Fuckin’ write-ups…..

Having scoured my Spotify playlist and found nothing really suitable (Dylan, Smiths, Bowie - same old shit), this song suddenly popped into my head. Not quite sure why, particularly as I hadn’t heard it in over a decade.
I can’t say I’m a particular fan of The Ruts. They weren’t around long enough for me to form an opinion, but what they did do was three or four lovely musical numbers: Babylon, West One, Something.
I was fortunate enough, in later years, to get to know the three surviving members, so that probably influences my choice of song. They really were lovely, particularly the drummer, Dave Ruffy. Years ago Becks and I had a rather ace evening with the band at the Cafe de Paris - helped enormously by a free bar. I was writing a book at the time on the band, but it sadly never came to fruition. Another abiding memory is getting very drunk with Paul Fox in his little drum in Uxbridge, Foxy on guitar, me singing Buddy Holly songs. Or the time I interviewed Malcolm Owen’s partner at a bar in Oxford St, it being the first time she’d spoken in-depth about the late singer.
The Ruts. They could have gone on to greater things. They could have gone on to fuck all. We’ll never know. We’ll never know because heroin killed Malcolm at the age of 26, found dead in the bath at his parents’ home in 1980. Dirty stinking heroin. He’s still missed all these years later, and he’s fondly remembered by many.
Love in Vain or Love in Vein. Call it what you will. It’s poignant, it’s prophetic. Reggae and punk - as the Clash will tell you - fuse together rather nicely. And, to these lugs, this song encapsulates it perfectly. I would ramble on a bit more, but Rhue wants to go to the park. Enjoy!
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