by Zack
“If there’s any problems, you ring Wendy immediately. She’s promised to look out for you.”
“Mum! I won’t need her popping in every ten minutes.” The last thing he wanted was his much older cousin doing the nanny act.
“Well, she’s going to look in on you now and again. So make sure you keep things dusted. At least a bit.”
Her tone suggested how hopeless an order it was but that it still had to be stated.
Mike nodded firmly. His cousin’s name thrust his mind forward— Wendy’s day morphed into Wednesday. Only a few days and he’d be at the recording for next week’s Top Of The Pops, which would be broadcast the following day at seven-thirty on BBC-1. The kids loved it because the lucky ones who got to participate in the recording could watch themselves and get off on how cool they looked… or maybe not. And the groupie girlies could throw themselves at the male pop stars and hope for a snog—maybe even a full-on shag, if they were lucky. The dressing rooms and temporary accommodations at the back were ideal love-pits, so went the common knowledge. But for Mike, seeing Bay Area Transit close up was the draw, hopefully right under the stage where the glorious Jez McGowran would be gyrating his dead-sexy stuff. It made Mike almost wish he were a girl-slag, so he could throw himself at his idol with dirty expectation.
He set out a lot earlier than really necessary, worried that with Bay Area Transit enjoying a second chart-topper this year there would be a scrimmage to get into the studio to see the band headlining this week’s bill, specially from the screaming teeny-bopper girlie groupies. Nevertheless, he took it slowly up the hill to Finchley Road to avoid working up a sweat in the hot late afternoon air. The tube ride on the Bakerloo Line to Bond Street took fifteen minutes, including a wait on the platform in a pleasing cool breeze from the open end of the station. Bond Street’s Central Line westbound platform was packed, and the temperature sweltering. And the service was running slow, so he lost another half hour before the tube train pulled into White City station.
If anyone needed a signpost, the string of youngsters dressed to the nines (the lads, that is: the girls tried to wear as little as decency allowed) and snaking across Wood Lane pointed the way to Television Centre. Immediately across from the station exit the familiar white capital letters—BBC—in their pale blue squares adorned a curving glass façade of a building which marked the end of the complex. Two single-story security blocks facing onto Wood Lane guarded the In and Out lanes and barriers. The right-hand one, with its longest side running parallel with the road, acted as the TV Audience check-in, and here the kids were having to show their official tickets (available on request by post to BBC Television Centre, Wood Lane, London W12 7RJ).
The crowd intimidated Mike not because of its size, which was considerable but hardly overwhelming, but more for its teenage hipness. The clock above the bus-shelter-like security block displayed the date and time in flip-over panels: WED. 30 JUL-1975 – 17:54. A few minutes before six. Mike fretted. There was still another half hour before the ravening audience would be allowed to swarm through under the raised barriers and into the hallowed precincts of the largest purpose-built TV studio complex in Europe, possibly anywhere. Meanwhile, the crowd clogged up the entry and exit roads and made the security men’s lives a misery in trying to clear a way through for a seemingly endless stream of taxis going in and out. Each vehicle was immediately subjected to detailed scrutiny by the horde, and Mike had a distinct impression of the actor Derek Jacobi being ushered in and waving magisterially at the fans. They hadn’t a clue who he was, only that he certainly wasn’t Jez McGowran or any other member of B.A.T.
For the umpteenth time Mike glanced at the nearest of the security block’s blank windows to stare at his reflection and nervously run a hand though his unruly locks. He didn’t mind the look now. In the vagaries of fashion, the world had caught up with him. How different it had been when he was eight or nine, and all the boys wore their hair long and straight in Beatle basin-flops. The sleepless nights spent constantly ensuring his thatch was pressed down against the pillow at night, tugging the forelock down straight until the overlong strands might actually touch his dark eyebrows. Oh the torture of it. The longer his hair grew, the more he looked like something out of Shaft, only worse, a real Afro. In the end common sense made him give up the losing battle, which delighted his mother at his nice short haircut. Now the rough-and-ready tousled look was all the rage, so Michael Smith was once more a happy victim of fashion.
Almost as much agonizing had gone in what to wear: his bright orange corduroy flares (too brash, perhaps, though they cupped his package nicely, but then Will deflated the notion by calling them cuddly and Mike wasn’t sure whether he meant his nadgers or the pants themselves), or the black, wide-bottomed Wrangler jeans that had set him back ten farkin quid! It was a difficult choice, but because he was certain Bay Area Transit would be in their trademark tartans, he finally decided on his polyester off-white pants with the broad pale blue-gray tramline check. They were stylish, and the check would hit the right note alongside tartan without being a fan-groupie copycat thing, which would be just too spaz-embarrassing. On top of that, the polyester never creased, even when hot and sweaty with dancing, and the high-waist cut left the material just loose enough around his hips to accentuate what he knew were unusually big balls (“nice nadgers,” Will called them when the little prick wanted to be rude) but sat tight on his ass (triple-checked in the mirror before leaving home). In the security block window he caught his reflection doing something he often did without thinking: bouncing up and down on his toes with his hands stuffed in the back pockets of his pants, but only with his right hand this time; his jeans had two ass-cheek pockets, but the polyester checks only one. The physical tic could reflect a nervousness or a feeling of excitement, but he had to admit the adopted pose showed off his lean torso in profile very nicely, and emphasized the perky bump at the front of his trousers. He stopped bouncing.
The top had been no problem. With the weather, it would have to be a tee and he knew exactly which. The brand new one he bought the other day when he went up West. It cost a mind-numbing one pound-fifty, but he reckoned it was worth it, and the job in the photographic store was paying generously at thirty-two pence an hour, which should net him twelve pounds eighty a week (although he remained unclear as to whether that was before or after tax deductions). He thought the Ramones 75 Crew shirt said all the right things: cool-hip; intellectual, in a non-pseud way; willing to try the new; well in with avant garde music; serious in a forward-looking way; and totally drop-dead-gorgeously haveable for the right guy. Besides, it was a cool black-and-white image set in the grayish-blue which nicely matched his polyester pants. White socks and black Doc Martens finished the ensemble, the big boots being necessary to balance the flared bottoms of the trousers.
He could thank his membership of the school swimming team for his lean figure with adequately developed musculature in arms, legs, chest, and—as a swimmer absolutely needs—a hard tummy; “Your yummy tummy,” as Will teased when he caught Mike checking his profile in the long wall mirror. Yup, he looked good in the reflection. What would Jez think, though? Would Jez even see him? Would he get near enough to the performance stage? He didn’t know because unlike many of the boys and girls thronging on the two roadways leading in and out of the complex, he was a Top Of The Pops virgin. Some around him claimed veteran status, which made them somewhere around three years old when they had their first TOTP experience. He took it that the vets would know who was lead deejay tonight and the consensus was for Jimmy Savile, which suited Mike fine. He had a friend at school—well, more an acquaintance really—who knew a girl who claimed to have had it off with the deejay, but Mike knew that was certainly crap. Others were discussing the likelihood of Elton John appearing in a video with Someone Saved My Life Tonight. “It’s number four in the U.S. Billboard chart,” said one know-it-all. Mike didn’t much care, so long as he got a decent real-life eyeful of his current sex idol
.
A quick stolen advantage when an incoming taxi fare turned out to be Someone Of Interest and caused a tidal rush away from the Studio Audiences’ block put Mike almost at the front of the waiting crowd. At last an official-looking figure decked out all in black—and wearing large unattached headphones around his neck like a snaky boa, and a snazzy walkie-talkie attached prominently to his fashionably wide belt—came across the plaza toward the barrier. Four security men flanked him like legionaries. The equipment and swagger pronounced this mini-tyrant a proud member of BBC staff. Christ, he’s not that much older than me, Mike thought enviously. Up went the barrier, in surged the kids, who were immediately corralled by the goons, and the human wave poured to the right around a semi-circular planting to the opening in the famous “doughnut,” and then right again in a flowing crocodile into the ring itself.
As they all halted in the wide assembly area in front of an overhead sign indicating the double doors ahead led into Studio TC8, Mike managed to keep close to the BBC guy. A small nameplate proclaimed him to be James Attridge. Attempting complete nonchalance, Mike caught his eye. “So which stage will Bay Area Transit be on?”
The Attridge guy, who Mike saw close up was a bit older than he’d first assumed, mid-twenties maybe, raised his eyebrows and grinned jovially while he took in the details of Mike’s outfit with an appraising up-down glance. “Hah! That’s what they all want to know, mate.” He tapped the side of his nose. “More than my job’s worth to say anything till we’re all locked in. What’s your name?”
“Uh, I’m Mike.”
“Name’s Jim, and I’ll be your A.F.M. for the night—assistant floor manager,” he added in explanation at Mike’s frown. The smile was a little strange. “Got a job?”
“Erm, vacation thing at Fox Talbot.”
“Mmm, nice.” And with that faintly come-on-ish utterance, he swept off importantly around the edge of the milling mob of teenagers, leaving Mike wondering what that was all about. After a short wait, several more of his colleagues appeared and the double doors to the studio opened into what Mike realized was a sort of airlock, presumably for sound proofing, but the inner doors were also fixed open to let the audience onto the huge studio floor. He was about to pass through into the limbo area when Jim reappeared at his side and tugged his tee-shirt sleeve. Mike allowed himself to be pulled slightly to the side as lines of teenagers filed excitedly into the cavernous studio.
“You after meeting one of Bay Area?”
Mike’s eyes opened wide as shot glasses at the thought. Then he covered his excitement in case this Jim was just pulling his leg. “Why?”
Jim fidgeted from foot to foot as though if he stopped he’d drown like a shark. His expression went from crafty to unconcerned. “I just thought you were interested.” When he saw Mike wasn’t going to answer, he gave a knowing sniff. “It can be arranged.” He made to move off. “Let me know.”
Mike shook his head. Meet Jez McGowran! No, not possible. Oh, but how he’d love to. He moved on into the studio space, mind awhirl with impossible possibilities.
CHAPTER THREE
A Teenage Dream
His immediate attention was fixed on the three performance stages. A quick examination revealed the central one to be the larger by a good margin. Surely that’s where Bay Area Transit will play? Several of the kids made an immediate dash for the narrow side gantries, popularized by two of the rotating deejays who preferred to make their introductions from up there. Mike had no interest in appearing on TV like some fazed groupie. Besides, Jimmy Savile liked to be seen with girls hanging off his arms. Mike made sure he had some defensible space at the edge of the large central stage, in the middle. It wasn’t so high. His eyes would be just about at crotch level. Mmmmm.
With a spot secured, the four large EMI 2001 broadcast cameras on their peds captured his attention. He looked up and saw another two on cranes, hinged down from amid the complex lighting racks. These two were working. Their operators under their heavy cans must have been listening to instructions from the control gallery, which Mike could just make out high above the doorway they had entered through—a row of windows and a dimly lit interior with shadowy head-and-shoulder silhouettes moving about. On the floor, the four operators stood patiently behind their large camera viewfinders.
An amplified voice rang out. “TC8 standby. Five minutes.”
The several A.F.M.s went into immediate action and began to herd the audience to desired start positions. Jim imperiously spread his arms and shooed them away from the main stage, including an alarmed Mike. Above the noise of the Top Of the Pops title music, being used to warm up the atmosphere, Mike mouthed “Bay Area Transit,” while nodding back at the stage.
Jim winked and dipped his head in acknowledgment. As he corralled his charges into a clump around a central floor block housing whirling disco spots aimed at the roof, he leaned into Mike and shouted in his ear, “Don’t worry, mate, when the time comes. I’ll get you there.”
There was an excited flurry by the closing doors and Mike instantly recognized over the teenage crowd the unmistakable head of Jimmy Savile, followed by Dave Lee Travis. While D.L.T., better known by his moniker The Hairy Monster, swept into the middle of the studio crowd, Savile ran nimbly, with a curious hopping motion, up the stylish gantry stairs. He established himself against the rail with a young girl tucked under one arm and leaning on the shoulder of an adoring blonde. He held his trademark giant cigar out at the swooping crane camera, which came to a halt, with its lens aimed at his face.
“Cue in ten,” declaimed the gallery director’s voice from the suspended monitor speakers. Dave Lee Travis struck one of his famous grinning Hairy Monster poses, holding a microphone ready at his mouth.
“Nine,” shouted Jim in unison with the other floor managers. “Eight – Seven – Six – Five…” He went silent like the others and hand-counted the four – three – two – one…
On cue, Jimmy Savile bellowed into his microphone. “Hallo, guys and gals, good evening, ooh-er, ooh-er, ooh-er, and welcome to this week’s… Top Of The Pops! ”
He thrust his cigar arm into the air dramatically and the intro music slammed in as the entire studio burst into disco madness. The other crane camera came swooping down at Mike’s group, now all madly head banging to the theme. It only seemed seconds, and overhead the television monitors cut to images of pop stars and the chart run-down from 30 to No. 1.
The A.F.M.s started waving applause boards at No. 5 and Mike joined in with the enthusiastic clapping. The Hairy Monster spun around with an emphatic expression to a camera which had sidled up to him. Mike didn’t quite catch his words because, like most of the shoal he was a part of, he was gravitating toward the big stage, open-mouthed at the unexpected shock of seeing Marc Bolan sashaying toward him, clad in a long, glittering carmine red… well, the gown resembled something from the imperial era of China. Jim came into view and pushed him gently aside for the flying camera moving in for a low start shot, and then deafeningly Bolan went into New York City. Mike still couldn’t really believe this was T. Rex and the Marc Bolan, sweating slightly in spite of the heavy pancake on his face. Or was that just a sprinkling of glitter? Yes it was. God, the man was sex on legs.
Did you ever see a woman
Coming out of New York City
With a frog in her hand.
The screams from the girls waving hands up at the god almost drowned out the music from the monitors.
I did don’t you know.
Mike spent much of the rest of the recording in a dream. If it hadn’t been for Jim, who seemed to have taken a shine to him, he would have been blown about the studio at the whim of the surging audience. Jim was eternally busy, but he caught Mike for a second as T. Rex departed the stage during a short recording break.
“Like him, hey?”
Mike just nodded and heard a disdainful Jules muttering, Bubblegum glitter-glam!
“But Bay Area Transit better?”
�
�Jez McGowran.” Mike spoke loudly over the hubbub, and then realized what he’d said and blushed.
Jim’s smile was lazy and knowing. “Gotta go, lover. See you in a bit.” He rushed off to arrange a thin line of enthusiasts along the stage front where Pan’s People were getting ready for a countdown into recording again. Many of the Fabianites who bothered to watch Top Of The Pops claimed to cream their pants at Pan’s People. Mike couldn’t care less. The leggy, barely dressed troupe gyrated violently into a dance intricately choreographed to the No. 23 chart position Foot Stomping Music by Hamilton Bohannon.
Shouted introductions alternating between Jimmy Savile and The Hairy Monster were lost on Mike, who immersed himself in the string of live numbers: “Get In The Swing,” an album track by Sparks from Indiscreet ; Can’t Give You Anything (But My Love) by the Stylistics; Action by The Sweet; Typically Tropical by Barbados; and the video inserts blasted from the monitors—he recognized “Jive Talkin’” from the Bee Gees’ album Main Course, but so much was a blur.
And then Jim’s hand slipped under his armpit and steered him slap up against the central performance stage in the last recording break. It was crammed. The sight was astonishing. While everyone’s attention had been directed on the two side stages, this one had been filled with a row of gleaming Rolls Royces and Bentleys. A flurry from up on the stage, and with a catch of his breath, Mike watched the very real, entirely live, and absolutely in-the-flesh apparition of Jez McGowran fussing over his guitar lead and in hurried conversation with the others of Bay Area Transit as they took their places, each perched on the front of a car hood.
On the front of his Rolls Royce, Jez was in Mike’s direct line of sight, right up his bunched crotch. The star flicked his piled curly blond locks and smiled nervously down at the sea of faces peering up. As his eyes engaged them, the screams began. Mike thought his idol looked bashful, which only added to his allure. Oh, those wonderfully pale arched brows, the twinkles of studio lights reflecting back from brown Scottish eyes. Cameras intruded, and operators fiddled with zooms and lens effects filters. The countdown began again. The disco lighting began to cycle, and in a whirligig of tartan-edged half-thigh shorts flopping around long legs, blisteringly white shirts fluorescing under the ultra-violet lights, perched on their luxury limousines, the band struck up with a roll of Ludwig drums.
