A SPOOKY FUCK
Dave Robson was a fine-looking boy who played bass guitar in Geordie II. I remember Dave because I can’t remember what he drove, which makes me suspicious of him. He disappeared for a couple of months and returned a scientolembollokgyst or scientologist. Whatever.
“Dave, what shall we start the show with?” you’d ask, and he’d say, “Really.” “Really what, Dave?” I’d respond. “I understand,” he’d say. “Dave, what the fuck is wrong with you?” “I am copacetic with your concerns, but things will be things, Brian.” “Oh my God, he’s turned Injun.” He’d just smile at you all the time and go, “Mmmmmm!” Dave had started to sound like an engine that was out of tune with the world, his band, and most mere mortals. He was a spooky fuck.
Things went downhill from there. It was a shame, because the band was one of the best I’d been in. But playing in social clubs wasn’t really good for anybody. The audience told you to shurrup in the first set, and then there’d be bingo as the main act, then us again. Nasty little concert chairmen would shout at us to “get back up and do the songs we want or you’re dead.” One night in the dressing room (I use the term loosely) of a nasty club called Thornley Close, Deke said to the concert chairman, “Is this wallpaper flocked?” and the chairman replied, “No, kidda, it’s good for a few years yet.”
So Scientologist Dave and I parted, along with the rest of the band, after I joined AC/DC. That’s when the world changed for me, and I knew that Scientology was the biggest load of shite on the planet. The SsangYong of religions—that L. Ron Hubbard must be pissing himself.
Fortunately, this story has a happy ending, and I’m happy to report that Dave has now fully recovered from the experience!