And the winner is...

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The regulator used to call you cheerily if you’d won a radio licence. The phone would ring at precisely the designated time and you’d duly jump and down with joy, and hug puzzled colleagues, if the news was good. 

If the phone didn’t ring for a few moments, you anticipated the result was unlikely to be good.  Your number was self-evidently second or third on the regulator’s scribbled list.  As the minutes ticked by, gloom would descend as you realised you’d wasted a whole slice of your life.  No matter how well wrapped up in regulatory pleasantries, nothing can make the failure to win a licence feel any better.

There are no runner-up prizes, not even a licence in Macclesfield. On losing, disappointment is total. It’s a little like losing your seat in an election.  

There is the indignant surprise of failure. If you did not passionately believe that you had the very best chance of winning, you simply would not have entered the arduous race.  Blood, sweat, tears and significant expense form part of every decent licence application. Every word is caressed.

Even in the best-planned projects, there are moments of drama along the way.  I recall losing the chance of a Leicester FM licence in a pitch battle. We’d had the rival changing management at the last minute; potential board members getting strange things through their letterboxes; supporters changing side; and all manner of colourful happenings.  The licence, though, was safely returned to the incumbent.

What adds to the annoyance is you cannot really let off steam by portraying the opponent as the bad guy. Typically, every infuriating rival bid features some good friends, and involves some people you might wish to work for one day.

Despite the passion, anger and, on some occasions, legitimate concerns, few have challenged the radio regulator's vote in court and no-one has yet been successful in so doing. Those busy bodies have, it seems, been a little better at their jobs than the rail regulators. 

The day after that Ratae defeat, I simply grasped a spontaneous day's holiday and wandered around Abbey Park morosely in the sunshine, kicking the leaves, considering what might have been.  Licence wins and losses change the course of radio history and they surely change careers.

There are the occasional spurious licence applications where even those submitting them did not feel they had a cat in hell’s chance of carrying off victory, yet they did.  I shall let those lucky individuals tell their own story. There are also the winners who truly did not deserve to win and history tells its own story of those.

The current FM (and AM) local licensing regime is a ‘beauty parade’, that is to say we are invited to stroll up and down the catwalk with only the text of our licence applications to preserve our modesty.  Decisions on our relative attractiveness are based on the infamous Section 105 of the Broadcasting Act 1990, which bears a handful of dull statutory criteria.  Which applicant can best: broaden listener choice; appeal to local tastes and interests; attract local support; and be sure to sustain itself for the licence term? 

I am privileged to have served as a suited regulator for a short period in the 90s, when the

job of licensing fell to the Radio Authority, housed in its grey partitioned building close to Holborn Tube.  My department was called upon, inter alia, to feed what was then an enormously lengthy licensing process.  It even featured live applicant interviews to build up the tension in true X Factor style, although no-one was invited to Tony Stoller's house.

The Authority’s executives, most equipped with brains the size of Emley Moor, would diligently evaluate the applicants’ proposals with a huge degree of skill and, contrary to the beliefs of some, utter fairness. Then we would all march in to the meeting room, jackets on, ready to help inform the decision of the Authority Members.  These Members, always with a capital M, were an interesting crowd; and, as is the case with every Board, some took their responsibilities more seriously than others. And, again, just like in any Board meeting, discussion could sometimes leap off into wholly legitimate yet unexpected territory with surprising licensing results.

Is there an alternative route which would avoid this painful process? Not least because the winner can often buy the loser anyway. 

Independent National Radio, of course, was decided by the size of a cash bid in an envelope, just like the TV licence auctions in the early 90s, where some bidders overpaid whilst lucky Central sumbitted the minimum £2,000.  Had the highest FM radio bidder, Showtime Radio, got its backing together more successfully in 1991, then the gifted Anne-Marie Minhall would have been playing High Society rather than Handel by now.

I guess that the art of assembling good old-fashioned competitive licence applications will soon go the same way as roof thatching; as FM licences are routinely renewed whilst DAB gears up -  and the DAB system itself licenses the landlords not the tenants.  That’s going to save a lot of us a great deal of time, effort, worry and expense; and we'll probably live longer.

Grab my book 'How to Make Great Radio' - published by Biteback

In celebration of Wogan

He really confused one of my old overseas radio consultants.

How on earth did this eccentric, quietly mumbling man attract an audience of millions?  No teasing.  Little ‘sense of the day’.  No callers.  No stunts.  No giggling sidekick.  Not slick. No crazy competitions.  No showbiz.  Few weather forecasts.  Incestuous talk about his radio team.  Interminable ramblings about the mundane.

But, like most great breakfast shows, he broke some of the rules and won.  The phrase ‘radio legend’ was made for Terry Wogan. 

Despite his audience of millions, Terry enjoyed true intimacy with the listener.  Every listener felt he knew them  - and that he understood them.  From the shawled-pensioner in an icy semi to the savvy student from a magnolia flat; each listener heard a different show in their own head.  Although he likely earned a touch more than either of them, they felt this seemingly self-effacing man was still ‘one of us’. Like Blackburn, this man grew not to take himself too seriously, with some success.

The Wogan vocabulary was his weapon.  With enviable skill, he carved each sentence; turning a mundane anecdote from a black and white photo to a colour film with a beautiful array of words, delivered with vocal warmth through a chocolate voice.  

Tales founded on fact  would be emebellished with a Wogan flight of fancy.  A few words on from a 'listener' on Basildon Bond turned to gold in the hands of the master.

His artful pauses too.  Terry has possibly made as much money in his career from saying nothing as saying something.

View image | gettyimages.com

A little like Bernie Taupin, his rich career began with a chance newspaper recruitment ad.  Charming the interviewers presumably, he was signed up to RTE.  As the early recordings of Moyles suggest too, distinctive  broadcasters do not begin their careers with their trademark styles; but you can hear just a hint of the endearing Wogan to come on this early clip from the Emerald Isle, courtesy of the ever-helpful Andy Walmsley.

When work began to dry up in Ireland in 1966, he typed a quick missive on the Remington to the BBC.  Auntie responded with the offer of a few programmes ‘down the line’ for the Light Programme, before a fledgling Radio 1  beckoned.  In the days when programmes had titles, he hosted the wonderful ‘Late Night Extra’, a programme recalled fondly by a whole generation.  After some relief presentation, afternoons became his home, simulcast on Radio 1 and 2.

Terry ascended the Radio 2 breakfast throne in the Decimal days of 1972, entertaining the Nation with his ramblings, interrupted only by JAM jingles and pan-pipe music.

He signed off from Radio 2 in 1984 to dedicate more time to his TV career, wearing those brown suits we all wore back then.  Whilst he did TV possibly as well as most radio folk, he was still at his best when, as in the Eurovision, we couldn’t see him.  Like many in the radio fraternity, you got the feeling he did his best work when he felt no-one was really watching.

Come January 1993, he returned home.  Terry was one of very few presenters ever to host two long spells on a significant breakfast show.  By now, he’d become the eponymous hero of ‘Wake Up to Wogan'; and he'd truly found his act.  That's the stage at which a performer truly matures; and the audience give them permission to behave unthinkably on-air.  One got the feeling that detailed show prep was not high on his list of priorities, but it mattered little.

As a professional, he's carried himself through his career with skill.  Being sufficiently true to himself when speaking about the Corporation, but stopping short of going too far.  His humour and presence softening comments on music policy, radio, or BBC antics which might have sounded unwise from others.

His handing over the Radio 2 breakfast baton to Chris Evans at the end of 2009 was text book.  One could witness the smell of two performers respecting each other’s very different talents.  I suspect it was well managed too; but one got the distinct feeling that he agreed with this unlikely plan.  If he did, he was right.  Here he was, letting his radio ‘son’ have a play now, probably shaking his head lovingly at the Evans antics like a tolerant father.

If proof were needed of his talents, watch his farewell speech below. Radio is rarely perfect, and that’s why we love it.  But this is.  Truly perfect delivery. As mentioned in my book, the pace is 165 words per minute, a little faster than his normal speed, but slower than most broadcasters. Terry delivers every valedictory word from the heart, as if to a close friend sat together in the living room. In truth, Tel is surrounded by producers and the nosey, gazing at a typed script, and reads every word.  Immaculately.  Note how he gazes into the eyes of his listener throughout, never those milling around; possibly the secret of his art in those 28 successful years on earlies. 

Wogan returned to Radio 2 in 2010 for Weekend Wogan.  Whilst a live audience situation was arguably not the best home for the Wogan skill, 30,000 people were said to have applied for a seat in the audience, gazing at his mastery.

My book 'How to Make Great Radio' is published by Biteback

Bricks and Mortar

I smiled when I made the mistake of reading one of those anorak groups recently. One contributor suggested that ILR's 'downfall' began when Capital moved out of the "iconic Euston Tower" into premises "above a restaurant" in Leicester Square.  It was Kenny's magic which turned that Euston office block into the 'Tower of Power'; and I suspect the author of that post would be none too pleased were his rates to change from those of Euston Road to those of Leicester Square. 

Some radio stations have an aura. You walk in you can ‘breathe in’ the spirit of the place.   Often it’s not the building itself, it’s the history and the characters who’ve spent time there over the years. We all leave a bit of something along the way.   Often a funny tale to tell, passed from generation to generation by professional story-tellers, amplified each time.  They all seep into the brickwork. 

Regardless of the impressive new facilities at New Broadcasting House, I know a few old Bush House folk shed a tear as they walked down the Strand for the last time.

At Free Radio, we moved our Wolverhampton studio facilities to a new purpose-built location elsewhere in its broadcast area.  All very practical, frankly.  The old building was far too large for the number of people now working there.  And it leaked.  Each room was equipped with a heavy large door: great in nuclear war when you need to prop one up against a table, as instructed by the Government  ‘how to cope in WWIII’  booklets, but not so good when you are wondering what the folk in the sales team are thinking about your latest bright idea.

Free Radio Tettenhall Rd building (pic: Tom Stokes)

The old 19^th Century Tettenhall Road building became a radio station in the sunshine days of 1976, when Beacon Radio came on air, the last in the first tranche of ILR commercial radio stations.  

It was a rambling old house, formerly an orphanage, housing many of those who'd lost their parents to Cholera. The screams of stroppy presenters went on to replace  those of stroppy children.  I gather the station was very nearly not based there: it was to be in Sandwell, but the management team rushed out and bought it on a whim with a cheque for £18,000.  And there it’s stayed.

It became offices after out tenure, although I mused that it would have made a great building for a nursing home for ex-disc jockeys as we all reach retirement.  The mind wanders. How much fun that would be.  We could all have a turn at the decks for the Friday night discos.  Our doorbells could play JAM accapella namechecks; happy nurses would wear satin jackets with logos on; and coffee would be served in red and blue 'Radio 1 247' mugs.

For thirty years, Trent occupied a converted house in Nottingham, well, two to be precise; and it had been a hospital too.  I think Dale Winton’s desk was plonked where matron used to sit.  If the walls of that place could speak, the tales they could tell.  I pass the battered old blue door most weeks and smile wistfully; and on quiet mornings, even touch the dimpled gold door-handle to touch my past.  This was a building which saw me grow from boy to man and I was forever intimidated by its reception area, where my acne and I sat so often before getting my first job there.  We all have a building like that in our hearts.

My quick history of the old Radio Trent building in Nottingham

Trent had ghosts.  I only mention that, as I recall that it is not the only radio station which lays claim to them.  Mind you, with the studios having been the morgue, it’s hardly surprising.  The Beacon building is said to haunted too, as, reportedly, was the old 1876 ecclesiastic Leicester Sound building.  I gather someone hanged themselves on the stairs there in its life before radio.  The station nearly drove me to that on occasions.

I recall from friends around the network that many other stations chose buildings with rich histories.  Red Rose Radio was based in a former church, where hardened journalists feared the late shift; and GWR Wiltshire suggests its newsroom boasted a ghost which switched its TV to adult channels overnight. Yeah, yeah.

Chris Evans writes in his book about hanging around at the Piccadilly Plaza in his Manchester youth, and awful though that original radio station building, built in 1959, eventually became, I’m sure in later years, he’d still stare at it and smile.

Capital’s building in Leeds is still very much alive with great living, breathing, radio; and there is another of those buildings which you ‘feel’ as you walk in.  Not so much for the Joseph's Well brickwork, or indeed location (talk to them about the day when Boy George turned up at the car park), but because you can feel the energy as you walk in.  

And Golden Square, the beautifully decorated home of Absolute - and a fund of memories.  There is another of radio’s stately homes.  Why is that?  Because of the characters who’ve passed through it.  And, as ownership changes again, thoughts return to those who’ve shouted, cried and laughed between its four walls.  And, one imagines, feelings surface that Golden Square may not be forever the home of that legacy.

Most of the first 73-79 generation of stations have now waved farewell to the rent, leaks and spooks of the buildings in which they launched. Who's left? The Pulse (Pennine)?  Possibly a couple more, but the list is small.

As we wave farewell to Tettenhall Road as a broadcasting base after 37  years, it's a chance for a last farewell glance at one of commercial radio's original stately homes, and the people within,  before we put the key in the Chubb for the last time:

                                                             The Tettenhall Road Years 

But really, it’s not about buildings.  It's about the teams and the people.  They energise the space, not the other way round.  

The future?  Is radio an operation which always needs a single building? It's amazing what a presenter can do with a few egg-boxes, a Soundcraft mixer and a blanket draped round their head.