The turntable spin kings, rule
The blame for me getting into the radio malarkey can be laid at the feet of Ward 'Pally' Austin – who? He was the hottest DJ in Sydney during the 1960s. I became a borderline stalker, hanging around the 2UW studios waiting to touch the hem of his robe, well actually his tunic, because for some bizarre reason he liked to dress as a Confederate soldier (no, me neither).
Pally met all the stars including Elvis and Jerry Lee Lewis. Maybe that's where he got the yen to date the 14 years old, Irene Combe, when he was in his 30s and later to marry her when she got to the ripe old age of 17. 'Pally' was his nickname, but trouble would have been more apt. He was arrested for possessing illegal firearms, drunk driving, violent affray and was sacked for reading a commercial for a motorbike and comparing it to the male genitalia. Still, no one's perfect. All I know is I wanted to be a platter player just like 'Pally.'
In the late 1960s, back in Blighty, I got a gig at the Top Rank Ballroom in Brighton. My initial job was a bouncer, but as I looked like the love child of Mr Magoo, with all the menace of a marshmallow – they turned me into a milksop in-house D.J. Generally speaking, we had the turntables to ourselves – but every now and then, a big-time BBC Radio One hotshot would roll into town and take over our disco domain.
One such popinjay was Emperor Rosko - who was as cooool as the flip side of your pillow on a Spanish August night. As you'd expect from the son of a big Hollywood producer (Joe Pasternak) he exuded La La Land louche. Needless to say, we mere mortal microphone monkeys loathed him. Which was churlish as he was a decent gent who liked a drink – and then some. He got me to buy a bottle of Dr Jack Daniel's fine medicinal product. The Emperor surreptitiously consumed the lot, aptly, from a Ming-style teapot, during the 2-hour gig–which turned out to be a DJing masterclass – if indeed such a thing exists.
Johnnie Walker – no not another medicinal product – the Radio One variety came to town with his Motown show to Watney's Birds Nest disco bar (funky, huh?) where I was working as a muck and nettles jock. Again, the green-eyed monster raised its ugly bonce when big-time Johnnie strutted his funky stuff into my manor. When the big moment came to introduce him to my moribund audience, they perked up no end, which of course irked me even more.
To my eternal shame as I introduced him in a big butch voice (all bass, no treble) “Ladies and Gentlemen please welcome the legend that is (drum roll) Johnnie Walker.” - I flicked the bass off and wound up the treble. Johnnie's first words sounded like Pinky and Perky crossed with Joe Pasquale. As I typed that sentence, I shudder in shame for two reasons.
One the pettiness of it all – years later I interviewed him and related the tale as a form of absolution, he didn't have the remotest idea what I was on about, he was above it all. The other reason I feel a certain ignominy is I have actually interviewed Pinky and Perky. Not, thankfully in person, but over an ISDN link separated by a couple of hundred miles of umbilical ether.
Now, the chaps who voiced the porky pair were, how can I put this subtly, never going to play loosehead prop for the Barbarians rugby 15. On top of that, to enhance the Pinky and Perky persona they were sucking on helium. This, dear reader, was not my finest moment in broadcasting and goodness knows what 'Pally' would have made of it all.
I have mentioned in a previous ramble my airwaves idol was Kenny Everett. The BBC Head of Blame, surprisingly, let me make a programme about the demise of The Beatles circa 1970 (he probably thought it was a nature documentary).
At that time, Kenny was living in the sticks of Sussex and with very little optimism; I contacted him to ask if he'd contribute a couple of quotes. “Of course I will my little radio muffin.” he gushed à la Marcel Wave.
At best, I thought I'd get an hour with him – not a bit of it – all day in his studio. Kenny had tapes from the 1950s (Quarrymen / Johnny & The Moondogs / Silver Beetles) through to the recording that Lennon described as; ‘Hellthe most miserable on earth.’ The making of the 'Let It Be.' album. Miserable days for The Beatles in their studio – a marvellous day for me with Kenny in his studio.