I worked with Vince in London in the 1990s, with TNT and SX magazines. He had his own office into which he’d invite me to chat, asking me what I knew about certain bands, the gossip on various mutual acquaintances back home. He was always working, getting the scoop for the columns he wrote for various publications and websites. He was a pioneer as far as web-journalism goes, he caught onto its potential early and I believe he had the first ever rock-journalism blog.
We’d often smoke a joint after work and he’d regale us with tales of mayhem from the rock’n’roll days – he and Bon escaping from truckdrivers who wanted to bash them for their long hair and hippy clothes, the crazy days of Barnesy’s addictions and Vince’s attempts to keep it secret. You’d forget sometimes that this was a guy who had been right in the pocket – he’d sung with Bon Scott in the Valentines, introduced Bon to AC/DC, managed Chisel and Divinyls. Occasionally he’d let slip a little of the influence and respect that he’d earned.
One time he asked me did I know anyone that played didgeridoo. I said I could play. He asked did I want a gig. I said yes. Next thing I’m being billed as Diamond Daley, didge player to the stars, recorded with REM and Midnight Oil, and I’m being paid 600 quid to play didge for ten minutes to a mob of scientists at Oxford University. Such was the influence and old-fashioned showbiz panache of this impresario, rock icon, AIDs activist, high-end businessman, respected journalist and good mate. Everyone on those magazines loved Vince, and on the few occasions I saw him around the Northern Rivers he was always the same energetic, enthused ideas man, on the scent of a new project. Seeya mate.