Even when embroilled in filming of the promotional video for 'Nuclear Device (The Wizard of Aus)', The Stranglers still found time to harangue those representatives of the music press who had seemingly drawn the short straw and landed the responsibility/challenge of spending time with the band with a view to filling a few column inches in their respective publications.
As always click on the image to enlarge to a readable size.
The ordeal experienced by NME's Deanne Pearson was described in the 13th October 1979 issue of the paper.
Whilst looking on line for further information on this incident, I came across Deanne's biography on the 'Rock's Back Pages' website, in which she mentions her Portugese brush with the Meninblack, along with some other highlights of life as a music hack in the 1970s. In much the same way as Barry Cain's books describe the humdrum, hand to mouth existance of music journalists, the career summary below really does illustrate that if you were prepared to accept a certain degree of shit from the musicians that you were contractually required to work with (and I don't extend that as far as a battering!), then, as a music fan, music jounalism sounds like the best job in the world... for as long as you can take the pace. Certainly, the likes of Deanne and Barry have many more tales to tell the Grandchildren of what they did in the punk wars than I have!
Deanne Pearson
When I left college in 1978, after having spent most of the previous 12 months seeing punk bands play live and recovering from said activity, I wanted to write for the NME. I ended up getting a job on Horse & Hound magazine. Still going to see punk bands in the evenings. Contemplating jumping into the Thames during my lunch breaks. One day, in late 1978, I walked into the NME offices in Carnaby Street, informed Gary Crowley, who did indeed personify the large sign hanging above his head which read, 'Here sits the world's loudest receptionist', that I had a news story of such magnitude that the editor, Neil Spencer, needed to see me straight away or I would cross the street and sell it to the Melody Maker. I was ushered into his office. On the way, I passed Nick Kent in the corridor, dressed head-to-toe in black leather, eating a loaf of bread by scooping out the middle with long bony fingers and cramming it into his mouth, his remaining bony fingers clutching scraps of paper (including torn-up cigarette boxes) on which were scribbled his latest opus for publication in that week's issue. This was the sort of journalistic set up I wanted to be a part of. I told Neil Spencer that I didn't have a story, but would like a job on the NME, please. He sent me out to review Adam and the Ants at The Marquee. I freelanced on a fairly regular basis for the NME for quite a while after that.
It's all rather hazy from there on. Mainly, I remember it was a lot of fun, and an excellent way to earn a living (I use that term loosely from a financial and a work ethic point of view). Oh my daze. A few random recollections:
Interviewing Iggy Pop in the shower in Santa Monica because that was the only quiet place we could find to talk. That's what he told me, anyway. He was wearing a hand towel tied round his waist. I was fully clothed.
Being 'kidnapped' by The Stranglers in Portugal during the filming of the video for Nuclear Device, missing the plane home, flying across the Channel in a very small plane chartered by the band, supping Remy Martin. Ending up in Luton. When I lived in London.
Getting absolutely slaughtered in every bar and club in Liverpool with Frankie Goes To Hollywood on the night they went straight to Number One with 'Relax'. Then almost getting sacked from No.1 magazine two days later, after having phoned in sick, not realising that photographs had emerged of me dancing on the rooftop of a car with Holly Johnson that night.
Running my battered old Beetle into the back of a stationary car in the King's Road while giving Bryan Ferry a lift post Interview.
Babysitting Dave Vanian's two black rats, Edgar and Allan, whenever The Damned went on tour.
Doing a runner from The Slits tour after having put up with two days of them refusing to speak to me even though they'd agreed to an interview for The Face. Then being told I still had to deliver copy, so duly chronicling my observations and thoughts on The Slits and then carefully avoiding them for a while afterwards.
Having a stand-up row onstage with Siouxsie during a Banshees soundcheck in Manchester somewhere, having given the band a bad review in the previous week's NME. I actually loved the Banshees. One of the roadies later told me Sioux had asked him to drop a speaker on my head, but that The Cure's Robert Smith had objected as I was there to interview him.
John Lydon recording a message for my very first telephone answering machine: "Deanne's not 'ere at the moment, but if you leave a message, she might ring you back."
It was the NME and the early days of The Face that were the best, for me. The music and the people of that time, the thoughts, opinions and anti-establishment rants that were expressed, in music and in words.
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