by Rob Brydon
Llandaff Road was always buzzing. James had an electric keyboard, as well as an upright piano and a toasted sandwich maker. This splendid machine was never off. James would pile in as many ingredients as the thing would take, most notably ham and cheese. James’s cheese of choice was Edam, a new experience for me; until then my cheese life began and ended with Dairylea. It was while eating toasted sandwiches that I introduced James to Bruce Springsteen, an artist whom he had yet to encounter, content as he was with Noël Coward, Cole Porter et al. After munching the sandwiches, we would sing together. James would work out the chords to songs by Bruce and Elvis, and I would wail away to my heart’s content.
As time went by, these evenings became more frequent and eventually we would find ourselves slipping away during free periods at college up to the top floor where the music department’s practice rooms were to be found. These were tiny cells, just big enough for an upright piano and a chair; there was certainly no way they could accommodate the circular transit of a dead cat. James and I would walk along the corridors and glance in through the little oblong window in each door until a vacant room was found. Then we’d slip inside and work through our favourite songs. Anyone walking past would have been perplexed at the sudden change from Elgar to Elton John. They would have considered the college to be rather progressive – or perhaps catering for children with learning difficulties.
As we pressed on with our practices, they began to take on the feel of rehearsals, and so we decided to put on a show. The ‘show’ consisted of a big, overblown, over-generous, expectation-raising introduction from one of our fellow students followed by James and me, under the title of Rob and James, rattling through a collection of songs. James banged away at the piano while I cavorted with the microphone, hoping to summon the spirit of Jim Morrison as I writhed and spun amongst the assembled crowd in the student bar. It’s safe to say that the Lizard King’s spirit remained unevoked – beyond, perhaps, an irritable turning in his grave. The performance was not so much Jim Morrison as Jim Carrey. I suspect I brought to mind a mid-period Bruce Forsyth. And yet despite or perhaps, to be fair to Brucie, because of this, we went down a storm.
We were soon known as a double act, spoken of throughout the college with some affection, and with almost indecent haste we landed our first broadcast gig. We were called into our head of year’s office one day and told that BBC Radio Wales, based just up the road in Llandaff, were looking for local acts to take part in a live radio show, in front of an audience. Would we like to give it a go and try out for a spot? It amazes me now to think that we didn’t hesitate for a moment; we jumped at the chance. We can only have done two or three public performances at this point, but that didn’t stop us from taking the bit between the teeth and trotting on towards potential humiliation.
It transpired that we had to complete not one but several auditions to win a spot on Level Three. It was a magazine-style show on BBC Radio Wales, which was broadcast live each Friday morning from the recently opened St David’s Hall in Cardiff. In a classic example of the psyche of the performer (years later, an agent would enlighten me with his opinion that all performers are in possession of high ego and low self-esteem) I was simultaneously overawed and tremulous at climbing the steep and imposing steps that led to the mighty BBC Wales, and appalled that we were having to audition more than once for what was essentially a local radio show.
My memory now projects a sepia-tinted silent movie of James and I playing and singing our hearts out in a vast, cavernous studio along the lines of the fabled Abbey Road. I think I’ve fallen victim here to the Vanilla Sky scenario whereby Tom Cruise’s memories (or manufactured reality/lucid dream) are made up largely of the pop-culture influences he has absorbed during his lifetime, as opposed to any actual reality. I now know that the studio wasn’t all that big; my memory has allowed all the biopics of struggling artists, and the documentaries on the making of classic albums that I’ve seen, to seep in and corrupt my consciousness. This must explain why, when thinking of our audition for Radio Wales, I can remember Paul Simon in a far corner of the room, becoming increasingly irate with Ladysmith Black Mambazo.
We decided that we would audition in character, with me playing the role of Tony Casino. Tony was a Welsh nightclub singer who thought of himself as Tom Jones but in reality was sadly lacking in every department. I can’t claim that Tony was a masterpiece of observational comedy or, for that matter, a stinging satire on the state of light entertainment; he was basically me with a more pronounced Welsh accent. We went through our collection of numbers: an upbeat ‘Amarillo’, a ludicrously French-accented ‘She’ (a nod of recognition here, surely, to Kenneth Williams and his ‘Ma Crêpe Suzette’) and finally, fresh from its success at the Swansea Camp Society audition, my moving interpretation of Lionel Richie’s ‘Hello’. We played them again and again for the producer of the show, Caroline Sarll, and her assistant, Siân Roberts, until finally we were given the nod and told that we’d made it onto the show.
Tony Casino and the Roulette Wheels
I’m playing down its significance now, but at the time this was a very big deal indeed – a live radio show, a live audience not made up of friends but of real people who would judge us entirely on merit. The Friday morning of the broadcast duly arrived. With time off from classes we set out for what was to be, for both of us, our first paid gig. I’m not sure how it is today, when it would seem that any sixteen-year-old with the slightest inclination towards performance can stick themselves up on YouTube with a potential audience of millions, and at the very least secure a regular role in Hollyoaks. In 1985, things were very different. Short of bellowing out of your bedroom window, you couldn’t broadcast yourself; you were always in the hands of others, and so the radio held an air of exotic inaccessibility. To my twenty-year-old self it represented a fair chunk of my dream pie.
I had for a long time held an above-average interest in the medium of radio, listening to it avidly and even hoping that one day I might myself become a disc jockey. My heroes were disappointingly predictable; when grouped together they effortlessly formed a list of solid, middle-class BBC-approved respectability. Names like Ed Stewart, Tony Blackburn and Noel Edmonds would have been high up the chart, although I also possessed a slightly more risqué (if that’s not too misleading a word, and I’m fairly certain that it is) fondness for some of the presenters on whistling and whiney Radio Luxembourg.
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 likelihoo
d 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.’