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ARRIVE in dingy damp Blackburn and meet
The Damned just as they're being issued
with writs for an unplayed gig earlier in
the tour (for which they weren't to
blame). The writ-server leaves after
being given a poisoned drink. A message
arrives from the local nick that a young
girl who's attached herself to the tour
is, in fact, a runaway. The guitars have
been left at the previous night's bash in
Birmingham. It gets worse. Rat Scabies
begins his anti-journalist tirade: "There's no
such thing as an honest journalist.
You've been ordered here to do a
hatchet job. Some other paper sent a boy
to interview us. We did it in a pub. He
got legless, went out to the bog and came
back all white saying he'd just
puked." I tell him he's not being
very positive.
"But
I am being positive. I know
you've been sent here under orders
to do a hatchet job."
This
doesn't help our rapport. I hadn't met or
written about the band before and I came
with an open mind and an interest in what
they had to say. Scabies' insults only
enforce the nasty rumours about him. I
wonder why I bothered to come.
Ordered
to write? Nobody has ever ordered me
what to write. Do Nems (their management
company) order the Damned what to play?
If Rat wants a hatchet job he goes the
right way about getting one but he should
also remember that such wounds can be
self-inflicted.
It is
not difficult to detect the other group
members finding his obnoxious attitude
unnecessary and annoying. The Scabies
press paranoia spreads to the tour
manager who generally does his discreet
best to be uncooperative and ensure that
we know we're not welcome. The next day
we arrange to follow the luxury coach to
Stoke and stop en route at a suitable
photo location. It comes as no surprise
when the Damned carrier speeds away at 80
miles an hour and all the camera helping
hours of daylight are wasted.
To continue reading
this article and to discover many more (over 140,000 words-worth!),
purchase Mick
Sinclair’s Adjusting
the Stars: Music journalism from post-punk London.
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