Taxi was impressed, “Very nice. Apartments like this are very hard to find in the city.” How hard I’ll never know because I reached forward, pulled her to me and kissed her.
Publicity shots with Taxi – March 1976, Vienna
The next morning we had breakfast at a little kaffeehaus just below my centrally located apartment. Taxi told me her story. She had just turned twenty and was a working model in Vienna. Her real name was Romy but everyone called her Taxi because she was born in the back of a speeding cab as her mother was being rushed to hospital. Her modeling name was Tarquin. She laughed that she had three names and asked what I wanted to call her.
I grinned and said Leibling which means cutie. She giggled and said “You do speak German!” To which I replied, “Just the important words,” which earned me a good-hearted slap. From that moment on there was no doubt that we would be together for my entire time in Austria.
We explored the world-class museums and art galleries of Vienna and drove to the banks of the legendary Blue Danube River where we picnicked and skimmed pebbles over the surface of the water. We shared each other’s dreams and hopes and time slipped through our fingers like water spilling over a dam.
Taxi’s photographer offered to shoot new promo pictures for me and we headed into his studio. We shot most of the day and I had Taxi appear in several of the shots. They became very popular handouts to the club regulars who would come up to the DJ booth asking for autographs.
With just a week to go in Vienna the manager of Magic approached me and asked if I would continue on at the club. He’d already spoken to Alan Lawrie and told him he’d like me to stay through May. Alan, fearing that I might turn on him as I had on Tor when he insisted on my returning to Tonsberg, said he could make it happen but it was my decision. I told the manager I was so up for the extra two months and asked if I could use his phone to call my girlfriend.
In just less than a month I had made a mark in Vienna. The club was sold out five nights a week, the record companies whose main offices were just down the street from my apartment on Mariahilfer Strasse would come to Magic to present me with all the latest new releases to premiere plus I was dating the hottest girl in the city. How could it get any better? By saying yes to a simple offer.
Wednesdays got a good, early crowd of regulars who were eager to get a jump-start on their partying and shake off the mid-week blues. I was in the DJ booth when a man in his late thirties approached me. He asked if I had ever thought about doing any radio. I said yes, of course I had. He continued that he was with an Austrian radio station and was wondering if I would like to try doing a rock show on the radio. It would be one hour, once a week in English and I would play all the hottest rock bands around like Queen, Roxy Music, Slade and Rod Stewart. It would be on Friday nights from six until seven and then I could head over to Magic for my regular DJ show. I’m sure my immediate handshake answered his question.
That Friday night doing my first show on one of Austria’s national radio stations was terrifying. I felt like everyone in the country was tuned in and listening and I was scared stiff that I would screw up. Plus I had zero control over actually playing the records and I’m a very tactile person. I like to cue the vinyl up, adjust the volume and do the cross fades and starts when I DJ, not let someone else do it for me.
Instead they sat me alone in a voice-over booth with a large glass window facing the engineer and the show’s producer. I had just two buttons to worry about; an on button for my microphone and a “talk-back” button so the engineer could hear me through the soundproof glass for cues and suggestions. I could hear him and the outgoing mix of the broadcast in my headphones. I put together a list of music and we were on the air.
It was the fastest sixty minutes of my life. My nerves were playing up and I kept thinking I had to go to the bathroom but I didn’t want to leave the booth and risk missing the end of a song. And I was continuously second-guessing myself; there was that little voice in the back of my mind that repeated over and over in a continuous loop “Maybe there’s a reason you’re not on the radio. You’re just not good enough.” But somehow I got through it and after the show was congratulated by both the programmer and engineer and invited to do it again the next week.
On my trusty Vauxhall Viva
Outside of Magic disco
Back at Magic an hour later I was amazed that person after person lined up at the DJ booth to say hello and tell me that they had listened to my rock show on the radio. More people had heard me DJ in just sixty minutes than in the previous four years of spinning in England and Europe. I knew there and then, on that Friday night in Vienna, that my dream of radio was not just a far-fetched goal; it was something I had to make reality at all costs.
Taxi took me out for lunch on my birthday. I had a week left in Vienna before my three months were over and I was set to return to Denmark for the summer. We had talked about my leaving but she didn’t think I was actually going to go. After all, I would not only be leaving her but also Magic and the radio.
I explained that I had come to a realization. Here I was just a novelty doing a one-hour show on a German language radio station, that “foreigner with a cute accent.” It wasn’t mean, it was just a fact. To make it on the radio, to really make it, I had to be in a country where English, my native language, was also the native language of the listener. I wrote out a list on a napkin.
“These are the places I can go. I have to choose one,” I said as I slipped her the napkin. It read:
America
Canada
Australia & New Zealand
South Africa
“What about England?” Taxi asked.
“No. I’m not going back there.”
“But it’s your home?” she said.
“It was. But I can’t go back. There doesn’t seem to be any drive or excitement there; not in the country or in the people. “It’s . . .” I struggled for the word, “grey, dreary. I think in German you say trostlos. Everyone gets beaten down by the weather and they don’t seem to even want to try. Have you seen The Wizard of Oz?”
Taxi nodded.
“It’s like that. You know how the beginning of the movie is black and white and then turns to color? That’s how I feel leaving England. England is black and white then you leave and the world explodes into Technicolor. And that’s what I want. I don’t think that’s so wrong, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” she agreed. “So where will you go? Which country?”
I laughed. “I know this is going to sound nuts but I was freezing my buns off one day in Norway and I saw this movie that was shot in California and it was hot and sunny and it made me want to go there. So I think maybe America.”
“Because of a film?” she asked.
I smiled and nodded. There was a long pause, then she asked that question I had prayed wasn’t coming. It was just three words but I knew the answer would be something she didn’t want to hear.
“Can I come?”
The reply to that should have been simple and honest—No—but I couldn’t be that brutal. I struggled to find the words.
“It would be great but . . . but I don’t know how it’ll work out. We’ll stay in touch and see if we can make it happen.”
Taxi slumped a little in her chair. She had cut through my babble and deciphered the real meaning; she had heard no and realized I was saying goodbye!
Our remaining week together was great. We laughed, explored the city together and made love as if our conversation had never happened. On Monday May 31, 1976 Taxi was there to help me empty my apartment and load up my car. She even brought me pastries for the twenty-hour drive back across Europe and into Denmark.
We hugged, kissed and said our tearful goodbyes. Taxi stood there waving as I pulled away and left her and Vienna behind as I began my drive out of the city to start the long journey north.
NEVER CAN SAY GOODBYE
It was another long haul, almost 1,000 miles, heading west along the ba
nks of the Danube through Switzerland and Germany before entering Scandinavia. I could have shaved more than 200 miles off the trip had I been able to go north but unfortunately that direction would have taken me through Czechoslovakia which was part of the USSR and a shortcut through Soviet territory in the spring of 1976 would have ended with me heading for a Siberian gulag, so instead I stayed on the roads that ran through NATO countries and remained free to rock.
Darkness was falling and the street lights were on as I arrived in Copenhagen. I drove through the busy streets packed with tired commuters anxiously heading home and made my way to Zed and Baba’s.
I spent the night at their apartment, playing cards and listening to another Brit, Roger Keisha, strumming guitar as he contemplated quitting the world of DJing to become a professional musician. Roger was staying in the room I normally slept in so Baba made a bed for me on their couch, but I wasn’t complaining because they’d put me up several times without any notice and asked for nothing but friendship in return.
That morning, after a very welcome homemade English breakfast, I headed out and a little over an hour later I was in Helsingor. It felt good to be back. It was the beginning of June, the sun was out and people celebrated its warmth by flocking to the beaches. This small, coastal town might not have been as exciting as Vienna but its familiar welcome gave me time to relax and plan my trip to America. I was surprised at myself that now I had no doubt as to my destination. It was to be the US of A for sure. Now I just had to work out how to get there and when to go. But my plans were about to be interrupted by the most unexpected event.
I’d been in Helsingor for just three days and had slipped easily into my old ways as I embraced my regular haunts. I’d met up with a couple of girls I’d dated the last time I had been in town, Bitten, who was a pretty, fun-loving regular at Svingelport and Gerd, a tall, gorgeous redhead who was the most easy-going person you could ever meet. I’m glad that it was Gerd that I was with that afternoon.
We were walking together through the town’s central square to see if my friend, Ian Johnson, a.k.a. Dr. Disc, was at home in his apartment, when I noticed something across the fifteenth-century town square.
Denmark, like its sister Scandinavia countries, Sweden, Norway and Finland, is a nation of blonds. Flowing golden hair is the norm, not the exception. But this was not normal blond hair that I had just glimpsed. This was a flash of white, of platinum-blond hair glistening in the sun. I had only seen hair like that once before.
Concerned, I turned to Gerd and said, “I’ve gotta go.” I sprinted across the crowded square towards that hair, towards Taxi.
She saw me coming and a huge smile lit up her face. “I found you,” she said.
My head was spinning. “What are you doing here? Why did you come?”
Taxi reached for my hand. “To be with you, so we can be together again.”
Fuck, she looked beautiful but I was having none of it.
“Come with me,” I said as I half dragged her to the phone booth at the edge of the square.
I pulled out several Danish krone coins and dropped them in the phone and dialed.
“Are you angry?” Taxi asked. I raised my hand to quiet her as Baba answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, sorry to bother you. It’s Dick,” I said into the handset. “Look can I ask you for a big favor? I’m going to put someone on the train to Copenhagen. Could you meet her at the station and get her on a train to Vienna?” I turned to Taxi. “Do you have money?” She nodded.
I continued on the phone to Baba. “I’ll call you back in a few minutes with her train number and what time it arrives. Should be within the next two hours. The girl’s name is Taxi. She has short, white-blond hair. You can’t miss her. Just help her find a connecting train to Vienna if you could. Thanks.”
Taxi tried to make small talk as I led her to Helsingor’s tiny regional train station. I don’t think I said anything back to her. I was a sea of emotions: shock, anger, surprise, sadness.
After today there would be no chance that we would ever get back together which was a shame because she was such a special girl. But this was batshit crazy. She’d come halfway across Europe to a country she’d never been to and full of people who didn’t speak her language to look for me in a town she’d never even heard of until a few days before. And somehow she had pulled it off! My mind was reeling.
I bought the eleven-krone ticket for Taxi and put her on the train. I waited until it left the station and watched as it built up speed and rumbled down the tracks to make sure that she didn’t jump from it like I had seen in many a western. With her safely on her way I called Baba back to let her know the train number and arrival time. Still stunned, I decided to walk to Kronborg castle to sit on its battlements, to collect my thoughts, and go back to the time of Hamlet and clear my head.
My month in Helsingor sped by way too fast and soon it was time to get back on the road again but this time it was just a short journey. I was heading south to one of Copenhagen’s major suburbs, Borgergade, to play at Circle Club. My parents were scheduled to come out and stay with me in the middle of July and I was excited to see them; it had been nearly ten months and I wanted to show them Denmark.
Circle Club was a small disco but had a good urban crowd that liked the funkier tracks I was playing such as The Commodores’ “Brick House,” The Isley Brothers “Live It Up” and Candi Staton’s “Young Hearts Run Free.” The hours were long, and it wasn’t unusual for me not to get back to my apartment until 6am. As a result I would sleep until noon then get up and hit one of Copenhagen’s many beaches like Amager or Bellevue. I was in Copenhagen almost a week before I had the opportunity to visit Zed and Baba and thank them for bailing me out with the “Taxi thing.”
Baba looked surprised when she opened the door and saw me. She ushered me into her front room and said she’d put the kettle on. She came back from the kitchen and sat and talked with me as we waited for the kettle’s whistle.
“I can’t thank you enough,” I told Baba. “I really didn’t know what else to do.”
“It was no problem,” Baba replied. “You know the train station is no distance from here. And she’s so nice.”
I nodded. “She is. But loony, right? I mean coming all that way. Nuts.”
Baba wrinkled her nose. I could see she wasn’t on the same page as me.
“Haven’t you done something like that? Been so in love—”
I interrupted her. “That I would travel a thousand miles to barge in on someone who wasn’t expecting me? No, I can honestly say I haven’t.”
The door opened slightly and Taxi popped her head in.
“Did you want biscuits with the tea?”
I think I froze. Maybe not completely because I do remember looking from Taxi to Baba and back again. For the second time in two months I was gobsmacked.
Baba smiled at Taxi, “Biscuits would be lovely.”
Taxi turned and went back to the kitchen. I could only stare at Baba in disbelief. What the hell was going on?
Baba spoke first. “There were no trains the day she got in. I couldn’t have her wait at the station all night by herself. So I brought her home. And she’s so sweet, no trouble at all. What else could I have done?”
I rubbed my face with my hands. “You could have put her on the train the next day, or the day after, or yesterday! She knew I was coming to Copenhagen after Helsingor, we’d talked about my schedule, she’s just using you.”
“To get to you?” Baba was getting defensive. “No, not true. Zed and I like having Taxi here. We asked her to stay if you must know. It’s got nothing to do with you.”
My brain felt like it was about to explode. Nothing? Then why the hell was she even in Denmark and not home in Austria if it had nothing to do with me? And now I had burdened this great couple, my dear friends, with a potentially psycho ex-girlfriend. I could see the headlines of tomorrow’s Dagbladet reading “Mand og kone myrdet” (Husband and
wife murdered).
At that moment Taxi walked in but instead of wielding a carving knife she carried a tray loaded with tea and biscuits. Baba and I sat in uncomfortable silence as she set the tray on the table.
Taxi turned to Baba and smiled, “Let me know if you need anything else,” and left the room.
Baba looked at me and nodded knowingly, “She’s great.”
Baba could have added “and beautiful and sexy and fun and intelligent” and she would have been right on all counts but it was over; I was not going back there, I’d obviously screwed her up enough already. As soon as I’d finished my cuppa I left without saying one word to Taxi. I figured that was the best way as I didn’t want to find myself losing it and getting into an argument and souring my friendship with Zed and Baba.
Mum and Dad arrived in Denmark the following week. Dad brought a stack of vinyl that the record companies had sent me. Apparently my request to be put on the promo lists had worked and Dad said I was getting at least fifty new albums and twelve-inches every week. And God bless my father, he would open the packages, listen to all the new releases and sort out what he considered the good from the bad. He was my personal music director.
He handed me a package and said “These are all pretty good. The two best are on the top.”
Wouldn’t you know it, this fifty-nine-year-old math teacher was right, he’d picked The Bee Gees’ “You Should Be Dancing,” the song that would convince Robert Stigwood that these three brothers should be given the opportunity to write the songs for a little disco film he was working on with John Travolta, and the other was from Abba.
World in My Eyes: The Autobiography Page 13