World in My Eyes: The Autobiography
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WORLD IN MY EYES
RICHARD BLADE
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY
Copyright © 2017 BladeRocker Entertainment Inc.
All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2017957646
ISBN: 978-1-948080-50-71
ISBN: 978-1-94808-00-33 (e-book)
First Edition
With Indigo River Publishing, you can always expect great books, strong voices, and meaningful messages. Most importantly, you’ll always find…words worth reading.
To Mum and Dad, the beginning, middle and end of everything, this all happened because of you.
To my beloved Krista, for allowing me to have a history.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
KID
CITIES IN DUST
TORQUAY
HALCYON
LOVE ME DO
CHILDREN OF THE REVOLUTION
FUN, FUN, FUN
SCHOOL’S OUT
LONDON CALLING
THE FIRST CUT IS THE DEEPEST
GOING MOBILE
UNDER PRESSURE
IN THE SUMMERTIME
THE LOVE I LOST
GETAWAY
SIGNED, SEALED, DELIVERED
NORWEGIAN WOOD
FLYING NORTH
BLISTER IN THE SUN
HOME AGAIN
GOLDEN YEARS
AUTOBAHN
VIENNA CALLING
NEVER CAN SAY GOODBYE
NOTHING TO FEAR (BUT FEAR ITSELF)
YOUNG AMERICANS
I’M YOUR BOOGIE MAN
FOR THOSE ABOUT TO ROCK
CALIFORNIA GIRLS
UP ALL NIGHT
ON YOUR RADIO
WHAT’S MY NAME
ROCK THIS TOWN
MAD WORLD
Part Two: A.D.
NEW LIFE
T.V.O.D
NO MORE WORDS
VIDEO (nearly) KILLED THE RADIO STAR
RADIO GAGA
HOLLYWOOD SWINGING
I’LL FLY FOR YOU
WILD BOYS
MUSIC FOR THE MASSES
ALONE AGAIN OR
CEREMONY
WAITING FOR THE NIGHT
LIVING ON VIDEO
FRIENDS OF MINE
Part One – SUEDEHEAD
Part Two – NEVER TEAR US APART
Part Three – BEING BORING
Part Four – YOUNG GUNS
POLICY OF TRUTH
LOSING MY RELIGION
DEATH OF A DISCO DANCER
CARIBBEAN BLUE
GOODBYE, GOODBYE
IT’S THE END OF THE WORLD AS WE KNOW IT
(And I Feel Fine)
SUN IS SHINING
SHELLSHOCK
WHITE WEDDING
LOVE & PRIDE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THE PROLOGUE
TO CUT A LONG STORY SHORT
For more than a decade people have come up to me at my live shows and asked the same three questions, “Who is your favorite group?”, “When are you going to write a book about your experiences?” and “With everything you’ve done what are you most proud of?”
I can answer two of those questions right now. My favorite group, Depeche Mode, and as to when I’m going to write a book, well, you are holding it.
I wrote every word of my autobiography. I didn’t want a “ghost writer,” they weren’t there, I was. When I finally sat down to write I explained to my beautiful wife, Krista, that I had to be completely open about everything and that meant it would be uncensored and perhaps a little shocking including some revelations that I have never told anyone, not even her! She laughed and said, “Honey, everyone’s got a past.” Then she read some of the book and I watched as her eyes opened wide and she stared across the room and simply stated, “Wow, you were a man-whore!”
I was and that is a big part of the story and the reason that one of my three great loves ended. Hopefully I’ve grown up a little by now. I think I have but my story is in your hands now so that’s up to you to decide.
This book also names names. Everything that is between these covers happened with very real people, many of whom you will be familiar with. Only three names have been changed for legal reasons, the rest are who they are.
And talking of names, the origin of how Richard Blade came about is spelled out, but that wasn’t my first name change, hopefully your new favorite superhero alias will be Dick Sheppard, but his costume wasn’t tights and a cape; Disco Dick was outfitted in platform heels and twenty-four inch flared pants and instead of battling super villains he toured Scandinavia and Europe packing the dance floors from Oslo to Vienna.
A lot of people thought I would just write about the eighties but I didn’t want to start my story in the middle; so much came before that amazing decade and I think you’ll enjoy the early years as much or maybe even more than the KROQ, MV3 and Video One days.
As the pages of the book fleshed themselves out I was asked by the publisher to come up with a title and I wanted to stay with the theme I was using for each chapter – and that’s naming each one after a song (there is a single exception, one chapter is named after an album title rather than a specific song. See if you can spot which one that is, there’s five Blade points up for grabs). For me it was a no-brainer what to call the book, after all I wanted to take the reader on a trip around the world and back and they wouldn’t have to do a thing, just sit there. And my travels would take them to the highest mountains (of Norway), to the depths of the deep blue sea (as we get into the world of SCUBA) and the islands in the ocean (say hello to St. Maarten). To encompass all that there was only one song that fit the bill and it just happened to be from my favorite group (see above if you’ve forgotten already!) I emailed Martin Gore who had written that brilliant track and I was told he would be thrilled for me to use its title so World In My Eyes took shape with MLG’s blessing.
But now I’d better get going, there’s a lot of people lined up within these pages for you to read about and discover the untold stories of my time with them and I wouldn’t want to keep Depeche Mode, Michael Jackson, Morrissey, Barbra Streisand, Duran Duran, George Michael, Pet Shop Boys, Larry Hagman, Spandau Ballet, Donna Summer, Michael Hutchence, Terri Nunn, Judas Priest, Boy George and Ted Nugent waiting, would you?
Oh, and as to the final question, “What are you most proud of?” I promise it will be answered and I think it will surprise most of you. It certainly surprised me when I came to that realization. You’ll find out when you get to it, no spoilers here. Be prepared to laugh out loud, to gasp in surprise and to shed a tear – you might want to g
rab a hankie or two – and most of all I really hope you enjoy seeing the World In My Eyes.
KID
Mary Sheppard’s anguished screams echoed down the long, damp corridors of the former sanitarium. Two nurses hurrying to attend to the needs of another patient paused for a second at the sound of the suffering and turned in concern.
The elder of the two shook her head and sighed, “If anyone can ease her pain, Doctor Sunderland can.”
Doctor Sunderland was already doing everything he could to help Mary. He had cancelled his weekend plans to be there with her that Friday night. He had promised his wife and family that he would finally take a few days off from work so they could enjoy a short break together in North Cornwall away from the grime and the soot that Bristol’s factories spewed into the air but all that was forgotten when he received the urgent call that Mrs. Sheppard needed him.
He’d almost lost her nearly seven years before. He remembered it vividly. It was November 1945 and Frenchay hospital was slowly moving from being a wartime treatment facility run by the US Army Medical Corps under the control of the 117th General Hospitals division, back to becoming a strictly civilian hospital governed by the Bristol Corporation.
As a young doctor, the war had forced him to specialize in dealing with horrific injuries caused by the foulest engines of battle; bombs, guns, shrapnel. From 1942 onwards he and his team had worked on more than 4,000 American GIs who had sailed across the Atlantic and risked their all to save the world. He was shocked when he was asked on that night in November to bring his experience in dealing with combat wounds to assist a woman enduring a prolonged labor.
Mary Sheppard had been struggling to give birth for more than twenty-eight hours when he was called in. She had refused a C-section and now with the baby having moved position within her womb it was too late to attempt one successfully. She was hemorrhaging and the attending physician was worried that he was about to lose both mother and child. Doctor Sunderland was the most knowledgeable person in the hospital in dealing with internal injuries; perhaps his expertise could save at least one of the patients.
As soon as Doctor Sunderland saw Mary Sheppard’s rapidly deteriorating condition he realized the seriousness of the situation and assumed control of the operating room, calling for fluids and blood.
He took the hand of the exhausted woman on the operating table and spoke softly and reassuringly to her, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Sheppard, I’m going to take care of this. You have my word that you will both be fine.”
Two hours later he kept his promise and delivered a healthy baby. After a silent prayer of gratitude he told his exhausted patient she could breathe normally now.
“It’s over, Mrs. Sheppard. You’ve got a baby waiting for you. Your husband’s here. He’s been outside the whole time.”
Reg Sheppard stepped forward, his six-foot frame towering over his still shaking wife. He looked to the doctor.
“Can I . . .?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Doctor Sunderland. “And not to worry, she’s going to make a full recovery.”
Reg took his wife’s hand and smiled at her, “You did it, Mary. You did it, my love.”
Mary Sheppard looked up at her devoted husband but the pain was too recent and intense to be forgotten. The only words she uttered were a straightforward but firm statement.
“Never again, Reg. I can’t ever do this again.”
“I know. And I will never ask you to.”
Mary had spoken those words almost seven years before and she had been determined to stick to them. One child would be enough for them, it would have to be. Let others have the big families; hers might be small but it would be full of love.
There’s an old Greek saying “If you want to hear God laugh, tell him you made a plan.” In late October 1951 the heavens exploded with mirth when Mary went to visit her GP to pick up medication to help soothe her stomach. He broke it to her with a smile, hoping she would embrace the news.
“Really, Mrs. Sheppard, I thought a woman of your age would know the difference between an upset tummy and a pregnancy!”
Mary was in a daze as she walked the half mile back to her house on Vassell Road. She sat motionless in the front room waiting for her husband to return home from his teaching post at Staple Hill Secondary School. When Reg arrived two hours later he saw this beautiful, petite woman sitting there, hunched up, her hands clutched tightly in her lap, her face white as a ghost.
“What is it, Mary?”
She tried to speak but all that came out were tears.
Doctor Sunderland knew her history well. When he received the call that Mary Sheppard was in labor he dropped all his plans and raced to the hospital that warm night in late May. He’d saved her once, he’d not risk letting some hack make an error and have to hear about “that unfortunate incident” when he returned from a long weekend break.
Now this patient that he had so much invested in was again in his hands, and he was well-prepared for what was ahead. This time he was not being called to take over at the last moment; he was the supervising physician, and tonight her delivery would be different.
She had been screaming in agony for almost five minutes and he could tell by her dilation that she was already past the active-labor phase. He squeezed her arm lightly to give her comfort.
“I know it hurts but you are almost there, Mary. I need you to be quiet for just a moment and only think about breathing. If you do that the pain will fade away. And I want you to push hard now, very hard. Do this and I promise you it will be over,” He glanced at the large, round clock on the wall; it was 10:30 at night. “By eleven. We’ll have that baby in your arms in less than thirty minutes. Will you push for me?”
At that moment Mary trusted him more than any other person on the planet. Her screams stopped and she pushed. Fifteen minutes later, at 10:45pm, May 23, 1952, Mary Sheppard gave birth to her second and final child.
Reg was hurried into the room and his eyes welled with tears as he saw his beloved wife cradling the newborn infant in her arms. Mary managed to smile.
“It’s a boy, Reg, it’s a boy.”
Doctor Sunderland smiled, “Ten fingers, ten toes. It’s all there. He’s a healthy little son of a gun and after the last time I’m pleased to say this one couldn’t wait to get out into the world. The big question is, have you picked a name for him yet?”
My mother managed to nod, “We have. I told Reg that if it was a boy we’d call him after his grandfather.”
Dad took me in his arms and beamed at the doctor. “His name is Richard.”
CITIES IN DUST
In the early 1950s, Bristol was not a great place to grow up. A decade earlier the city had been targeted repeatedly by the Luftwaffe during the air raids of World War II and more than 100,000 buildings had been damaged or destroyed. Rebuilding had not started in earnest because of the government’s financial crisis; Britain’s economy was in a shambles and before any funds could be freed up and sent to Bristol, the country needed to pull itself out of the malaise caused by the lingering effects of the war and the ruling party’s ongoing battle with the trade unions. As a result the evidence of the devastation caused by the German bombs remained everywhere throughout the city.
But wartime carnage and burned-out shells of houses weren’t my first memory. The earliest thing I can recall is a kiss.
I had just turned two years old. My parents had taken us to Nana McCann’s house on Grove Park Terrace to celebrate my birthday and Nana was proudly throwing a little party for her newest grandson. My brother, Stephen, who was nearly seven years older than me, was out front playing football in the street with the other children. I was in Nana’s tiny back garden being pushed on a swing and as I soared back and forth through the air I could feel the sensation of the breeze blowing through my hair, the warm sun on my skin and hear the sound of birds singing to welcome the coming of an early summer.
The person doing the pushing was the next-door neighbor’s daughter, R
ebecca Bailey. She was much older than me, almost three, and after a few minutes she stopped the swing and walked around to face me. She stood there in the sunshine, just looking at me with a strange expression on her face; then she smiled and leaned in, kissing me squarely on the lips. I liked it.
A second later the garden erupted with the sound of clapping and laughter from the grownups who were standing, watching, from the open kitchen doorway. I didn’t mind the laughter or the applause; the kiss had been nice and it made me feel good.
That kiss is my fondest recollection of Bristol. The only other things I can remember from the next four years are lying down for my afternoon naps at the infant school, running through the wooded parkland overlooking the venerable Clifton suspension bridge and one morning sneaking into the front bedroom of my Auntie Grace’s house to wake up Nanny Sheppard but instead of her stirring from her slumbers and greeting me with a smile and a hug, I found her lying there, still.
I was confused as to why she wasn’t waking up; I thought she might be playing a game with me and that I should join in so I snuck around the bed and then jumped up and cried Boo! but she still didn’t move.
I gave her a little poke with my finger but she just lay there, not even turning her head to look and see who was causing all the noise and trouble. I knew something was wrong but I didn’t know what. I ran out of the room and into the lounge where the rest of the family was gathered for their morning cup of tea and biscuits.
“There’s something wrong with Nanny,” I cried, “She won’t wake up.”
The next few minutes at Number 10, Clifford Road were chaos. It was all movement, uproar and crying. Stephen, our beloved cousin Christine and I were quickly herded out of the house by Uncle Jim and taken to a neighbor who offered us lemonade and cake to take our minds off of what was happening just next door.
A few days later my parents were all dressed in black and waiting for a car to pick them up. When Christine and I asked where they were going we were told not to concern ourselves with that; they would be back soon and we should just stay home with the babysitter and finish our jigsaw puzzle.