My British Invasion

by Harold Bronson

  The primary character in the pirate radio story is Irishman Ronan O’Rahilly. He managed a few rock acts, most notably Georgie Fame (whose only US Top 10 hit was “The Ballad of Bonnie and Clyde”), and was frustrated that he couldn’t get airplay to build their popularity. At that time in the mid-sixties, the BBC played only three or four hours of pop music a week, preferring classical music and educational programs. Radio Luxembourg’s programming for England and Ireland aired a few hours each night, but its signal was intermittent. The four major UK labels bought the available evening time to get exposure for their records, which meant that small companies were shut out.

  Noting the success of ships outfitted with radio transmitters off the coasts of Scandinavia and Holland, O’Rahilly bought a Dutch passenger ferry and retro-fitted it into a sea-going radio station. O’Rahilly was inspired by the idealism and youthfulness of the recently assassinated John F. Kennedy—also of Irish lineage—and considered him a hero. He named his new endeavor Radio Caroline, after JFK’s daughter. He exhibited a bust of JFK in his own office, and when incognito answered only to “Bobby Kennedy.”

  Radio Caroline launched on Easter Sunday, March 28, 1964, with The Rolling Stones’ “Not Fade Away,” which became the group’s first big hit. A lot of music was played, from 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m., but it wasn’t all contemporary rock ’n’ roll. There were segments for big bands, show tunes, and religious shows that bought blocks of time in the evenings. Labels also forked over payola to get play for their records. Later in the year, Georgie Fame had a hit with “Yeh, Yeh,” his first of three number ones.

  Henri Henroid, the European tour manager for Sam the Sham & The Pharaohs, was impressed with Rosko’s panache when he emceed their show at the Olympia in Paris. He offered to get an audition tape to Ronan for him. As a result, Rosko became a DJ on Radio Caroline. Having spent four years in the US Navy, it was easier for Rosko to acclimate to the ship than for his fellow DJs. Rosko brought American radio know-how, a Top-40 style with a “have no fear, the emperor is here” rhythmic pattern. Also if he heard a French language record he liked, he included it in his show.

  The schedule was two weeks on the boat, one week off. There were usually six or seven DJs who worked four-hour shifts. They slept in bunk beds, two to a cramped cabin. Rosko remembered far too many meals made with potatoes, including potato sandwiches. When not broadcasting, DJs played cards or chess, fished, oogled bikini babes who cruised by in warm weather, and tried to entice them on the boat for a sexual romp. Rosko also spent a lot of time honing his skills in the production studio.

  Many listeners felt as though they were members of a secret club. As there were no audits done at the time, it’s estimated that at least eight million people were listening to pirate radio at its peak hours. By far the most-listened to station was Radio London, followed by Caroline. The girlfriend of Caroline DJ Johnnie Walker (Peter Waters Dingley) gave him three spliffs—hash mixed with tobacco—on his return to the ship to alleviate his boredom. As he was a novice, she gave him a code phrase for him to say during his show so she would know that he enjoyed the experience and wanted her to send him more. Johnnie got high with his fellow DJs and found new popularity on the ship. During his broadcast he sent a “good evening” to this girlfriend, followed by “we’ve just run out of tea, love.” Days later he received four more spliffs in the mail from her and, unexpectedly, sacks full of Ty-phoo and Tetley teas from listeners.

  During their week off, the DJs stayed at the Bayswater Hotel or the Royal Garden Hotel, and genuine camaraderie developed. “We became like rock stars,” Rosko said, “and in many cases we were making more money than them. We didn’t think about anything except having fun and music.” And when they spent time at the London clubs—Rosko favored the Ad Lib and Marquee—they rubbed shoulders with rock’s elite. “They loved us. We played their records.” Dusty Springfield became his girlfriend. (She later came out as a lesbian.)

  Rosko had found the perfect job for himself, one that could accommodate his brash behavior and fondness for pranks. “I took on a pirate look, like Errol Flynn. I had my clothes custom-made.” When new pirate ship Radio England was testing its transmitter by playing station identification jingles, Rosko recorded them off the air and altered them to plug Caroline. Incensed, Radio England threatened to sue until Rosko stopped playing them two days later. He also made a pet mynah bird part of his act and trained it to squawk “sounds fine, it’s Caroline” and “long live rock ’n’ roll” during his shift.

  His wild behavior also got him fired. Phil Solomon, the Irish manager of The Bachelors, Them and other acts, invested a considerable amount in Radio Caroline with the expectation that he would get exposure on his acts. Rosko refused to play music he found inferior and thought nothing of sailing records on Solomon’s Major Minor label out the porthole. Solomon fired him. O’Rahilly rehired him. This happened numerous times, almost monthly.

  O’Rahilly had a consulting deal with French Radio Luxembourg, which was recently purchased by the owner of Paris Match magazine. The station wanted to create a pirate radio type of show to attract more listeners and needed a real pirate DJ. Rosko was perfect. He had previously been based in Paris, loved the city, and was bilingual. Paris Match raised his weekly salary from £70 to £250, and heavily promoted him. His popularity soared: he did emceeing, made personal appearances, and established one of the first—and best—mobile discothèques, the Rosko International Roadshow.

  One reason the British government was lax in responding was that Prime Minister Harold Wilson’s Labour government felt it would alienate younger voters in the March 1966 election. In 1964 the party had won with a small margin, but this time it gained a majority of seats. The catalyst for addressing the defiant pirates came from a near, real-life pirate adventure. A group of intimidating characters invaded Radio City and dismantled its transmitter, retaliating for a business deal gone bad between ex-military man Oliver Smedley and promoter Reg Calvert.

  Calvert, an old-school manager well liked by his artists, had lowbrow taste and fondness for gimmick promotions. He took note of the surge in sales when a flop record by one of his artists, “Caroline” by The Fortunes, was adopted as a theme by Radio Caroline. One of his singers, lightweight talent Screaming Lord Sutch, shared Calvert’s penchant for stunts and thought he would get press for himself by establishing his own pirate station.

  Radio Sutch launched from a fishing boat equipped with a turntable and a weak transmitter powered by car batteries. The boat trawled for fish in the morning and from noon on was a radio station. Two weeks later, Sutch and Calvert reestablished Radio Sutch on a group of abandoned World War II forts in the Thames Estuary. Shivering Sands and other marine forts had been erected to shoot down German planes and guard against submarines and small boats. A writer for the Daily Telegraph described the signal as so weak, it was “broadcasting to an audience of seagulls.” After a few months, Sutch became bored with it, but Calvert saw the possibilities and bought him out. Calvert upgraded the weak transmitter so the station had a fifty-mile radius and renamed it Radio City.

  Major Oliver Smedley, sensing that the pirate stations would lead the British government to accept commercial radio, was one of the backers of Radio Atlanta, which followed Caroline into the market. A few months later Atlanta entered into a merger type of arrangement with O’Rahilly to become Caroline North. Smedley never made any money from Atlanta and thought that involvement in Radio City—which didn’t have the vast expense of maintaining a ship—had real possibilities.

  Smedley promised Calvert a new transmitter and then cheaped-out on a used one that barely functioned. This soured their relationship, and when Calvert was in talks with Radio London about a sale, Smedley sent a group of seventeen men to Shivering Sands to protect his property, namely the antiquated transmitter that Calvert hadn’t paid for. Calvert went to the police, who, flummoxed, said it was out of their jurisdiction. A very agitated Cal
vert learned that the elusive Smedley was at home, and visited him on the evening of June 21, 1966. During a heated exchange with Smedley’s secretary/mistress, he threatened her with a statuette. Was Calvert’s anger genuine, or was he acting out for effect? No one will ever know. Smedley stepped out from hiding and blasted Calvert with his shotgun.

  Smedley was arrested and charged with murder, then revised to manslaughter. He testified that he feared for his life, though Calvert’s only weapon had been a tear gas pen in his pocket. Smedley was acquitted on grounds of self-defense. (Calvert’s wife recommenced operations, and ran the station until February 1967. Smedley, who died in 1989, never did claim his “valuable” transmitter, which rusts on the abandoned fort.) It was this nefarious act that led the government to realize that the pirates—at this point there were ten stations—had gotten out of hand and needed to be shut down. In addition, a number of European countries complained to the British government that the frequencies used by the errant pirates were interfering with their broadcasting.

  Parliament passed the Marine Broadcasting Offenses Act, which decreed “prohibition of broadcasting from ships and aircraft … marine structures.” All but one of the pirate ships went off the air at midnight August 14, 1967. Radio Caroline restructured, relocated, and attempted to cultivate international advertising—British ads were prohibited—but the new business model didn’t work.

  Seeing an obvious need, the BBC created its own pop music channel, Radio 1. A majority of the initial DJs came from the pirate ships but few lasted because they lacked polish. John Peel, Kenny Everett, and Tony Blackburn, all from Radio London, were among the more popular. Blackburn kicked off the channel on September 30, 1967, with The Move’s “Flowers in the Rain.”

  The BBC wanted to hire Rosko, but he was making too much money—$5,000 a week, according to him—in France. He made an arrangement where he produced his show and sent them the tapes. In May 1968, when the violent student riots and labor strikes gravely affected his business, Rosko drove his mobile DJ truck to London to physically join Radio 1. Throughout the 1970s, Rosko was the most popular DJ throughout Europe.

  When I heard that Richard Curtis—the writer of Bridget Jones’s Diary, Four Weddings and a Funeral, and Love Actually—planned to write and direct a movie about pirate radio, I was delighted because I felt that Rhino Films lacked the clout to get such a movie made. In the publicity leading up to the release, I became concerned. Curtis grew up listening to the pirate stations on a transistor radio hidden under his pillow. He wrote his script in a burst of inspiration, making a totally fictional story. Only later did he introduce some factual references.

  The UK release of The Boat That Rocked garnered poor reviews. In an effort to shore it up for the US, it was shortened and retitled Pirate Radio, but it didn’t help. When I saw the movie, I was dismayed that there was little plot, dramatic structure, or reality. Among the many things wrong with this movie was the use of music outside the 1966–67 timeframe, and actors much older than the young-twenties DJs they were portraying. Philip Seymour Hoffman, at forty, played “The Count,” a character loosely based on Emperor Rosko, who was then twenty-four. Nick Frost, at thirty-six, also played a DJ. The movie’s climax comes when a boat sinks, which happened much later, in 1980.

  The true story was so rich, I felt Curtis squandered an opportunity. There wasn’t going to be another pirate radio movie—especially as this one lost around $40 million (my estimate).

  A lot of the wonderful—and not so wonderful—obscurities that the pirate radio stations programmed in the sixties can be heard on http://www.radiolondon.co.uk and the associated http://www.oldiesproject.com. Weekly playlists for Radio London have been reconstructed, interspersed with station jingles. I’ve found scores of worthwhile records that I had never heard before. But like anything that involves personal taste, one has to separate the wheat from the chaff.

  An Hour with

  Marc Bolan

  On Thursday, December 16, 1971, I was killing time in the lobby of the Continental Hyatt House, waiting to be called upstairs to interview English rock star Marc Bolan for Phonograph Record Magazine. Marc fronted T. Rex, the most popular group in England with four big hits in the past year, two number ones and two number twos. The group’s latest album, Electric Warrior, had been released the previous month and I liked everything about it: the songs, the musical performances, and the sparse, resonant sound. Howard Kaylan and Mark Volman, then members of The Mothers of Invention, provided exquisite backup vocals.

  Bolan described his previous duo, Tyrannosaurus Rex, as “acoustic rock and roll.” In 1969, two years after the original group’s formation, percussionist Steve Took became too aggressive and radical for compatibility and left. He was replaced by Mickey Finn, primarily a painter, and “the world’s best conga player,” according to Bolan. Tyrannosaurus Rex was later shortened to T. Rex, reflecting the high-energy rock and roll and Bolan’s reimagined vocal delivery: subtle, sensual, direct, and snarlingly animalistic.

  When the call came for me to take the elevator upstairs, it was past 5:00 p.m., two hours after we were scheduled to begin. Bolan still hadn’t arrived. Next was a wait in his room, chatting idly with his wife, June. An Electric Warrior sticker was planted on the side of the color television as Fred Flintstone “yabadabadooed” from the screen. An H. P. Lovecraft paperback sat on the dresser and we casually discussed things like the cost of albums in England. “Domestic albums go for around five or six dollars,” June remarked, “with American imports usually three dollars more. [In 1971 the US list price on LPs was $4.98.] Even bootlegs are expensive. There’s only one discount store, but a few used record stands sitting in places like vegetable markets exist. It is suspected that a large portion of these used records were stolen.” Taking advantage of being in LA, Marc and June had raided nearby Tower Records, picking up Eddie Cochran’s Greatest Hits, among other delights. June mentioned that when Marc was young, he once carried Eddie Cochran’s guitar for him.

  Marc arrived in a flurry of apologies, enthusiastically spouting, “I did the news,” which he sang on a local radio station accompanying himself with hand claps and percussion from a brandy bottle. “It’s a sure number one,” he said throughout the night.

  Marc reminded me of Ray Davies. He was very English and neat and a dedicated follower of fashion, modeling a magnetic gold-threaded coat, black satin pants, and girls orange Mary Jane shoes. Marc’s soft features, direct stare, and his flashy, colorful clothes reminded me of female movie stars of the 1930s. Although Marc was a fan of The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit, his song titles—“Mambo Sun,” “Lean Woman Blues,” “Monolith,” “Planet Queen,” “Cosmic Dancer,” and “Bang a Gong”—seem lifted from 1930s science fiction movie serials.

  Meeting Marc in person was an unforgettable experience. Because he was so behind schedule, I was asked to share my time with Jim Bickhart, which I didn’t mind doing. Marc alleviated whatever discomfort I felt from my long wait with his charm and energy. I had never experienced anyone greeting me with an effusive “so nice to meet you.” He was so up and so responsive, it was almost like being on a ride that I didn’t want to end. He was so engaging, I didn’t mind his arrogance or tendency to exaggerate. Our interview:

  MARC: It’s so nice to meet you, man. You blow my mind. I can’t apologize enough, I’m sounding like an American, all of this apologizing bullshit.

  JIM: So don’t.

  MARC: I do because I feel it, man. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t say it. So let’s rock.

  HAROLD: That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Can you explain the transition from folk to rock?

  MARC: The transition comes from the need to communicate with more people than I’d done in the past. I feel I only have five years I want to devote to rock and roll. I want to be a moviemaker and write books. My time is limited and I love human beings. I don’t feel I have the stamina to continue for the next forty years
as some people have. I just don’t want to do it. There are many things I haven’t gotten into that I wanna do now. I want to do them fast, for no material gain, only to make people’s hearts feel good. You follow that, man?

  JIM: Does that five years start with “Ride a White Swan”?

  MARC: That five years starts with “Ride a White Swan,” although I don’t disown the earlier stuff. It was my apprenticeship. I’m mainstream now. I wanna be hip AM [Top 40 radio]. To me, The Who, Hendrix, and Cream were. That’s my bag. I don’t wanna be a cultist group. I have more to offer than that. I don’t wanna be put into a bag. I’d rather be a lion tamer. [Pause] I’m feeling good.

  HAROLD: Before you made the transition, did you think what you had to offer in the new rock style would be commercial AM?

  MARC: It’s weird when I talk to people. I always sound like a cunt. I’m good at what I do because I don’t do it until I’ve spent a long time learning how to do it. Do you understand? I don’t rush into anything. The only album I’m not happy with is A Beard of Stars, and that’s because I ventured into electric guitar before I should have. I didn’t play it well enough for what I was attempting to do. I love the songs, though, but there are some moments when I just cringe. I had my Marshall amp full up like everyone does and I shouldn’t have done it. Which is why I hardly do any guitar solos even though I think I’m a fucking good guitar player.

  HAROLD: Why don’t you do solos?

  MARC: I do, live. Live in England, “Get It On” is twenty minutes long. It’s filled with guitar solos. I blow my head off, but I play to the audience. There are certain points where one likes to play. At that point I was playing to prove that I was no longer a heavy Donovan. Look out, man, I’m really Marc Hendrix! I got over that one. And now I’m just a guitar player and a songwriter. To get back to your original question, I was never a folkie. I started with an electric rock band, which was John’s Children. I started with a 1962 Les Paul and a 400-watt stack [amplifier].