I was sorry to hear of Andy Kershaw's death. As he presented programmes on BBC Radios 1, 3 and 4 there
will almost certainly be a tribute to him on one station or another in the coming days but in the meantime, if you're not familar with his career, I can recommend his very entertaining, full-throttle autobiography, the aptly titled No Off Switch. I wrote about it in 2012 in a piece about programmes celebrating the Beeb's
ninetieth anniversary ... Cue the repost:
Episode Two, The Moondog Years, presumably concentrates on Alan Freed. It won't be available on iPlayer until after its transmission next Tuesday night, but I have heard Episode One, which takes us from the very beginnings, and is an agreeable listen, with lots of archive audio, though the very first radio broadcast didn't survive and it seems we have to take the broadcaster's word that it actually happened. (Only a friend was listening, apparently.)
By way of enticement there's a bit of personal Gambaccini reminiscence thrown in at the beginning of the first programme - the shock of hearing his father swear and rush to turn the set off as rock'n'roll began blasting out, which had the unintended effect of causing the young Gambo to cleave unto the music ever after - but after that it's a more general account which could have been presented equally well by any number of people, so Episode Two will probably be more interesting. And perhaps in a later episode there will be some insights into the Radio 1 environment which Gambaccini entered.
In no time at all, we set about erecting the barricades. Few of our Radio 1 colleagues were allowed across the threshold. Fellow DJs given rare access were Paul Gambaccini (whom we considered our intellectual equal and a fellow music obsessive), Annie Nightingale (battle-hardened survivor), Alan Freeman (lovely old cove), Janice Long (our scally mate) and Kid Jensen (nice lad).No Off Switch is a very enjoyable read and I regret not starting at the beginning. In fact I am now almost at Chapter One: for me, if for no other reader, Kershaw keeps getting younger and younger. The Peel stuff is fascinating, because it's by the sole surviving member of that triumvirate. Peel is remembered fondly by his protege but not as a latter-day saint: Kershaw records occasions when Peel was too frightened about his own position to stick up for the younger DJ, only to find himself similarly dumped on by Radio 1 some years later. It's not particularly bitter: Kershaw notes that Peel had a family to support by that time. But it's Walters who receives more praise, as the man who went in to battle for Peel and Kershaw and enabled them to survive for so long.
When, the bruiser Walters having long retired, Peel finds himself under threat, his programmes pushed further and further into the night - in an effort, Kershaw says, by Radio 1 Controller Andy Parfitt to demoralise him without having "John's broadcasting blood on his hands" - Kershaw suggests he speaks to Jenny Abramsky, Controller of Network Radio, and threaten to walk out on Radio 4's Home Truths, by then "a national institution."
"Oh no," he murmured, "I couldn't possibly do that."Some weeks later he went on the holiday to Peru where he died of a heart attack:
His last words to me, before he shambled away towards Oxford Circus, were, "It's killing me."
Just minutes before he was struck down, John sighed to Sheila, "I do miss Walters."The Peel and Walters material is a relatively small part of the book, which also includes details of the painful split with his partner and separation from his children, his obsession with motorcycles, his gradual immersion in music - which I'm only learning about in retrospect, so kids, read this the right round: it's not Betrayal by Harold Pinter, you get me? But it is sparkling and funny throughout. Alright, at times individual sentences get the tiniest bit convoluted, but that's a negligible price to pay for a fairground ride like this.
There was another programme about broadcasting on Radio 2 last night, The Listeners' Archive (details here). It didn't sound all that promising - it was about programmes which ordinary listeners had recorded off-air and returned to the Beeb as part of an amnesty for this technically illegal activity. We heard segments of a range of programmes (including Peel and Pete Drummond co-hosting an early Top Gear, and Tony Blackburn's very first BBC broadcast, complete with that signature breakfast theme tune but without Arnold's doggy punctuations).
I don't think it was said outright, but what came over was that there was a kind of indefinable magic about those voices, wacky or suave, making it up as they went along, for hours at a stretch; the underlying message seemed to be that they had been recorded, saved for posterity, because their seemingly trivial craft was important and shouldn't be lost. The music the DJs introduced on those archive recordings was quickly faded out, so that you got two or three segments of their linking chat in a wunner, making it more obvious that the best of them were responsible for creating a kind of music themselves, even if it wasn't particularly to your taste.
Yes, even Tony Blackburn. I remember listening to his breakfast show in the early seventies, hearing him introduce the Chi-Lites' Have You Seen Her? as I got dressed by the radiator in my bedroom on a gloomy winter morning, and doing the same about twenty years later when he was presenting a similar show on London's Capital Gold, playing that same song - and there didn't see to be much difference between the two versions of Tony. When Steve Jones, later of Radio Clyde, briefly deputised for Blackburn at Radio 1, he seemed to be attempting a carbon copy, as though by way of acknowledging that Tone had got it right, so why change it for a couple of weeks?
I also recall that he was vaguely disturbed by Ray Stephens' Turn Your Radio On, specifically citing the line "Get in touch with God" as one he couldn't understand. Yet there he was (and on some station, doubtless still is), travelling unseen through the ether and whispering intimately into people's ears, like Wings of Desire.
I recorded a lot of radio over the years, but usually for timeshift purposes: again and again I taped over episodes of Radio 4's Weekending which I wish I had now. Yes, I know lots of people have a low opinion of it, but we're talking a whole heap of years, and I remember particular editions which seemed pretty good, unless I simply didn't have the sophistication to know it was already old hat. I suppose I'm talking late seventies - I seem to remember a few editions costarring Martin Jarvis which were better than average.
But when I think back to my years of radio listening it's not John Peel, nor yet Andy Kershaw (I was a bit too late for him) who inspire the fondest memories. I have written already about the music broadcasters who did so much to shape my tastes - Ken Sykora, Hubert Gregg and Benny Green among them - but the programmes which brought the purest, unfettered delight weren't actually musical. Well, one was, but it was within the confines of Radio 2's evening entertainment slot.
I speak of Pop Score (or POP SCORE!) as it was always announced. This was way before the days of the supercilious Never Mind the Buzzcocks. The contestants were a mix of dinosaur DJs and 60s pop stars (Helen Shapiro seemed to be on a lot). The genial Pete Murray introduced it but what I remember most about it is the sense of goodheartedness which the dinosaurs brought to it. It may have been essentially trivial and I don't know whether there was a three line whip to make DJs attend (after all, they could have been opening a supermarket - or another branch of Brentford Nylons, in the case of Fluff) but the overall impression was of immense conviviality, and I recall snuggling down in the dark beneath a less than adequate sleeping bag doubling as a quilt on many a freezing winter evening (it was transmitted around seven but bed seemed the place to luxuriate in it), part of the happy crowd watching performers who belonged to them.
There were also other programmes which felt like the audio equivalent of hot water bottles: Shaw Taylor's The Law Game and interviews with variety era comedians which always seemed to crop up in the Radio 2 schedules but Pop Score, perhaps because I could simultaneously engage with the questions and bask in the chummy warmth engendered by the DJs, is the one I most wish was still around. It was an early validation of my compendious interest in music, suggesting a skill which might somehow, at some point, pay dividends.
And it has, in a way. At least, my day job is involved with, among other things, a wide range of music: buying it, cataloguing it, adding notes. It's like a great big Pop Score every day, sort of.
But I can't end on a downbeat. So finally, HERE IT IS, PLAYED EVERY DAY ... THE TONY BLACKBURN SHOW RECORD OF THE WEEK. Honest ...
Postscript:
At the time of the above repost the programmes mentioned aren't available to hear on the BBC website but the links provided still work and will take you to more information about them. If they are ever repeated the audio will become available again via those same links for 30 days after broadcast; in the meantime, for the busy executive in a hurry, the Paul Gambaccini series can be found on youtube here.
With six one-hour programmes the series amounts to a comprehensive survey, featuring many interviews with historically important DJs and others. Alan Freed is discussed in that second episode, The Moondog Years, but isn't the sole subject. What comes over strongly, listening again to all six programmes, is the business side of broadcasting: however we may lament the closure of a favourite station in the end it's all about market forces.
Richard Park was among those interviewed; he was a major figure in the early days of Radio Clyde, as discussed in my tribute to Ken Sykora, here. I don't know what the situation is now but in its early days Clyde was very exciting, playing a wide range of music. And Ken Sykora's style of presentation exemplified what several contributors to the series said they alway tried to bear in mind: in the end, broadcasting is about one person speaking to an audience of one.
A further note about Tony Blackburn: I recently mentioned on social media that unlikely but persistent memory of the Fairports' far-from-poptastic ditty being chosen as his Record of the Week; Rob Chapman replied that Locomotive's Mr Armageddon had also been one of Mr B's chosen discs way back in 1968, adding: "He was always more open-minded than some of his detractors."
My eldest brother greeted Mr Armageddon with approval when it was on some TV pop show of the time; he hadn't liked the group's earlier (moderate) hit, the ska-style Rudi's in Love, which he considered rather soppy, if I remember correctly, whereas Mr Armageddon was properly progressive, underground, psychedelic or what have you - in a word, heavy.
I was gearing up, or topgearing up, to write something disparaging about Mr Armageddon but listening to it again, no matter whether or not the lyrics make much sense the record sounds great.
Earlier today, just before I learnt about Andy Kershaw's death, I happening to be listening to Paul Gambaccini on an old edition of the Rock's Backpages podcast, talking about his first meeting with Peel and Walters, and about Tony Blackburn's genuine love for soul music. You can find out more on the Rock's Backpages website here.
Andy Kershaw's Guardian obituary can be found here.
Martin Kelner on Andy Kershaw, including the first of several conversations with him, here.
Liz Kershaw shares her memories of her brother ("some of the stuff that didn't make the obits") here.
* Tony Blackburn's toupeeless days were shortlived - at least, I never saw another such unashamed display on TV - but as the world knows Macca is now happily undyed.
