Small Man in a Book (19 page)

Enjoying Radio Luxembourg required a certain dedication and tenacity on the part of the listener. My memory tells me that it only broadcast in the evenings, although I’m prepared to accept that may not have been the case; it may have been that I only listened to it in the evenings, when its medium-wave crackle and hiss made it seem so far away. Never mind another country, it may as well have been broadcasting from another universe; it sounded so distant, the signal weakening as the night progressed. It was home to a variety of characters: the flamboyantly titled and curiously voiced Emperor Rosko, Tony Prince (famed amongst we Elvis fans for having once actually met the King, in Las Vegas), Stuart Henry (who basically sounded like the more outgoing brother of Radio Two’s Ken Bruce) and my own favourite, Rob Jones. I’m not sure what it was that I liked about Rob Jones, beyond the fact we shared the same name – it was reassuring to know that someone with my name could, and had, become a success in radio.

I actually met him once, on a summer’s day in the late seventies at the West Wales seaside town of Saundersfoot, just a few miles away from its more celebrated neighbour, Tenby, as he hosted the Radio Luxembourg Roadshow at Wiseman’s Bridge. It’s an accurate reflection of the comparative status of Radios One and Luxembourg that while Rob was announcing, ‘
Hello, Saundersfoot!
’ to a relatively modest crowd, just down the road a far larger name, possibly with the initials D. L. T., was yelling, ‘
Hello, Tenby!
’ to a far larger and I dare say more enthusiastic crowd. I happily supported both ventures and the thought of visiting either roadshow would have filled me with excitement. The likelihood of bumping into the Hairy Cornflake while attending the Radio One offering would have been a million to one but, arriving early for the Luxembourg effort, Mum, Pete and I came across Rob Jones as he sat in a nearby café. We had a chat, the details of which have been mislaid, though I imagine that Mum would surely have told him of my thespian leanings and my desire to get into radio, and it’s likely that he would have offered words of encouragement in return. My only clear, strong recollection of the encounter is that he possessed two remarkable forearms, which at that early stage of my existence were the hairiest I had ever seen.

My love of radio was not confined to just listening to it; I would spend much of my time performing and recording my own little programmes on to cassette, the celebrated format of the day. Setting up a mini studio in David Williams’s bedroom, awkwardly jumping from vinyl to tape and back again, from Abba to ELO to David Soul, we produced our own miniature shows.

I was in my element.

I would go on to have a long, brief career as a radio presenter some years later, although before that there were two encounters with the inside of a radio studio that would serve to whet my appetite for the medium.

On Saturday the 3rd of April 1982, the day after war was declared against Argentina, I found myself at the BBC in Cardiff for a topical discussion programme. A group of us from school had travelled from Porthcawl on the minibus, and I can remember the excitement I felt at first glimpsing the BBC. Once in the studio we were soon live on air in the midst of a discussion regarding the grave news of the previous day. The subject of conscription came up and the students, given their age and the obvious implications, were asked for their views. So it was that I made my national radio debut, confidently and calmly sharing the opinion that, as far as I was concerned, ‘subscription’ was neither a good nor a bad thing. This was more than just an embarrassing malapropism on my part; it spoke volumes about my unworldly nature and complete lack of insight and awareness when it came to world affairs. I was just a happy chap, content in his own little world.

However, this wasn’t my first radio appearance; that had occurred four years previously in 1978 when, aged thirteen, I appeared on our fledgling independent local radio station, Swansea Sound, as their ‘junior DJ’. This involved sitting in with one of the station’s regular presenters and helping to play the records, voice the links, etc. The station’s familiar jingle rang out:
Two fifty-seven, Swansea Sound!

‘So, our junior DJ this week is from Baglan, near Port Talbot, and it’s Robert Jones! So, Robert, what about girlfriends?’

The bastard. Of course I didn’t have a bloody girlfriend. I was thirteen! I shuffled uncomfortably, insecure in the knowledge that every family member within the broadcast range of Swansea Sound (i.e. every family member) would be listening intently as I revealed my startling lack of progress in the trouser department.

‘Uh, well, no, not really, uh, no …’

‘What, none at all?’

‘Uh, no, not really …’

‘So, you’re just looking around?’

Oh God, please make this stop
.

‘That’s right, just looking around …’

Still requiring a little more humiliation before he could rest, Steve – yes, he was called Steve – got me to introduce the next record: ‘And it’s Captain and Tennille … and what’s it called, Robert?’

‘Uh … “You Need A Woman Tonight”?’

‘That’s right!’

For God’s sake, none of my friends had girlfriends at thirteen. There was a boy in my year at Dumbarton, Glenwood Evans, who went out with Helen Williams at a spectacularly young age. Glenwood was the boy – I dare say every class has one – who seemed remarkably more mature and advanced than the rest of us. It wouldn’t have surprised me to learn that, although he managed to pop into school every day, he was actually in his mid-forties with a wife, two children and a successful scaffolding business. I’ve not seen him since the late seventies, but if he carried on at the rate he was going he must now pass for a hundred and ten.

My spot as this week’s junior DJ was deemed a success and, to ensure that it was preserved for the family archives, a friend of my dad’s taped it from the pristine FM broadcast (as Steely Dan rightly said, ‘no static at all’) on to a stunningly clear Maxell chrome cassette. At the time, this represented cutting-edge, space-age technology. I still have the tape – in fact, if you’re currently enjoying the electronic e-version of this book, then you may well be able to press, prod or even swipe an excerpt into life right now. The majority of you, though, the late adapters of this world, will have to simply use your imaginations and conjure up the hits of the day.

Alongside Captain and Tennille we heard Gerard Kenny, Mick Jackson (I’m not being overly familiar with Michael – Mick had a hit with ‘Weekend’), Billy Joel (another hero of mine who, at the time of writing, has recently undergone a double hip replacement … sigh) and an advert for Dial-a-Disc, featuring the voice of Nicholas Parsons. When I first came into possession of the recording, I would listen to it repeatedly, hoping to detect the seeds of a career in broadcasting. At the top of the show the DJ played Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born to Run’; this would, I’m sure, have been the first time I heard the man who would go on to be a huge part of my listening life and an influence on everything from my dancing ‘style’ (‘Dancing in the Dark’ video), to my resting gait (inner sleeve of
Born in the USA
), and even to the way I dressed.

It was said that I bore a slight resemblance to the Boss – due largely, I suspect, to our prominent jaws and generally handsome features. I found this quite uplifting. Before long, in a barely subconscious effort to morph into my loved one, I would be dressed most days in jeans and a checked shirt. Cowboy boots, often favoured by Bruce, were a tricky proposition for a man of my height, on whom they could be interpreted as a cry for help. A compromise was reached with the purchase of a pair with very modest heels. These were pre-
Born in the USA
times, so Bruce had yet to adopt the headband. I like to think that even if he already had I would have had the presence of mind to resist. Of history’s great headband-wearers – Borg, Springsteen … shall we include Rambo? – only one, Mark Knopfler, has been of UK origin. And when it comes to the Sultan of Swing’s fashion sense let’s be honest, the jury is still out.

As far as resembling your heroes goes, I have a pet theory. So many of my acting friends, when asked who they admire from the world of film, will proffer someone who isn’t a million miles away from themselves in terms of physical appearance. I always liked short, dark, brooding actors – Hoffman, Pacino … Corbett – partly, I think, because I could see myself in them. It’s a curious mix of narcissism and wishful thinking, a bit like couples who resemble each other, both revelling in seeing their own reflection each day. As far as Bruce goes, and his inclusion on the tape of my radio debut, it’s funny to recall that at the time I would always fast forward through this never-ending dirge, which sounded to me as though it was sung by a grumpy Australian with a sore throat.

Thirty-two years later I would finally meet my hero in an encounter of heartbreaking awkwardness, which involved my gripping his hand a little too tightly, staring a little too intensely into his eyes, and uttering the following:

‘Bruce! It’s really, really, really …
really
good to meet you.’

He did his Little Billy Goat Gruff laugh. ‘All right!’

‘Bruce! It’s really, really, really … really good to meet you.’ ‘All right!’

To make sure that he would leave our meeting convinced he’d just met an idiot, I followed up by thanking him for, and I quote, ‘… the moments.’

Glory Days, indeed.

Back in 1985, Bruce was at the height of his
Born in the USA
fame. James and I would go on to Wembley on the 4th of July to see The E Street Band and their Boss onstage in a show that seemed to last the whole night. But now we had other things on our minds.

On the morning of the live broadcast of
Level Three
on BBC Radio Wales we would, I’m sure, have arrived early at St David’s Hall. We would also, I’m sure, have been bloody excited. I seem to have a memory of last-minute shirt-buying. My dad slipped away from work and came to see his son explode on to the radio. The main guest on our edition of the show was Sir Jimmy Savile. Jimmy was something of a hero of mine. Like Basil Brush, he was someone who turned a lot of people off, but to whom I was drawn. And, like Brush, he had a very distinctive appearance and an easy way with a catchphrase. I can remember, as though it was last week, James and I sitting with Jimmy after the show and listening to him dispense his wisdom. I don’t say that in a sarcastic way; I’ve remembered his words to this day.

Before the
Level Three
broadcast with Dad.

‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I can’t act. I can do fuck all. But, I turn up at places, I smile, I wave. The punters look at me and say, “Jim’s having a good time, therefore so are we.” ’

Level Three.
‘Look at me,’ he said. ‘I can’t sing, I can’t dance, I can’t act. I can do fuck all. But, I turn up at places, I smile, I wave. The punters look at me and say, “Jim’s having a good time, therefore so are we.” ’

He told of how when he was giving an after-dinner speech he would walk around each table in the room during the meal and have a brief chat with everyone, something along the lines of, ‘I’m here to arrange the washing-up rota,’ before returning to top table and preparing for his speech. ‘By the time I get up on my feet, everyone in the room thinks they’re my friend and they all want me to do well.’