World in My Eyes: The Autobiography

by Richard Blade

  But time was running out. It was now Wednesday, December 8 and I only had one week left before I was due to return to England. I was in the KMPC on-air studio answering phones when Sonny, who was flipping through a radio industry trade magazine, spotted something. He passed the magazine to me.

  “Look at that. They’re advertising for disco DJs. Isn’t that what you do?” Sonny asked.

  Sure enough, the ad said, “Disco DJs wanted for clubs across America. Experience a must.” It had a phone number to call.

  “Can I keep this?”

  “Sure,” said Sonny. “Hey, I know it’s not radio but you’d still be playing records, right?”

  The next morning I called the number. It was for Far West Services, a massive restaurant chain that included brands like Coco’s, Snack Shop, Moonraker, Reuben’s, Rueben E. Lee, Baxter Street and The Plankhouse. They were expanding rapidly and putting discos in a number of their restaurants across the country. The girl on the phone asked where I was calling from and when I said Hollywood she paused as she looked down her list.

  “There’s a Plankhouse on Western in San Pedro. Is that close to you?”

  I wasn’t sure but I took down the address and number. I hung up then dialed. Auditions were tomorrow, Friday, and I could choose 11am or 1pm. I took the morning slot just so I could avoid the traffic and beat the LA space/time continuum.

  I got there early and surprise, surprise, this place was for real. The booth had instant-start, direct-drive radio-style turntables and a Shure SM58 microphone which to me, is the industry standard. It had two built-in bins for albums and a basic set of on/off switches to control the mirror ball, pin spots, strobe and sound-activated chase lights. It had the potential to be a good little club.

  The audition was in front of the regional entertainment director and the restaurant’s manager, Maria. They explained that they didn’t want any mixing; they wanted the DJ to spin “radio-style” and entertain the dancers as I had done in Europe. For the audition I should get on the microphone, introduce a record, wait until it finished, talk into the next one and keep going like that until they said stop. For me that was a piece of cake. I’d spent so much time after hours in empty clubs working on demo tapes for radio positions that I could do the “DJ thing” without an audience at the drop of a hat. I just had to take the energy up a couple of notches to simulate the live crowd they were hoping for, and make sure the songs I selected were fun dance cuts. I flipped through the albums and pulled the first few records I’d be using.

  I locked eyes with my two judges. “Ready?” I asked.

  They nodded and it was time for me to bring the show.

  “Welcome to The Plankhouse, I’m your DJ, Dick Sheppard, and for the next few hours you and I are going to be sharing a little dance party together. And if you’re shy about getting on the floor don’t worry, I promise my moves will make you look good, and after all this is ‘The Best Disco in Town.’” And with that I slammed into The Ritchie Family hit of the same name.

  I wanted to keep a dance beat but show that I knew how to work in different styles so I cued up Ohio Players’ “Love Rollercoaster.” As soon as it was ready I faded out The Ritchie Family even though it had only been playing for maybe forty seconds. I was going to keep this sucker moving.

  “Love The Ritchie Family, and don’t forget if you love our food here at The Plankhouse make a reservation tonight to guarantee your table for this weekend, then afterwards come in here and dance off your dinner.” I hit start and the heavy beat of the Ohio Players filled the room.

  I knew this was the suburbs and just like in Europe where people’s tastes vary from the big cities to the smaller towns I thought it was important to demonstrate that I understood that not everybody is super hip, so my next song was from one of the biggest pop albums of the year but it still had a cool, soulful edge. Down came the Ohio Players and on went my mic.

  “Getting funky with the Ohio Players and now I’ve got a request for David and Cheryl who are here at The Plankhouse celebrating their wedding anniversary. They are right there in the corner,” I gestured to an empty table and was thrilled to see my two judges turn to look where I was pointing. That showed me they were into it!

  “And they promised they would come on up and dance if I played their favorite song on the radio these days. It’s Boz Scaggs with that dirty “Lowdown.””

  As that huge hit from Silk Degrees came on the two judges raised their hands and walked over towards me. I stopped the music. The entertainment coordinator spoke first.

  “That was very good. That’s exactly the kind of thing we’re looking for.” He hesitated for a moment. “You are the first person we’re seeing today. We have four more to hear. Would you mind sticking around until they are all done? The last one is scheduled for 1pm.”

  Maria jumped in. “If you’re willing to stay, the kitchen will be open in just a few minutes at 11:30. We’d love to buy you lunch while you wait.”

  I didn’t want to get too excited but I was getting such a positive feeling from the two of them. They just wanted to do things correctly. They were representing a huge corporation and needed to honor their obligations. They’d scheduled other potential DJs and didn’t want to simply blow them out; I respected that.

  By 2:30 the deal was done. I would start at The Plankhouse on a trial basis the next two nights, Saturday and Sunday. On Monday I would drive up to the Federal Building in downtown Los Angeles and file papers to start the process of getting a work permit and a social security number. The moment those papers were filed I could then get on the payroll on a conditional basis until the official approval came through. My salary would be $300 a week for five nights DJing and free food every night I was working. They assured me I should have no problem with the filing as many of the chefs at their restaurants came from out of the country and went through exactly the same procedures.

  “Also on Monday, if you come back here after the papers are filed we can give you a $120 signing bonus to say thank you,” said Maria.

  I knew instantly what she meant. That would be the money for my trial period of Saturday and Sunday night. They wouldn’t pay me until they knew I had paperwork accepted by the immigration department and could legally work. These people were 100% on the up-and-up.

  Those first two nights at The Plankhouse went brilliantly and even though it wasn’t the biggest club I’d ever played at I had a great time, and so, hopefully, did the crowd. I left late Sunday night with a package of papers that Maria had prepared for me. They were for me to take to the INS in Los Angeles the following day. I was ready for my next step.

  I had never seen so many people crammed into one place as there were in the application room of the Federal Building at 300 N. Los Angeles Street. There were literally 500 hopefuls like me waiting to be seen by a clerk at one of the fourteen booths. I took a number. It was in the high 400s and the red display showed they were only serving number sixty-eight. It would be a while before they got to me. I killed time by exploring Olvera Street which, even though I’d never been there, made me feel like I was in Mexico. An hour later I returned to the Federal Building and was shocked to see they hadn’t even reached the 200s yet. I had a long time to wait.

  Finally, around 3pm it was my time to go up to the window. The clerk shuffled through my papers which showed the multiple advertisements that my employer had run trying to find DJs, the locations owned by Far West Services across America, the number of employees they had on payroll and finally their job offer to me. The Immigration clerk looked up and forced a smile; it had been a long day for her as well.

  “Okay, it looks like it’s all there, everything I need from your employer. I can get you in the system but before it can go further we’re going to need a few things from you. Photographs, social security number, address where you can be reached, a phone number outside of work and fingerprints.”

  I asked how I went about getting her my fingerprints.

  “You can either find
a notary to do them for you or I can set up an appointment to have it done here. That way you know it’s done correctly and there’s no charge. I can get you in . . .,” she looked at her schedule, “one week from today. Get here early, pull a number, and then go upstairs to the second floor. They’ll fingerprint you and you come straight back down and submit all your completed paper work. How’s that sound?”

  My smile told her yes and Monday, December 20 was set in stone.

  I dropped off the papers with Maria at The Plankhouse that night. She was happy to get them and paid me my “bonus.” She asked where I was staying and when I told her about the Hollywood Studio Apartments she shook her head.

  “Look, why don’t you stay with me? My husband and I have a big house just down the road in Lomita and we’d love to have you stay there for a while. Hope you don’t mind kids, I’ve got two young boys who’ll want to talk to you nonstop about music.”

  I wasn’t sad packing up my things and leaving Hollywood. It had been a long, crazy month. It would be nice to be in a family household again. The only thing weighing on my mind was the plane ticket. Today was my scheduled travel day, December 15 and this was a non-refundable fare. I had to use it or lose it. But ironically by using it I would be losing the dream that had brought me to America. I stared at that ticket for a long while and then tore it in two and tossed it in the trash bin as I said goodbye to the Hollywood Studio Apartments. Come hell or high water there was no going back now.

  I felt good on Monday, December 20. I had been at The Plankhouse for a little more than a week and the club was getting busier and busier. My room at Maria’s house was wonderful and she and her family were spoiling me with home-cooked meals. I’d even bought a small car to replace the rental that was eating up my dollars. It was a little Datsun B210 that Erin, one of the servers whom I’d become great friends with, sold to me for $500. It was beat up and would need new tires soon but it ran and it was mine. I left Lomita around six in the morning to get an early jump on pulling a number at the Federal Building.

  The doors opened at seven to allow access to the number allocation machine and my number was barely over one hundred; that was a good start. My appointment for fingerprinting was at 9am so I was there promptly on time to have my right hand recorded for the FBI to run through their files. With that done and signed off I was ready to submit my completed papers.

  I took my seat on one of the metal chairs and waited in the packed room for almost an hour before my number finally appeared on the red-lighted display. I was excited as I stepped up to the counter and slid my papers under the Perspex to the waiting clerk. Without even looking up at me she opened the thick envelope, flipped quickly through the paperwork and then stuffed them back inside.

  “I can’t file these. Sorry.”

  I didn’t understand. “But everything is filled out correctly? What did I miss?”

  “Just filling out the forms means nothing. There has to be a reason to grant you a visa to live and work in the United States. I don’t see one here. Sorry.” She passed the envelope back to me under the Perspex window.

  “But I was here last week and told to get my fingerprints, social security—”

  She cut me off in mid-sentence, “Yes, because your application was incomplete without them. I can see all that here. But just because your paperwork was on hold with us doesn’t automatically mean I can issue you a work visa.”

  “So what do I need to do?” I pleaded.

  “There’s nothing you can do. If there are no adequate grounds for a work visa to be issued it means that your application is rejected and can go no further with the INS. You are welcome to stay in the United States until your tourist visa expires, but if you do any form of work or employment or if you stay on after your tourist visa expires, you’ll find yourself in big trouble with the authorities and will be deported.” Her words were final and as far as she was concerned, I was dismissed. She hit a button and the lighted number on the back wall changed. “Next.”

  I walked back through the crowded waiting area in a daze. I thought I’d done everything right. I had an employer who wanted me. I had years of experience. I had a degree from college. I had gotten a social security number as I had been told to do so Far West Services could withhold the necessary taxes. I had entered the US legally, not overstayed my three-month tourist visa and had gone directly to the INS to submit the required paperwork before even taking one dollar but now I was told it was all in vain. One word, next, had destroyed my future and thrown me into despair. What could I do now? I had no return ticket to England anymore and not enough money to buy one. I was sick to my stomach.

  I felt stunned as I left the room that had held all my hopes and dreams and shuffled into the massive lobby of the Federal Building. I slowly pushed my way through the crowds of people waiting patiently for the bathrooms in long lines that almost blocked the exits to the street. I looked at their faces; black, white, brown, people just like me, and wondered how many of those poor souls would also have their lives and futures upended today and be told that their applications were refused and that there was no place for them.

  Then it hit me. That clerk might have decided to take away my chance for a new life but I could not let that stand, I had come too far not to try again and in doing so create another chance for myself.

  I turned and hurried back into the overflowing holding area. I scanned the huge room and its fourteen booths. They were all busy but it wasn’t just any open one I was looking for, I was trying to find the female clerk who’d helped me the week before. And there she was, talking with a Korean couple and their lawyer. I worked my way past the mob of people and waited behind the trio at that window. As soon as they were done, I stepped up.

  “I’m so sorry, I think I missed my number being called. The line for the bathroom was so long.” I looked at the clerk and caught her eye and smiled. “Oh hey, you helped me last week and set up my appointment today for fingerprinting. Thank you so much. I got it done.”

  I grinned and pulled out the freshly inked form from the envelope. “Here it is. I really appreciate your advice on that; they were really nice about it upstairs. Got everything else done that you asked me to do as well. Should all be in there.” I slipped the paperwork to her.

  She nodded in recognition. “Yeah, I remember you. You’re the DJ. Let me look at your papers.”

  She went through them quickly but thoroughly then looked up and smiled. “It’s all there. I keep the paperwork here to file and distribute and you get this.” She pushed a single sheet of paper under the Perspex. “Go back upstairs and give it to the people in the office right next to where you were fingerprinted. They’ll take it and issue you a number. Whatever you do, don’t lose it, that’s your file reference. It means you are in our system and can stay here in the country until we contact you for a final interview.”

  “And when will that be?” I asked.

  “Look around. There are a lot of people being processed. It could be six months or more. But until then you are good to stay and work here. Couple of things; try not to change your employer because then you’ll have to resubmit all your paperwork and do not use any social services. That’s a big no-no because we want to know you are not going to be a drain on the economy. And stay out of trouble. Any felonies and your number will be revoked immediately. Got it?”

  I nodded vigorously. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate this.”

  “Glad to help. Now go play that funky music, Mr. DJ.”

  I think I floated upstairs to get my official number from the INS and as I left the building it shook me as I realized how much impact one person can make on your life. Perhaps the first clerk had argued with her husband that morning, or maybe her kids had been misbehaving and she had taken out her anger on me. Whatever reason she had for shooting down my application I considered myself fortunate that I’d run afoul of that line at the bathroom and that it had given me the inspiration to go back into that government building a
second time. Now I was legal and welcome in this country and I wasn’t going to blow this amazing opportunity.

  I’M YOUR BOOGIE MAN

  Christmas sped by and soon it was the New Year and hello to 1977. Things were going well at The Plankhouse but I didn’t want to wear out my welcome with Maria and her family, so I grabbed at the chance to rent a room in Ken’s condo which overlooked the ocean in Redondo Beach. Ken was one of the three full-time bartenders at The Plankhouse and had been looking for a roomie to offset his rent so he was more than happy to have me move in. As for me, I was thrilled to be so close to the beach as it gave me a chance to surf more and it was only a fifteen minute drive to work.

  The location of the condo was a plus with the ladies as they were impressed by the view of Santa Monica Bay and Palos Verdes. However my actual room was not quite as spectacular as the only furniture was a folding chair and my “bed” was a six-foot-six by five-foot piece of foam that I bought for twenty two dollars at an industrial store in North Hollywood. But I was young and it was all I needed.

  I received notification from the INS that my interview was set for Wednesday, July 13 at ten in the morning. I arrived at the Federal Building early and changed into a shirt and tie. I wanted to make a good impression but there was no way I was going to drive all the way from Redondo Beach to downtown LA on a scorching summer day all dressed up. After all, it was July and my little Datsun lacked air conditioning.

  A secretary showed me into my interviewer’s office and had me sit and wait for him. As he walked in he saw me there and said, “Stand up!”

  I jumped to my feet, thinking I had done something wrong and didn’t move as he looked me up and down.