CRUEL FOR RATS: THE STRANGLERS’ SOCIOPATHIC SOUND SERVICE

Hugh Cornwell is looking at me with a somewhat proprietary gleam in his eye. 'You were at our first American gig in Philadelphia, weren't you? I remember. You said I was sexist.' 'No, she said you were sexy,' mistakenly corrects Jean-Jacques Burnel, sidling up to join Cornwell and myself under a very small umbrella. Three-quarters of the Stranglers are waiting for a taxi outside Irving Plaza, where they've just completed a sound check for the second night's gig.

Burnel moves in closer. He doesn't miss a chance to come on, and what's worse, this often-in-trouble chap is too damn irresistible. Big brown soulful eyes. Soft pouty.lips. Butter wouldn't melt in 'em, etc. 'So what are you doing here?' he asks. Working, 1 respond. 'Why?' 'Because I'm getting paid to do it,' I hand back, grinning defiantly. The victory is short-lived^ 'Oh, continues J. J., *'I thought your type did that sort of thing on the street. What's your price?" 'You couldn't afford it,' sez I, growing profoundly nervous at Bumel's shift into heavy breathing range. We attempt a laugh when the cab finally comes. Hey-la, the Stranglers are back.