in the park at night. And the response of the crowd was just over the top.

Guy Piciotto Singer and guitarist, Fugazi

There is one show that I wish was in the archive but we don't have: Nov. 11, 1993, at a place in Perth, Australia called Club O.

It was the first show of our 1993 Australian tour, and we did, in fact, scrupulously tape the gig using a brand-new portable DAT machine that we had purchased in the States just prior to leaving. Our sound guy Joey Picuri had hooked it up to the board as per usual and recorded the whole set, only to find at the end of the night that someone had stolen the recorder, with the tape still inside, right off the sound board. It had been a pretty packed room and fairly chaotic, so it wasn't that surprising that someone had managed to grab the thing and abscond with it. Still, we were a pretty vigilant bunch, and in the history of the band we didn't get ripped off that often, so each stolen item still feels fresh and raw in my memory. There was a stage monitor in Ohio, and my white Gibson SG Junior in New York City, which also stand out. But that situation in Perth still feels especially galling: The equipment was replaceable, but the tape was one of a kind. Not that the show was super-epic or notably awful — it's just that it's like someone tearing a page out of your diary and throwing it in the trash. It's just wrong.

Anyway, in case the thief in question happens to come upon this piece somehow, let it be known that we are extending a Fugazi-guaranteed amnesty. If the tape is returned to us at Fugazi c/o Dischord Records, 3819 Beecher Street, Washington, D.C. 20007, USA, we won't report you to the relevant authorities in Perth and there will be no questions asked — that is our promise.

David "Spoonboy" Combs Singer and guitarist, The Max Levine Ensemble

A few of the hundreds of tapes recorded on the road by Fugazi's sound engineers. Mito Habe-Evans/NPR hide caption

A few of the hundreds of tapes recorded on the road by Fugazi's sound engineers.

Fugazi used to play an outdoor show every year at Fort Reno, as part of a free concert series the park puts on every summer. It was well known that whenever Fugazi played outdoors, the gods took notice and plagued us all with rain. The band would always put forth its best effort, though, and when I showed up in the summer of 2000, I was up happy to see huge umbrellas protecting their equipment. They rocked out even as the rain started. During a particularly epic buildup in the song "Turnover," the clouds started to grumble intensely — then right at the climactic point, lightning lit up the sky and struck not far behind them. I couldn't believe it. I'd gone to the show by myself, and for years after that I thought back to the moment and wondered if it had actually happened, since I had no one to corroborate my story. Then, one day, I overheard a friend talking about Fugazi and saying, "Then, right at the end of the buildup, lightning struck!" Finally, I had confirmation.

Jerry Busher Live Series mastering and editing engineer Fugazi percussionist and roadie (1995-2002)

I moved to D.C. when they were just forming the band, and actually auditioned to be the drummer while Brendan was kind of noncommittal about it. I had just started learning how to play, so most of my audition was spent with Ian and Joe teaching me how to set up my drums properly. I ended up roadie-ing for the band starting in '95, and went on to play drums and percussion and trumpet. I toured with them for almost eight years.

As anyone who's done a fair amount of touring can tell you, shows do end up becoming a little bit of a blur. And when Fugazi were a functioning, current band, they didn't really get into nostalgia — they were always looking forward. So mastering tapes has been like going through a scrapbook for me. There's a show that was on my birthday — they have a song called "Walken's Syndrome," but Guy introduced it that night as "Busher's Syndrome."

One of the exciting things about the site going live is, we're probably going to patch some holes. Fugazi always allowed people to record shows and take photographs, as long as it didn't seem like it was some professional company that was going to put out a bootleg or something. If it was a kid that wanted to record a show, they would just let him do it. So some shows that we don't have copies of, people are probably going to send. It's already starting to happen.

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No drummer! No time! No songs! How Marillion made Fugazi

The story of how Marillion made their second album, 1984's aptly titled Fugazi

It was when the guy burst into the studio holding a machete that Mark Kelly knew things had got silly.

Marillion ’s keyboard player was holed up in London’s Odyssey Studios, racing against the clock to get his band’s second album, Fugazi , finished. Kelly, producer Nick Tauber and engineer Simon Hanhart had been working through the night in an attempt to mix the last few songs, but they still weren’t quite there. The only snag was that the studio had been booked by another producer, who was currently waiting outside and becoming increasingly annoyed.

“He was there to record a session with an orchestra,” says Kelly. “Basically, there were 40 people waiting for us to finish.”

The Marillion team were acutely aware that they were biting into someone else’s time. But they were even more aware that their deadline to finish the album was hurtling towards them at an alarming speed, and they needed to get these mixes nailed.

“We basically paid this guy a thousand quid to hold off and give us another few hours,” says Kelly. “And then eventually we ran past that point.”

That’s when the stonewalled producer’s patience finally snapped. He stepped into the studio lounge and announced that he had served in Vietnam, and that he had a machete in his bag and he was willing to use it.

“That was it,” says Kelly, laughing at the memory. “We basically had to go, ‘Right, that’s it, we’re leaving then. Bye.’”

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An aggrieved man making threats with a machete pretty much sums up the fraught, wired and occasionally unhinged process of recording Fugazi . A record that cost £120,000 to make and should have anointed Marillion as one of the biggest new British rock bands of the era instead turned out to be a disappointment to the band and their label. Its title couldn’t have been more appropriate: ‘Fugazi’ was US army slang for ‘Fucked Up’.

“It was a strange time,” says Fish , Marillion’s original singer and lyricist. “We were riding on the back of [debut album] Script For A Jester’s Tear , we’d done our first American tour, it was all wonderful. And then we hit Fugazi .”

In the summer of 1983, Marillion had every reason to be confident. Script… had reached No.7 in the UK Albums Chart when was it released that March, turning the Aylesbury band into unlikely pop stars. Its success inevitably sparked off a surge of interest in like-minded bands.

“Record companies would go, ‘Bloody hell, that seems successful, let’s sign another band’, so suddenly all the majors are looking for their version of Marillion,” says Kelly of this unlikely prog revival. “Bands like Pendragon and Pallas were getting record deals, where previously they wouldn’t have been able to.” 

Marillion weren’t wholly comfortable in the role of figureheads for this ‘neo-prog’ movement. In fairness, many of the other bands felt the same way.

“We didn’t want to be lumped in with the likes of IQ and Pendragon,” says Kelly. “I remember when we played the Marquee once, a couple of IQ were down the front heckling us. They resented the fact we were having success and they weren’t, even though they’d been around longer than us.”

Marillion’s peers weren’t the only ones who wanted to see them brought down a peg or two. The gatekeepers of cool within the British music press were also willing them to fail.

“With the exception of one or two people, there wasn’t a huge amount of love for Marillion in the mainstream press,” says bassist Pete Trewavas. “There was a general feeling of, ‘These guys don’t deserve to be successful in the early 80s.’ They definitely had the knives out for us.”

For all the opprobrium heaped on them from certain quarters, Marillion looked to be in a good position as they readied themselves to work on the follow-up to Script… . There was just one problem: aside from a handful of ideas, they didn’t have any material.

In time-honoured rock’n’roll tradition, Marillion had written the songs that made up their debut album over a period of two or three years. But now the cupboard was bare. “We used up all the material we had on Script… and the Market Square Heroes EP,” says Kelly. “We needed to come up with an album’s worth of material and we pretty much had to start from scratch.”

Not completely from scratch. Fish had been stockpiling ideas for months, and even years. Early versions of the lyrics for songs that would become Jigsaw , Punch & Judy , Emerald Lies and Incubu s were all kicking around in various states of completion. “I had a lot more lyrics than there were musical ideas,” the singer says now.

The prospect of writing a new album may have been hanging over their heads, but there was a more pressing matter at hand. Kelly, Trewavas, Fish and guitarist Steve Rothery had fired founding drummer Mick Pointer in April 1983 following a prestigious two-night stand at Hammersmith Odeon at the end of the UK leg of the Script tour, unhappy with his technical abilities. With a series of summer festival dates in the pipeline – not to mention the impending prospect of recording a second album – they needed to find a replacement pronto. Although Marillion’s concept of ‘pronto’ was different to most other people’s definition of the word. 

“We were more concerned with getting the right person,” says Trewavas. “We didn’t want a session drummer to record the second album. We wanted somebody who fitted in, musically and socially as well.”

That would be easier said than done. Mark Kelly admits that Marillion were “completely amateurish” in their search for a new drummer.

“Everybody threw names into a hat,” he says. “It was basically people we’d worked with in the past. Fish brought somebody down from Scotland that he knew. I brought along some guy from a band I’d seen in a pub. None of them were up to the job.” 

One of the people who offered their services was Woody Woodmansey, former drummer with David Bowie ’s Spiders From Mars. “He wanted to come in and audition, but he was definitely too old,” says Kelly. “He was in his mid-30s at the time.”

Instead, a seemingly perfect candidate was right under their noses. Andy Ward was a founder member of Guildford prog magicians Camel and had played on such groundbreaking albums as Mirage and The Snow Goose before his departure in 1981. Fortuitously, Ward had a drumkit set up at Nomis, the west London rehearsal studio also used by Marillion. Introductions were made and the question was asked: did Ward want to become their new drummer? He said yes. 

“When we found Andy, we were really excited,” says Trewavas. “We’d all grown up listening to Camel. I used to watch them at [iconic Aylesbury venue] Friars. It was a buzz to get him.”

Ward made his first public appearance with Marillion at their old home-from-home the Marquee on May 12, 1983. Eight days later, they recorded an appearance on influential TV music show The Old Grey Whistle Test , before heading off for a short run of European festival dates. “When Andy came in, he had a saintly glow about him,” says Fish.

With Ward bedded in, the band embarked on their first writing session for the new album. The location was Mountain Studios, a live-in facility owned by ex-Hawkwind bassist Thomas Crimble, located on top of a Welsh mountain. Hippie vibes permeated the air: a stone circle stood nearby, while two women named Sunshine and Nutkin permanently hung around the studio. The band’s label, EMI, figured that the band would emerge two weeks later with enough songs for an album.

“It was in the middle of nowhere,” says Mark Kelly. “We thought it would be a good idea to get away from everything and everybody and just concentrate on the writing. But it was a bit of a miserable place. And there was a drug dealer living in the caravan down the road, so it wasn’t that productive.”

“It was like a fucking busman’s holiday,” says Fish. “I remember doing acid, walking through some spruce woods, and lying in the stone circle listening to Van Morrison, trying to find some guiding light for the lyrics.”

The lack of movement on the song- writing front wasn’t purely down to chemical distractions. Many of the songs that appeared on Script… had been written before Kelly and Trewavas had joined Marillion, while parts of the 18- minute epic Grendel pre-dated even Fish. This was effectively the first time this line-up had all worked together properly.

“We were learning how to write together as a band,” says Trewavas, “so maybe we were taking it a little bit easier than we should have been. But we’d also done the first album, we’d toured a lot and we needed a bit of a break to be honest.”

Marillion’s time at Mountain wasn’t a complete busted flush. While they were there, they worked up an early version of Fugazi opener Assassing . Fish had been switched onto what he calls “Middle Eastern rhythms” by his friend, former Van der Graaf Generator frontman Peter Hammill . Inspired, he suggested Marillion incorporate their own version into Assassing .

“In my mind, I was thinking of the Harakim assassins,” he says now. “I wanted to have the feel of the guys in the black cloaks going through the desert with big sharp knives.”

The sound perfectly complemented the song’s lyrical theme. A treatise on the nature of friendship and trust inspired by the firing of a former bandmate, it found Fish simultaneously justifying and crucifying himself for taking on the role of metaphorical assassin. “People think it was about Mick Pointer , but it was about [former Marillion bassist] Diz Minnitt,” he says. “We were really good friends, but I had to do it for the sake of the band. Bang. Bullet to the head.”

Marillion emerged from Mountain after a couple of weeks with relatively little to show for it, but they hardly had time to worry before they were bundled back on the tour bus for yet more festival dates in June and July. These included an appearance at that year’s Glastonbury Festival, where they publicly unveiled Assassing .

“It was great, nothing like it is today,” says Fish of Glastonbury. “We were on pretty early. I remember getting off my tits with [comedian] Rik Mayall after the set.”

Any impending worries about the album were pushed even further to the back of their minds in July, when Marillion embarked on their debut US tour, opening for Todd Rundgren . It was to be eventful on many levels.

“I never fucking met him once,” says Fish. “At one point, we were in the same hotel and I went up to his hotel room to introduce myself. The assistant said, ‘Todd’s seeing friends. Who are you?’ ‘I’m the singer in the support band, actually.’ I sat there for an hour on a fucking couch, waiting. I was, like, ‘Fuck you.’”

There were political shenanigans too. On the day of a show in Toronto – a Marillion stronghold – Rundgren’s manager changed their stage time. “We came on five minutes after the doors opened,” says Fish. “There was basically no one in the venue.”

But the biggest problem came with their new drummer. Everyone in Marillion liked Andy Ward, but what they didn’t know was that following his final tour with Camel, he’d cut his wrists and spent time in hospital as a result. His demons began to resurface on Marillion’s US tour. He started drinking too much, and complained of being homesick. At one stop-off, he began handing out cigarettes to random strangers in a hotel lobby. He even walked offstage midway through one gig.

“The veil was really lifted on the saint,” says Fish of the drummer’s erratic behaviour. “It was, like, ‘Oh my God…’”

Things came to a head in New York. A worse-for-wear Ward effectively had a mini-breakdown, and began crying as the band checked into the hotel. The band’s manager, John Arnison, quietly had the drummer put into a taxi and taken to the airport to fly home to the UK. Marillion’s US tour was over, and so was Andy Ward’s time in the band.

“Andy has since said that he was diagnosed [with] bipolar [disorder], and that had a lot to do with his behaviour at the time,” says Mark Kelly. “But of course, we didn’t know that, and neither did he.”

Whatever the circumstances behind Ward’s departure, Marillion were back at home and back to square one. With an album to write, they needed to recruit a new drummer quickly.

The man they called in was John Marter, formerly of 70s rockers Mr Big. Marter was an old-school drummer with a definite air of been-there-done-that. Marter joined Marillion in time to record a new version of Market Square Heroes and its B-side, Three Boats Down From The Candy , and play a high-profile, second-on-the-bill appearance at August’s Reading Festival. The following month, they flew back out to the US to support Rush during the latter’s five-night stint at New York’s prestigious Radio City Music Hall.

“The Rush guys were great, the New York stage crew were arseholes, and the audience hated us,” says Fish. “As we walked out, we were booed: ‘Fuck off!’”

The singer bit his tongue for the first two or three days, but eventually he could contain himself no longer. Telling the rest of the band to stop playing, he turned to face the boo-boys. 

“I said, ‘Listen, Rush won’t be on until eight o’clock, we’re on the stage now. Some people want to hear us play our set. If you don’t want to hear us, fuck off out of the building and go get a beer for 45 minutes, so fuck you.’ I got a round of applause for that.”

It was in New York that John Marter marked his own card. Sitting in a hotel bar with a drink or two inside him, he announced that the band wouldn’t be where they were without Fish. The rest of Marillion didn’t necessarily agree with his viewpoint, and he was given his marching orders shortly after they arrived back in the UK. Today, Kelly says Marter was only ever recruited as a temporary measure, though the outcome was ultimately the same: Marillion were once again drummerless. 

It was Nick Tauber who alerted Marillion to Jonathan Mover, a hotshot American drummer. The band had met Mover in New York, and now he was insisting he fly over to audition. “We had no idea whether he’d fit in with how we played,” says Kelly. “So we were trying to put him off.”

“Jonathan was very driven,” says Pete Trewavas. “There’s a British thing of being polite and understated: ‘Well, chaps, if you’d like me to play along and see what you all think, I can do that.’ Jonathan was more, ‘Wait ’til you hear me, I’ll be in your band.’ He had that kind of brashness.”

That brashness secured Mover the gig despite his new bandmates’ reservations. On October 1, 1983, this latest iteration of Marillion played the Rundsporthalle in Baunatal, Germany. It would be Jonathan Mover’s first and last show with the band. 

A few days afterwards, they decamped to Rockfield Studios near Monmouth for a second, increasingly urgent writing session. It was there that it began to dawn on the members of Marillion that Jonathan Mover perhaps wasn’t the man for them.

“Fish didn’t get on with him,” says Kelly, bluntly. “He forced him out.”

“It’s been made out [it was] because he was American; it was nothing to do with that,” says Fish. “Jonathan and I didn’t hit it off, personality-wise. We still had the gang mentality back then, and it was like bringing someone into the gang going, ‘I don’t really get on with you, mate.’

“But it was also a drumming thing. I didn’t want us to become one of those prog bands where it becomes musical masturbation: ‘Look at us, we’re really fucking clever.’ And there was some of that with Jonathan.”

The writing sessions had barely started when Mover followed Mick Pointer, Andy Ward and John Marter out of the door. By now, even the pathologically casual Marillion were starting to worry they’d a) never write a record, and b) never to get a drummer to play on it if they did.

The solution to the second problem was easier than the first. Ian Mosley had started his career drumming in the pits of the musical Hair, before graduating to stints behind the kits with Darryl Way ’s Wolf and Steve Hackett . Fish had seen Mosley play with the former Genesis guitarist during a trip back home to Edinburgh. Impressed, he had urged the band to tap him up before Jonathan Mover muscled his way in. Mosley couldn’t make that audition, but he got a call from Marillion’s manager John Arnison a few weeks later.

“He said, ‘The boys are up at Rockfield Studios, they’ve just got rid of their drummer, would you go along and help them out?’” says Mosley today. “So I said, ‘Sure.’”

The first time Pete Trewavas met his future bandmate was on the three-hour journey to Monmouth. “Ian didn’t live too far away from me and Steve, and he picked us up in a Mercedes,” says the bassist. “It was quite an old one, but for me it was still pretty impressive. And he had on this black sheepskin jacket. That to me hinted at success.”

Mosley made a similarly favourable impression on the rest of the band. “It felt so natural on a personality basis right away,” says Fish. “The twinkle in his eye – the Clint Eastwood look. Him and I got on straight away.”

“Ian was older than the rest of us and he’d been around the block, sohe had a bit more maturity, he wasn’t a big mouth,” says Kelly. “Nothing rattled him.”

Not quite. Mosley arrived at Rockfield to find a band whose need to write an album wasn’t quite matched by the urgency of their desire to write it. 

“At one point we bought a blow-up dinghy and sailed into the town down the local river,” says Trewavas. “Ian was, like, ‘What the hell are you doing? Haven’t you got an album to write?’”

Part of the problem was that Marillion had underestimated how difficult it was to write songs to a deadline. “I think we expected it to be like writing Script… ,” says Fish. “I don’t think we took it as seriously as we could have. We were a bit lackadaisical.”

Part of the issue was the way they wrote. Rather than composing whole songs, they’d write fragments and pieces, then try to work out how to jigsaw them together. 

“We’d stumble across ideas and not always want to join them up or commit to them,” says Trewavas. “But we were coming up with stuff. Assassing had been moved on and we were getting stuck into some of the other songs.”

Among the songs they worked on at Rockfield were Emerald Lies , the whisper-to-a-roar Jigsaw and Punch & Jud y , the latter a musically and lyrically violent dissection of a crumbling marriage. “Fish had decided Punch & Judy was going to be the first single before we’d written any music for it,” says Kelly now. “And he’d told the label.”

Another song, She Chameleon , had been kicking around for a couple of years, albeit in noticeably different musical form. Desperate for material, the band stripped away its oddly jaunty melody in favour of sepulchral atmospherics and a soporific pace. Fish’s original lyrics remained largely intact, vividly detailing an empty sexual encounter. What he had added was a memorable new line: ‘Was it just a fuck/Just another fuck, I said?’

“That came when I was hanging out with [The Teardrop Explodes frontman] Julian Cope at Friars,” says Fish. “We were both off our faces on acid, sitting in the dressing room. He was signing autographs, and these girls came up and said, ‘Can I get a kiss, Julian?’ I just started saying, ‘Was it just a fuck, just another fuck?’ And he goes, ‘That’s a great line.’ We said whoever used it first should give the other credit. I never did give him credit.”

Ironically, Fish already had a ready-made name for the record. He’d come across the word ‘fugazi’ in US war correspondent Michael Herr’s 1977 book Dispatches , a memoir of his time covering the Vietnam War, and thought it fit the bill perfectly. “It was a great title,” he says. The problem was that Marillion didn’t have a song to go with it. 

“We felt like we were under a lot of pressure to come up with an album’s worth of material,” says Mark Kelly, “and we weren’t making a very good fist of it, to be honest.”

According to Pete Trewavas, they had “a good half, maybe three-quarters” of the album written when they entered Richard Branson’s £1,000- a-day Manor Studio in Oxfordshire with producer Nick Tauber and engineer Simon Hanhart in early November 1983. The problem was that the record label had booked the album’s release date for the following March, and a tour had been arranged around it. “The machine was ready,” says Fish, drily. 

There was little urgency in the air at first. Tauber spent a few days getting the drum sound right – a crucial part of the recording process. While he and Mosley tinkered, the others began revisiting the songs they had amassed so far, working on the bits they didn’t feel were strong enough. During down time, they drank and played pool. But the realisation that they were on the clock slowly began to dawn. The normally unflappable Ian Mosley, who was used to sessions running like clockwork, was scratching his head. 

“I was sitting there thinking, ‘Wait a minute, we’re in this studio costing a grand a day and we haven’t written the title track of the album yet. That can’t be good,’” he says.

Marillion knew that they didn’t have enough songs in the bag to make an album, and so they began to hastily write more in the studio. They came up with two new tracks. One was the jagged, eight-minute Incubus , a song Fish claimed at the time picked up from where Script For A Jester’s Tear track The Web left off and which today reads like an unsettlingly prescient tale of revenge porn.

The other song was Fugazi itself. Fish had the title and a set of vivid, intricate lyrics written while he bounced around London from spare room to sofa. His words perfectly captured the disorientation and claustrophobia of both his own peripatetic existence and modern life in general, in exactly the same way as Radiohead did 15 years later with OK Computer . 

That just left the small matter of writing some music to go with it. Inspiration for the latter came from an unlikely source. “We were watching [arthouse horror movie] Cat People , which David Bowie had done the music for,” says Ian Mosley. “Suddenly there was this pulsating part in the soundtrack, and everybody went, ‘Oh, that sounds good.’ After we watched the film, we went in the studio and just jammed around and started playing around: ‘Dum dum… dum, dum’, which was inspired by the film. That’s how the beginnings of the Fugazi track came together, musically.”

The album was coming together at a snail’s pace, yet Marillion’s capacity for dragging things out continued unabated. At one point, they decided they needed a big crashing sound on Emerald Lies . “So we spent a couple of hours smashing bottles and recording it,” says Kelly. “If you’re spending a thousand pounds a day on a studio and have an album to finish, you shouldn’t really spend an afternoon smashing bottles.”

It didn’t help that the band and Tauber had opted to record on a 48-track machine. While it was undoubtedly cutting-edge technology, each new take entailed rewinding the multiple analogue machines involved and waiting for them to sync up. "You’d waste two hours a day just waiting for everything to sync up,” says Kelly.

Nor did Tauber’s frame of mind help. “Working with Nick and Simon on that first album at the Marquee studios was probably one of the most enjoyable times I’ve ever had,” says Kelly. “But by Fugazi , I think he was having some personal trouble. The fact that he wanted to work on Christmas Day should have been a warning sign.”

The festive season came and went and still the end was nowhere in sight. “The plan was to record it at The Manor and mix it somewhere else,” says Kelly. “Except we hadn’t finished it. So we carried on recording in the place we were supposed to be mixing it.”

With that deadline looming, the band needed to take action swiftly. They looked around for any studio where they could finish recording and complete the mixing

“Where we could get time, we could go there,” says Kelly.

Trewavas: “We went to Eel Pie Studios, which was owned by Pete Townshend. Maison Rouge…”

Fish: “Trident, Sarm East…”

Kelly: “I think we were in Wessex at one point. Then there was Odyssey, with the guy with the machete.”

Sometimes they were in two studios at once. At one point, Kelly and Rothery were in Abbey Road with Iron Maiden engineer Tony Platt, who had been drafted in to remix Incubus , while Fish, Trewavas and Mosley were in another studio with Tauber and Hanhart working on other tracks. 

It was exhausting. Kelly remembers listening back to a mix of the title track with Tauber and Hanhart. “We were woken up by the sound of the tape going [makes chck-chck-chck sound of an empty tape reel spinning around]. All three of us had fallen asleep during playback because we were so tired.”

The tour in support of Fugazi began on February 11, 1984 at Leeds University as scheduled. Except Fugazi itself still hadn’t been finished – the title track was still being mixed.

“We finally heard the finished album in a studio in Liverpool, on the second or third night of the tour,” says Kelly. “We weren’t very happy, to be honest. Mainly because we didn’t have a chance to comment on the mixing: ‘Here it is, fait accompli.’ We really hated the fade-out on the song Fugazi itself.”

It was far from a disaster, despite their reservations. At its best, Fugazi was as good as Script For A Jester’s Tear . Assassing , Incubus and the title track struck the perfect balance between the intricate and the impactful. Conversely, She Chameleon is regularly held up as the album’s weak spot. “I like it,” says Fish of the latter. “But I don’t like the instrumental section – that whole fucking widdly-widdly bit. It was incongruous within the whole song.”

But Marillion hadn’t just gone to the wire with their second album, they’d taken it several steps beyond. The cost of making Fugazi came to somewhere in the region of £120,000. By contrast, Script… had cost £70,000. 

“It was like going into the bar and running a tab and having a fantastic party and never for one moment thinking at the end of the night you’d be given the bill,” says Fish.

It was too late to change anything even if they wanted to. “We were just glad that we finished it and were out on the road,” says Kelly. 

The physical effort and fraught nature of making the album wasn’t apparent in the live shows on the Fugazi tour. “When we took it out on the road and started playing it live, it all fell into place,” says Fish. “If you look at footage from the gigs on that tour, it’s stunning. It was punk-prog – there was so much energy, so much fire about the band.”

Mark Kelly admits that the tour showed just how far ahead of the rest of the band Ian Mosley was musically. “Ian would get the sound engineer to tape gigs, then he’d listen to them after the show,” says the keyboard player with a laugh. “The next day, he’d talk about all the things that went wrong: ‘Could you hear me last night, Mark?’ That was code for, ‘You were playing out of time.’”

The instant bonhomie that sprung up between the drummer and his new bandmates in the studio wasn’t a fluke either, even if Fish decided to put it to the test.

“There was one gig in Germany where I was wasted and I said or did something to Ian,” says the singer. “I can’t remember what, but he punched me in the solar plexus and took the wind out of me.”

“All I can remember is him saying something,” says Mosley. “I said, ‘If you do that again, I’m going to hit you.’ And he said something that rattled me, so I gave him a friendly tap in the stomach. I didn’t go for a knockout blow or anything. I think it got blown out of proportion, but it made me look tough.”

It was on that tour that Mosley was officially offered the job of Marillion’s drummer. “John Arnison came up to me at the back of the bus and said, ‘Ian, the boys want you to join permanently.’ I was earning pretty good money doing sessions and stuff, and they were all on about 50 quid a week, so I said, ‘That’s great, but I can’t really afford to do it.’ So he went down to the front of the bus and gave everyone an immediate pay rise. I was Mr Popular on that tour.”

After the trials of making the album, it seemed like everything was going to plan. Fugazi peaked at No.5 in the UK Albums Chart – two places higher than Script For A Jester’s Tear . But their paymasters at EMI saw it in a different light.

“We didn’t really break through in Europe in the way they thought we would,” says Kelly. “They were looking at the balance sheet. So while it looked like a big success in the UK, they were looking at it and going, ‘Well, it sold less than the first one.’ It didn’t really have any big singles on it either.” ( Punch & Judy and Assassin g , the album’s two singles, reached No.29 and No.22, whereas Garden Party had reached No.16).

Fugazi ’s perceived under-performance put them on notice with EMI. It was John Arnison who hit on a way of pacifying the label and hopefully making inroads outside of the UK. 

“He said, ‘Why don’t you put out a cheap live album? That’ll bring in some money and give us some breathing space,’” says Mark Kelly.

There was a tried and trusted precedent for this. Charisma had done the same with Genesis and Van der Graaf in the 70s – Genesis Live and Vital acted as samplers for people who wouldn’t have picked up the full-price studio albums.

And so, in November 1984, Marillion released the seven-track live album Real To Reel. Recorded at Leicester’s De Monfort Hall that March and at the Spectrum in the band’s Canadian stronghold of Montreal, it captured the urgency that the panicked rush of making Fugazi had wrung out of the band. Costing considerably less than £120,000 and reaching No.8 in the charts, it kept EMI’s bean counters happy. But there was more to it than just pacifying the record label.

“People underestimate the value of Real To Reel within Marillion,” says Fish. “It allowed us to take songs from Fugazi album and play them with the energy we wanted it to have. But it also broke us in Europe. If we hadn’t done what we did in Germany and Holland, I think the band would have fluttered away.”

Marillion hadn’t been handed a free pass – they knew they had to deliver a winner with their next studio album – but they did have breathing room. “With Fugazi , we learned to write music together,” says Pete Trewavas. “With [follow-up] Misplaced Childhoo d , we learned to write songs together.” 

Thirty years on, Fugazi holds a unique place amid the four Fish-era Marillion albums. It doesn’t have the reckless energy and nostalgic pull of Script For A Jester’s Tear , the blockbusting hits and grandstanding concept of Misplaced Childhood or the going-down-in-flames romance of Clutching At Straws . It usually trails its three counterparts in ‘best of’ fan polls, something the band themselves aren’t unaware of. 

“It wasn’t as successful as any of the other albums we did with Fish – it certainly didn’t sound as good as Misplaced Childhood or Clutching At Straws ,” says Kelly. “But those two songs we wrote in the studio, Fugazi and Incubus , they’re up there with the best of the material that we did with Fish.”

“It’s an angsty album – it’s kind of like jagged, broken glass,” says Trewavas. “It’s not a perfect record, but then I didn’t think any of them were. And a lot of those songs worked well live – they stayed in the live repertoire for quite a while.”

“It’s a transitional album,” says Fish. “It’s an album we needed to make to get to Misplaced Childhood . It could have been stronger in places or sounded better, and maybe it didn’t sell as many as the label wanted. But we were young guys, for fuck’s sake. You don’t think about that kind of shit. You just think, ‘This is fucking fantastic, we’re making albums and travelling the world, this is the life.’” 

This article originally appeared in issue 123 of Prog Magazine.

Dave Everley has been writing about and occasionally humming along to music since the early 90s. During that time, he has been Deputy Editor on Kerrang! and Classic Rock , Associate Editor on Q magazine and staff writer/tea boy on Raw , not necessarily in that order. He has written for Metal Hammer, Louder, Prog, the Observer, Select, Mojo , the Evening Standard and the totally legendary Ultrakill . He is still waiting for Billy Gibbons to send him a bottle of hot sauce he was promised several years ago.

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Fugazi amidst the 1992 spring European tour. The band had already visited Dublin almost annually since their inception, and this would mark their fourth time in the city. This day the city's St. Francis Xavier Hall welcomed Fugazi and a few other bands to play a benefit show for Act Up Ireland. SFX, constructed in 1957, was a major concert venue until 2001, after which another locale took over event duties. The place was finally torn down in 2006 to make room for apartments.

The tape starts right at the intro of And the Same, so any opening remarks are missed. Some mix settling ensues, and the first few songs go by like this. The band is on fire though and the flow is quite strong. When the sound gets right, it's rather pleasing and powerful. The band sounds huge, and the overall balance is very good.

Early highlights are Dear Justice Letter and Merchandise, both getting brisky performances. Rend It is still finding it's way, the pace being slower and the verses are still quite melodic and brooding. Another new song follows right after as Great Cop rumbles off the stage.

One of the show's highlights is definitely Suggestion. Brendan goes into a complete groove wizard mode, and the whole performance feels exceptionally danceable. Ian and Guy put on their best hypnotic jams in the middle section which finally leads to a cathartic explosion at the end.

Long Division has a very cool jam tagged at the end, but unfortunately fades out due to a tape flip. Runaway Return has already started as the recording fades back in, but luckily most of the inspired performance is there. ---

--- A couple of hecklers attempt to ruin things for everyone, and a frustrated Ian schools them before Instrument. The song thus feels like a statement against the arrogancy. Two Beats Off is another show highlight sounding once again almost like an open jam. Repeater follows after a long, sinister intro and is just the right way to end the rocking main set.

The pre-album version of Last Chance for a Slow Dance sounds sweeter and softer than what the song eventually morphed into. This is emphasized by Guy's chill introduction. A very interesting listen for sure.

The band pulls out two anthems to end the evening. Blueprint leaves the crowd still wanting more, and Promises is their last reward. A very suitable finale, and another jam-like track. The band is really starting to show what they are capable of dynamically.

This is another energetic recording from the era. The band gets the flow going nicely, and the overall sound is great. A good listen for sure, and easily recommended.

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Fugazi Live Series FLS0439 Fugazi Dublin , Ireland 5/11/1992

Benefit for ACT-UP Ireland

Please Note: Available recordings have been mastered to correct for volume shifts, drop outs, etc. but some sonic anomalies will still exist, especially early in the set when the mix is being settled. The band has rated each show for sound quality and set the general price of a download at $5 per show. If you have a different price in mind feel free to utilize the alternative pricing option.

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