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Denied a Grammy yet again, the Fall’s Mark E. Smith had to settle for the Godlike Genius Award for Unique Services to Music at the NME Awards With Miller Genuine Draft bash held recently in Brixton. And don’t think he didn’t deserve it. No terminal rocker (excepting Gene Vincent, Hank Sr., and a few others) has sacrificed more for his sullen craft. And yet on he goes: Every bit of 40 going on 60, Smith has begun to resemble fellow Mancunian Anthony Burgess (as rendered by Francis Bacon), but his music remains as pungent as ever. On a U.S. minitour in support of the group’s 197th album (as usual, available only as an import), the greatest toaster since U-Roy has reportedly vowed to make amends for the band’s last show at the Black Cat, a drunken debacle that veered precariously close to performance art. Brix fans be forewarned: He’s fired her again. With Bush Tetras and Botswanas at 8:30 p.m. at the Black Cat, 1831 14th St. NW. $12. (202) 667-7960. (Eddie Dean)