The Years Before My Death

by David McPhail

  The first I remember was the bawdy English comedian, Frankie Howerd. Widely known in the United Kingdom as a vaudeville and pantomime performer, his stand-up routine was studded with shrieks, outraged stares, admonitions to the audience to ‘Titter ye not’ and a liberal smattering of smut. Frankie Howerd was popular and he achieved a degree of notoriety in New Zealand by appearing in a television programme called, not surprisingly, Up Pompeii. This show may have been inspired by the successful musical A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum in which Howerd had been a cast member.

  On television Howerd played the slave Lurcio, although naturally it was pronounced Lurk-io. Other characters included a senator called Sextus, his nymphomaniac wife, Ammonia, and their hapless daughter, Erotica. Howerd opened each episode with a rambling monologue that rarely had anything to do with the plot that followed. In fact, a plot rarely followed. The episodes were simply a series of events that allowed the actors to hurl double entendres at each other and provide opportunities for Howerd to feign innocence at a saucy remark, and then indignantly censure the audience for not finding it funny.

  Frankie Howerd toured New Zealand in the early eighties. Although he didn’t need the publicity, Howerd agreed to an interview. Rather nervously I waited for him and his manager in the foyer of the television studio. The man who shuffled through the door looked like someone suffering from a serious stroke. I thought it was his manager. Unfortunately, it was Howerd. He was pale and puffy. Once, the poet WH Auden famously described his face as looking like a wedding cake that had been left out in the rain. Howerd’s face looked as if it had been left out in a blizzard.

  With Rodney, we talked about the questions that would be asked. Howerd, with his eyes closed, did not appear to be listening although his manager nodded cheerfully in agreement. I looked in alarm at Rodney. My stare said, ‘This is going to be a disaster.’ He nodded and shrugged his shoulders. I was on the verge of suggesting that perhaps this was not the best time for an interview, but having cajoled them into coming, I could hardly turn around and ask them to leave. They entered the studio and I went into the control-room to direct the cameras. On the monitors Howerd looked even worse.

  He was slumped in his chair. His eyes were still closed and his head was leaning on his hand. The crew was nervous. I took my seat and in a faltering voice said, ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen here, but let’s do it.’ Then, suddenly, I saw a transformation I could hardly believe. As the floor manager started counting down to zero, Frankie Howerd sat up. His eyes opened and he looked around alertly.

  It was obvious he was spotting the position of the three cameras in the studio. Then, he turned to Rodney, raised his eyebrows archly and smiled. Howerd didn’t answer the first question. Instead, he swung to a camera, leaned into it and in a husky, sibilant voice said, ‘My word, you’re all looking pretty tonight and isn’t Rodney a clever boy?’ He commanded the interview. Sometimes he answered a question. On other occasions he veered off, leering with good-natured vulgarity into the lens of a camera, and chanted the mantra — the old, well-polished one-liners about leaning towers of Pisa in your pocket and bosoms that could have kept the Titanic afloat. The familiar lines that had made them roll in their seats for 20 years. It was a masterful performance. And it was very funny.

  When Rodney said, ‘Thank you, Frankie,’ and the red light went off, Frankie Howerd suddenly slumped. He was moribund again. The jowls became slack and his eyes stared at a singular spot he’d left many years ago. His manager lifted him from the chair and with cautious delicacy manoeuvred Frankie Howerd from the studio.

  As they were leaving the manager turned to me. ‘It was all right, wasn’t it? You see, it’s only when the light comes on that Frank comes alive.’ I didn’t learn until later that the manager was Howerd’s long-time partner, Denis Heymer — they had been together for nearly 30 years.

  But, I did learn something. The skill of a performance can never be judged by an actor’s immaculate preparation. The audience never sees that. Many performers believe the elegance of a well-placed eyebrow or the careful colour on a cheek can divert attention from mumbled speeches or the clumsy fumbling of feet. This strange and wretched British comedian showed me it’s the blaze of the light that makes you shine and if you feel it on your face and have no desire to eclipse it, then you should start making pottery mugs.

  Some years later I was producing a rock show called Norman. Don’t ask. Like finance companies it seemed like a good idea at the time. I was a 30-year-old television producer working out of a small space in the Manchester Unity Building. To those with a passion for urban geography you can find it on the corner of Manchester and Worcester streets. The building was designed by one of the great sons of Christchurch architecture — Peter Bevan. The building had a reserved elegance. As the years passed, the elegance faded and the reservations became more obvious. The building was no doubt pleasing but it contained the most treacherous staircase I have ever been forced to negotiate. It was alarmingly open, with slippery tiles and long views of the ground floor far below. Going between floors felt like walking on a high wire. I have strong memories of this building because I spent much of my early working life there. Before producing Norman I had worked on numerous series of other rock music programmes. We had cramped meetings in a small office — the size of a modern lavatory. Into this confined space I pumped clouds of cigarette smoke. It is a tribute to my colleagues they did not refuse to work with me nor demand that masks be issued at the door. The shows were unashamedly derivative.

  My floor manager Peter Bain-Hogg and I would study the latest top 20 lists, select songs that suited singers or bands we knew and then set about creating replicas of the original sounds. As odd as it may seem now, in the seventies there were few original New Zealand songs and any that did exist were shunned by radio stations. I was instructed to play songs that were popular on radio stations. So, New Zealand compositions hardly appeared at all. I broke the rule by playing a band called Space Waltz and a singer whose name was Mark Williams. Both were distinctly different from the flat familiarity of early Elton John music, but as neither had been played by a New Zealand radio station, I was asked to explain my decision. I explained that Space Waltz was a new form of music that would soon crash on to the charts and Mark Williams was a sensational high-pitched singer. Two months later Space Waltz danced into obscurity and Mark, who might still be singing somewhere, disappeared or ran away.

  Fortunately I started by inheriting a programme called Popco from Peter Muxlow. He created a small and compact group of people who could make shows look like Britain’s Top of the Pops at a tenth of the cost. I also had several advantages over anyone else in the country who was trying to make music shows. First, my colleagues decided and then informed me that I did not want pre-pubescent, adenoidal girls in tight stockings dancing around the background. This had been the trademark of television’s most successful music producer, Kevan Moore. He produced shows with names like Happen Inn, Sing and Free Ride. Moore was clever and he knew that skimpily clad school girls jiggling upstage could distract the audience’s attention from the slightly off-key singer in the foreground. It was on this philosophy that many profitable New Zealand musical careers were launched.

  Moore knew he was successful, so he didn’t need hopefuls or amateurs around him. He was difficult to converse with because of the pipe permanently clenched between his teeth. I grew to dislike him.

  Many years after his rock and roll heyday, he was promoted to the position of controller of programmes for South Pacific Television. I had made a ‘pilot’ programme — this was a code word that meant this is a show we don’t want, but we’ll give him the equivalent of the ninth-floor tea money to get this God-awful idea out of his head and redirect his soul into his true vocation — making the boring shows we love. I was proud of the pilot we’d made in Christchurch. It turned out to become A Week of It. So, I took it to Auckland and then sat in Moore’s outer office for one-and-a-quarter
hours waiting for his verdict. Young women in tight skirts and slight tops rushed past carrying files and important pieces of paper. Finally, a pipe emerged from a door followed by Moore. He summoned me into his office. It was one of those small mausoleums constructed by men who hope to be remembered. I asked him what he thought of the programme. Kevan Moore sucked his pipe, fiddled with a pile of inconsequential papers and replied, ‘I haven’t watched it.’

  The nervous energy and the enthusiasm of the people I worked with had made producing a weekly rock show possible. I had an inventive camera crew, a clever control-room crew, imaginative designers and one of the best musical directors in the country, Brian Marsden. Oddly he worked in the accounts department of the television station. Brian was an accomplished musician and because of his skill the management allowed him to score and produce the music for shows. Within the strict wording of the notorious Manual of Staff instructions — a document that regulated and often proscribed the behaviour and activities of television employees — this extra work was not permitted but Brian’s talent over-rode this restriction. It is ironic that several years later I found myself facing serious allegations about my conduct when I too performed two jobs at the same time for the television channel.

  There were many performers with flair and talent in New Zealand and many good bands. One of the best singers was Tom Sharplin. He had a voice like distant thunder and a vocal snarl that could knock any Memphis singer into the middle of Florida.

  The first time I met Tom he was leaning on a microphone stand in a television studio in Christchurch. I was directing and I kept insisting Tom was too static. ‘He has to move more.’ Tom, who was more interested in singing than moving, obliged by waving his arms around. ‘No, that’s not right,’ I yelled. ‘You’re, shall I spell it for you? S-T-A-T-I-C.’ The band kept warming up and Tom just kept nodding. I struggled back up to the control room. Tom was still hardly moving, so I stumbled down the stairs again and confronted the band. I noticed they were trying not to laugh. ‘What is the problem?’ I screamed.

  Tom smiled at me. ‘It’s this,’ he said. I looked down and one of Tom’s boots was pointing backwards. No one had told me he had an artificial leg and Tom had simply turned it around. It was five minutes before we recorded Tom’s song. The laughter was too long and loud. And, I never mentioned movement again.

  He was short, his thick hair was dyed midnight black and he was beginning to put on weight. This was Gary Glitter and it was 1975. Glitter and glam rock were the biggest things on the British pop music charts with songs like ‘I Love You Love Me Love’.

  In August 1975, I heard through a colleague that Glitter was touring Australia promoting a new record. He wasn’t giving any concerts but was appearing as often as he could on television talk shows. Through his record company, I obtained his manager’s telephone number in Australia. My proposal was simple. I wanted to fly Glitter to Christchurch and record two television shows with him.

  The manager was unimpressed. ‘Gary isn’t travelling with a band.’ I assured the manager that was not a problem. I was a great fan of Gary’s, I gushed, and owned all his records. He could mime to them. The manager wouldn’t shift. ‘He might have forgotten some of the songs.’

  This was a possibility because, as most of Gary’s compositions sounded the same, he might become confused as to which song he was singing. ‘Look,’ I persisted, ‘I’ll only get him to mime songs he remembers.’ The manager then began talking about fees and I realised I’d made some headway.

  I had calculated that if I could record two complete programmes with one singer, I could offer Glitter the amount I would normally spend on two shows filled with 16 singers. It was still not a lot of money but it was considerably more than a New Zealand performer would expect.

  The manager snorted. Apparently, Gary wouldn’t comb his hair for that sort of cash. I played my last card. Gary was tremendously popular in New Zealand, I said. My television show was very popular too. Both these statements had a veneer of truth. I was confident, I continued, in fact I could almost guarantee that his appearance in New Zealand would greatly increase his sales. This claim was a little wild. The glam rock market was already saturated and there were some music critics predicting the movement was beginning to lose its spangles. To my surprise, Glitter’s manager suddenly agreed and we started to discuss the flight to Christchurch. Glitter walked into my life in a cloud of cologne. He thrust jewelled fingers into my hand and began looking around for the limo.

  He didn’t say much apart from a vague ‘Hello’ although there was an audible groan when he noticed the large taxi. My daughter, Anna, was six and desperate to meet him. Knowing what the world knows about Gary Glitter now, I might not have been as quick to arrange the meeting.

  I planned to record two shows, one in a studio with a collection of motorbikes and clouds of dry ice to disguise the absence of a set. The other programme I would shoot at exterior locations and attempt to brighten up the pictures with star filters. These were placed over the camera lens so any reflections or spots of light would appear to burst into star formations. I particularly wanted a location with a lot of chrome. For reasons that still escape me I chose the Commonwealth Games diving pool at Christchurch’s Queen Elizabeth II Park.

  It was obvious Glitter had doubts about his New Zealand excursion when he stepped out of his dressing room and found himself in a swimming pool. ‘This is interesting,’ he remarked rather coldly. His tight jumpsuit was sparkling with sequins, he wore a shimmering cape and on his feet were gleaming silver boots with 20 cm heels. I knew it was going to become much more interesting when I told Glitter I wanted him to perform ‘I’m the Leader of the Pack (I Am)’ on the top diving board. He nearly stumbled off his heels.

  ‘Are you serious?’ he demanded.

  I said I was. I explained all the shots and asked him to look through the camera’s eye-piece to see how ‘glittering’ the shots would look. I could tell he wasn’t totally convinced but he turned away and began climbing up to the diving board. If walking in high-heeled boots was demanding, then climbing a chromium ladder in them was outlandishly so. It took Glitter five minutes to inch his way up to the diving platform. He stood unhappily above the pool, swaying slightly. I asked him if he was ready. He waved a despondent gloved hand. We rolled the cameras and started counting down from ten. This was to prepare Glitter for the thundering play-back of ‘I’m the Leader of the Pack (I Am)’ we were about to blast at him.

  Gary Glitter performed surprisingly well. He didn’t move a lot. He was, after all, at the top of a diving board, but his miming was generally accurate. The words might have been ‘Hello, hello, it’s good to be back’. On television the singer could mouth, ‘Goodbye, goodbye, I’m putting out the rubbish’ and no one would have noticed the difference.

  The crew were packing up the equipment when I noticed Glitter was still standing on the diving board. I turned to my production manager, Peter Bain-Hogg. ‘He can come down, now,’ I said. Peter nodded with a hint of apprehension.

  I started discussions with my technical producer about the next location but became aware that Glitter was still on the diving board. Peter was half-way up the chromium ladder. ‘What’s going on, Peter?’ He waved at me to be quiet. Five minutes later, I noticed Peter was now on the diving board just behind Glitter. I shouted up asking what was going on now. Peter shouted back. ‘For Christ’s sake. He’s got vertigo.’ It took half an hour to get Glitter off the diving board. I cancelled the next location and we all went home. We did make one good show with the motorcycles and the dry ice. I think it was seen by an avid audience of roughly 20, mainly the people who made it. Then, Glitter and his manager disappeared.

  In later life, Gary Glitter was sent to prison for downloading child pornography, deported from Cambodia for suspected child sexual abuse and imprisoned in Vietnam for the same crimes. When I learnt of his criminal history, I was privately pleased I’d imprisoned this wretched man at the top of diving board with a
ll his fears. I just wished I’d kept him there longer. On the other end of the scale, my daughter still has the autographed photo.

  In 1975, Roy Orbison made a quiet tour of New Zealand. The pale singer whose voice soared with operatic intensity was at a stalled moment in his career. He’d had enormous hits in the past: ‘Only the Lonely’, ‘Running Scared’, ‘Crying’ and the anthem to romantic longing ‘It’s Over’. Then, Orbison capped everything with ‘Pretty Woman’. But, in the early seventies, his great skill as a songwriter deserted him and he went back to playing country music in clubs and times must have been hard because he was touring New Zealand.

  I had always been a great admirer of Roy Orbison and his remarkable voice. I still think the rising crescendo of ‘It’s Over’ is one of the great moments in rock music. But, it wasn’t just his voice. When you watched other rock singers you knew where the sound was coming from because they were leaping in the air or tossing the microphone stand above their heads. With Orbison there was an almost eerie stillness as if this extraordinary sound and the man delivering it were detached from each other.

  Orbison arrived at the studio with the promoter of the tour. He was dressed in an unimpressive suit and his large dark glasses made any form of eye contact impossible. Orbison had agreed to perform two songs — ‘Crying’ and, at my insistence, ‘It’s Over’. He was happy to mime them.

  I felt vaguely uncomfortable with this immobile, silent man. I was hoping we would get the recording over as soon as possible. Then, we had a technical problem that I knew would take more than five minutes to resolve. I suggested that Orbison might like to wait in the green room — a rather tawdry lounge attached to the studio. He simply shook his head. There was a long silence. I didn’t feel I could walk away and leave him standing alone and, yet, the stillness was becoming deafening.