Gigs from Hell

I smiled when John Myers Tweeted that he had been booked to 're-open'  the refurbished Spar shop where he'd officially cut the ribbon twenty years before.  He'd probably been paid back then in Spangles.

On stage with Erica in Nottingham

When we get into radio, we dream of being booked to introduce our fave act on stage in front of thousands at the O2; but the truth is that the public appearances we do get invited to are a little more everyday.  

Most radio jocks are now, quite rightly, seen by listeners as 'normal people'; rather than as uncomfortable  'cheap, local  mini-celebs', so even the invitations to 'open' local events don't flow in at quite the same rate nowadays.  In short, just not quite so many coffee mornings and Summer galas to open as there used to be.  Phew.

Peter Tait, rest his soul (Trent/Aire/Magic), often related the tale of one event he'd been asked to open, where he was paid live on stage in full view.  "Just before we go, we'd like to say  a  big thank you to Peter Tait. Thanks, Peter for coming.  This is from the committee'.  As the PA crackled, they proceeded to count out crisp tenners from a dirty envelope into Peter's hand, whilst still on-mic:  "Here you go. Five; ten; fifteen; twenty....'. Applause.

There was a memorable baby show I once judged on a steaming hot 80s Saturday. Never judge baby shows.  You make enemies.  The organiser hissed in my ear just prior to my announcing my finalists, demanding I pick a blend of colours and continents amongst my finalists.

My forsaking the L plates on my Ford Escort came late in life, so I'd arrive at gigs by taxi.  When duties were done, I'd wave like a star before running round the corner to hop on the bus home. I always felt uncomfortable taking the usual £25 Trent  expense payment, so often refused it.  By the time I'd spent a few polite quid on the  tombola, I was  usually out of pocket anyway. How can you take £25 when you know they're probably only raising £150?

Invited to open a new bed-shop

And there was the police 'It's a knockout' I compered on the wettest day in history. Thames Valley Police v Leics Police.  In a bid to brighten up the proceedings, I was disparaging of all competitors throughout.  They took it in good spirit, until the end.  As  I made my final announcement, they nodded to each other and ran for me in a concerted terrorist attack.  Never try to escape from an entire police force.  Having caught me, I was lowered unceremoniously into one of the huge water obstacles.  I walked away from the event in a dirty old over-sized police track suit.

Isn't it frightening seeing women fight. I once opened a charity event in a pub in a less salubrious part of town: a rowdy 'do', where I had to shout to be heard.  In the absence of any stage or PA system, I balanced precariously on the two arms of an armchair to declare the event, such as it was, open.  Shortly afterwards some dispute erupted over by the trestle tables and I cowered in the corner as two women shouted, spat, slapped, thumped, hissed and pulled hair.

You get accustomed to having to organise events yourself. Whilst  some are beautifully choreographed, with a full briefing dispensed on arrival; others require that you take off your satin jacket with your name on - and turn into event manager. They have clearly given nothing any thought at all.  Similarly, they struggle to remember who you are and where you're from as they prepare to they introduce you.  On the luckiest occasions, they trouble to hiss quietly 'who are you again?' before grabbing the, usually faulty, mic.

Then, of course, the unreasonable requests. You've been asked to open a Summer Fete.  On arrival, you discover they want you to draw the raffle. In six hours time. There are seventy three prizes; and most winners have sensibly long since departed.

Not being a driver meant people gave me lifts home; or organised taxis.  I recall one afternoon after a  Summer's afternoon gig, waiting in the organiser's kitchen.  Being a well-brought up boy, after finishing my tea, I washed my cup.  The handle came off.  What do you say? And then, and this is 100% true, I waved farewell and got into the car which had slowed down outside. It turned out not to be the taxi I thought it was.  I know the listener still remembers, as she got in touch ten years later.

Don't remind me of compering Miss Radio Trent 1985. There I was in sparkly suit, with a blue-dicky bow and matching patent shoes, trying to lend a sense of occasion to the proceedings at Nottingham's Commodore International. That was the sort of venue where  orange fluorescent posters boasted all its on-stage musical acts as being 'the fabulous...'.  As I described the young lady's attributes, which had been usefully written down for me lest I not notice, her heel got caught in the hole between two of the stage blocks.  She fell over.  I laughed uncontrollably. She wasn't a happy beauty queen (not the one pictured).

Groupies too; some truly frightening (that's quite another blog altogether).  You get the one person who simply follows every movement in your life with alarming tenacity.  If you announce you'll be in a park in Arnold at 10.30, you know they'll be there at 10.00, armed with a carrier bag of dubious contents.  The innocent organisers, delighted to be getting enthusiastic  visitors, allocate them a front row seat.  If you are dismissive of the 'fan', you are seen as 'not very nice'. If you encourage them, well goodness knows what will happen.

Wish I could remember more about the dogs' fancy dress show I judged.

And what about Long Eaton Carnival?  They suggested they would fly me in by helicopter.  This was exciting.  This was the Big Time.  Not as it turned out, though.  On this grey windy day, after touchdown,  I descended from the helicopter, swaying and spewing.  This was not the Bay City Rollers arriving at a Radio 1 roadshow. 

Commercial Radio - Still Public Service?

At Euro Parliament (Andrew Neil wrestling behind)

When you speak in the European Parliament, there's an embossed silver sign in front of you  saying 'speak slowly'.  I tried my best last week to do just that last week, when I honoured a welcome invitation by UK RadioCentre to speak in the European Parliament at the Association of European  Broadcasters' Convention.  The theme of the session was public service in commercial radio.

How reassuring it is that radio listeners the world over seem to behave the same.  The Irish and German contingents merrily reeled off tales of listeners who look naturally and immediately to their radio station to know the answers to any of life's questions. Anyone who's ever worked at the coal-face taking listener calls will know this to be the case.  If you want to know what time ASDA closes, erm, ask ASDA, not us.

I took the opportunity, naturally, to highlight the work of our own Free Radio team.  Last year, our West Midlands stations raised around £3/4m for local hospitals and related causes.  Surely one of the most significant fund-raising events in UK radio.  How great it is that around 20,000 listeners got out of bed on a Sunday morning to walk miles and miles for charity.  And what a great reflection of the relationship presenters have with their listeners that it was radio which persuaded them to do it.  Similarly, at our Gem 106 station last year, the Give It Up appeal persuaded listeners to relinquish a small luxury in life in favour of cash for the local hospital. Another £70,000 raised. 

We're not the only ones.  My many friends across the industry too have given up their time through the years.  Help a London Child from Capital speaks for itself; and has branched out into Help a Capital Child.  The Have a Heart Appeal has already raised over £200,000 this year alone to make seriously ill children's wishes come true.  Similarly, Real and Smooth Radio recently presented a cheque for over £1million to the Help for Heroes charity after four years of fundraising.

It's not just funds where radio helps.  I recall vividly the email  we received from a Black Country family, whose 42 year old mother was suffering from stomach cancer.  The worry was that Yvette would not live to see her favourite time of year with her family: Christmas.  The presenters were moved; as were the listeners.  Within days, plans had been laid by the station and its listeners to bring Christmas Day forward. Neighbours, friends and relations gathered with the presenters at her house as presents arrived, complemented by artificial snow, carol singers and a jolly Father Christmas.  Yvette died the following day. Radio had helped make her last moments as she wanted them.

It's easy to look at commercial radio as it grows and evolves, and suggest it's not the same as it was. It isn't.  But there is ample evidence that it still does enormous good.  We don't have to do charity appeals. But we do.  We don't have to work through the night to help listeners cope with the snow and school closures. But we do.  As I added a few school names to our online list at 1 am a few weeks ago, I mused that in some ways, with social media and online aiding the on-air effort, the quality and reliability of the service many stations provide in some areas is actually better than it has ever been. 

As a radio-obsessed youth, I still probably spoke on-air to but a handful of presenters in the whole of the 1970s; and then only after dogged persistence. And I sent in scrawled postcards (or the back of a sealed-down envelope! Remember those?) for a few competitions. That was the level of my engagement.  It was all I could do.

Now, there is consistent dialogue night and day, by SMS, email and social media.  Listeners expect the person on the radio to talk back to them. Personally. Although radio itself may now be on a larger and often network scale, individual listener dialogue with presenters has never be closer.  That helps radio retain the beautiful trust it enjoys; and makes sure that when we call upon listeners to help, they do.

Bien?


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