Dad grinned, “The letter with it says it comes out next month. They sent you an advance copy. I thought you might like it as they are from Scandinavia.”
I looked at the twelve-inch from Polar Records and read the title, “Dancing Queen.”
I said, “Hopefully it lives up to its name!”
I played it that night at Circle Disco while Mum and Dad danced the bump on the floor. It was an immediate hit with the crowd and that night—and for the next five months—I must have played it every hour.
The next day Zed came over to my apartment to meet Mum and Dad. While he was there he handed me a small box with a dozen cassettes inside. “Could you make copies of the new Abba song on these? All the DJs want to play it but it’s not in the shops yet.”
It was a treat having Mum and Dad in Copenhagen. I was able to discover the city all over again as I saw it anew through their eyes. We explored Tivoli Gardens, which is like taking Central Park and adding roller coasters, we rode the ferry across the Oresund to Malmo in Sweden and took photographs together at the statue of The Little Mermaid in Copenhagen harbor. And every night they would come to Circle Club to dance into the early morning hours.
On their final day we went for a late breakfast and I told my parents my decision that I was going to America.
“When?” they wanted to know.
“I’m not sure, but this year.”
“Where in America?”
“Maybe California?” I said.
They asked if I knew anyone there. I shook my head.
“What will you do?”
I knew the answer to that one, “DJ.”
I took out an envelope and gave it to Dad. “I hope you don’t mind taking this with you. It’s £500, I changed it at the bank. When I work out when I’m going to America I’d like you to buy my ticket for me because I’ll be flying from London.”
“So you’ll come home first?” asked Mum.
I grinned at my lovely mother, “Of course I will.”
It was Dad’s turn to smile, “Well that makes me feel better.”
I got in my car and had them follow me about sixty miles to Odense. They were heading down to France and still had two weeks of vacation ahead of them.
We exchanged tearful hugs goodbye at the side of the road and I watched their Fiat 124 motor west towards Jutland. I thought then and still think to this day how blessed I was to have those two as my parents. They taught me to love people and to love music, and six years later, my father would give me one more, final gift that would forever influence the way I lived my life. But that was in a distant future and I still had a hectic present to cope with.
For my final two weeks in Copenhagen it seemed that every time I went to the beach Taxi would show up and each time she made damn sure she looked hotter and hotter. But I did a gut check and forced myself not to be weak.
As the month came to a close I hit the beach one last time and sure enough Taxi was there along with Zed and Baba, but this time she looked different. She’d dyed her hair graphite-black to match the tight bikini that clung to every curve of her incredible body. The hair color didn’t look great on her, but I wasn’t going to tell her that, I’d already done enough damage. Baba positioned the towels to make sure that Taxi was lying next to me on the sand.
Taxi looked at me and said softly, “You’re leaving tomorrow.”
I nodded, “Yup.”
She grabbed my hand and whispered, “I’m sorry if I hurt you coming here.”
I was shocked at her unnecessary apology. It took me a moment to process it and reply. “You didn’t hurt me, it’s okay.”
I realized I had a tear in my eye. This beautiful girl was something else; rather than hate me which would have been the easy thing to do after all that had happened, she was blaming herself for everything that had gone down. Her only fault was trying to give our love affair a second chance.
For a split second I thought about my choices in life and that maybe . . . No. I stood up and said I had to leave to get my things packed. I bid farewell to Zed and Baba and then finally to Taxi.
“You’re a very special person, Taxi. Don’t ever let anyone tell you anything else. I truly hope you have a wonderful life.”
As I walked away across the warm sand of Amager beach I knew it would be the last time I would see her.
I write this with a smile as I know how things turned out for this lovesick girl. Less than two weeks after I left she returned to Austria and her modeling career. Several years later she fell in love again, got married and had children. She continues to have a life filled with love. How did I get this information? Courtesy of Mark Zuckerberg who wasn’t even born when Taxi followed me across the length of Europe. Almost forty years to the day that I left Taxi on that beach in Copenhagen a message appeared on my Facebook page. It was from Romy.
It read: “Hi, I just watched a video of you on YouTube. You are still a very attractive boy, enthusiastic and energetic like ever. Are you deeply satisfied with your life? I want to congratulate you, you have achieved all your dreams and goals you had when you were 24. You will always be in my mind as my first great love, God bless you Richard!”
I clicked on Taxi’s name and Romy’s page appeared showing her in the arms of her family. I was thrilled for her and smiled from ear to ear as I saw the black hair was long gone and she had gone back to being that beautiful platinum blond.
NOTHING TO FEAR
(BUT FEAR ITSELF)
I had three months left in Denmark and I made it my mission to learn as much as I could about America.
Playboy Club, Varde, Denmark – September 1976
At night I was spinning at The Playboy Club in Varde, during the day I was at the local library getting details on Miami, New York, San Francisco and Los Angeles. I kept coming back to LA.
New York was too cold, and at that time, way too violent as made known worldwide in movies such as Charles Bronson’s Death Wish. Miami seemed too undeveloped and San Francisco damp and foggy. LA appeared to have it all, sunshine, blue skies and surf. It also had more than fifty radio stations and Hollywood. I guess I knew what city was calling my name.
My contracts with IDEA were up for renewal at the end of October so that forced my timeframe. I got in touch with Alan and told him I was going to America to try and make it there. He wished me well and made me promise I’d call him first if I returned to Europe. He told me to watch the mail—he was going to send me something.
Sure enough, three days later an envelope arrived at the club with a cassette inside. It was a tape Alan had in his archives from a random radio station in New Mexico that someone had recorded for him. Every night for the next six weeks as I drove back and forth to my gigs I would listen to this cassette over and over. This is what American radio sounds like! I thought as I tried to copy the DJ’s inflections as he read a live commercial for Heinz ketchup between songs. I practiced and practiced until I was sure I could sell condiments as well as the guy on the air.
I knew I was done with Denmark at the end of October but I had to decide exactly when to go to the US. I sat down with a calendar and circled a date. This was the day I’d leave London for California. I wrote to my father and asked him to buy me a ticket for Tuesday, November 16, 1976. As I dropped the letter in the post box on the main street of Varde I knew I had put the wheels in motion and I was committed to trying to find a future in America.
This time back at number 22, Torquay felt different. I had returned with a purpose rather than finding myself there between gigs. Things had to be gotten ready for my trip to the USA and I was busy putting it together.
My ticket arrived in the mail from TWA and with it came the booklet “TWA’s Guide To Los Angeles.” I have never forgotten the opening words of that comprehensive little pamphlet; “In Los Angeles you need a car like you need your liver”! It went on to describe how spread out LA is and with a noticeable lack of good public transport available the only way to get around was a rental car. I
t was back to the travel agent for me!
In 1976 the only way to confirm something overseas was either by writing a letter and sending a money order, hoping it got to the right person at the correct destination or by having a travel agent take care of the details and book it for you. For something as essential as my liver I decided that using the latter would be the smart choice. The clock was ticking rapidly to my leaving home when fate decided to test my resolve not once, but two times.
With just one week to go before I was scheduled to depart a letter arrived for me from Sussex. It was from UBN, United Biscuit Network. As silly as that name seems, UBN was well respected and looked upon as a gateway to radio opportunities in Great Britain.
Headquartered in Osterley, just outside of London, UBN broadcast on a landline from professional studios to five factories up and down the country entertaining their workers to take their mind off the drudgery of laboring away packaging biscuits. I had tried to get on to UBN for three years and now, just when I was getting ready to leave, I found myself clutching a letter asking me to come up to Hounslow to meet with their program controllers to discuss a presenter position.
Finally someone liked one of my audition tapes but why now of all times? There had to have been something special about that particular demo tape because three days later I received a second inquiry letter from Swansea Sound, a “real” radio station in South Wales, who also wanted to meet with me. They had only been granted their license and started broadcasting two years before and were now looking to boost their on-air lineup.
This was what I had wanted for so long and finally I was holding in my hand two chances to break into the seemingly closed shop that was British radio. Three months previously I would have given my left arm to have had a shot like this but now, strangely, I found myself drawn to the unknown horizons of America rather than taking a radio gig in the UK. After all, in England we all knew winter was coming while LA held the promise of an endless summer and hadn’t I always wanted to live somewhere sunny, ever since making that list as a ten-year-old boy?
I showed the letters to Mike and John over a pint at the Devon Dumpling and they both thought I was crazy to pass on the potential offers.
“Do it, Dick,” said Mike. “Why risk going to America? They’re crazy with their guns over there and you don’t know anyone and you’ll probably spend all your money and it won’t work out. If you stay here you’ll have a job for sure and be closer to home.”
Ironically Mike’s words simply reinforced my desire to take my chances in the California sunshine. It seemed to be a place that was full of opportunities and potential, plus, in addition to the promise I had made to myself nearly two years before on that American military base in Bardufoss, I had grown up with the myth of Southern California from watching The Monkees on TV and playing songs by The Beach Boys who sang of distant far-off places like Malibu, Redondo and Doheny. But if everyone was telling me no . . .?
I think Dad sensed my uncertainty and he made an excuse to Mum to drive me into town. We parked along the seafront and the two of us walked for a while along the promenade to the spot where he had taught me to swim all those years ago.
“Just before you were born I was offered two jobs abroad,” Dad said. “One was in Canada and one in Australia. Both countries really needed teachers at the time, and I was asked if I would take over the position of headmaster at schools either in Sydney and Vancouver. I would have my choice. They were going to pay for everything; sending the family there, a house for the first year and a big cash incentive up-front to help with the relocation.”
He looked out over Torbay but his mind was thousands of miles away; he wasn’t seeing the still waters in front of him, he was gazing at a different shoreline.
“Your Mum would have none of it. She wouldn’t leave Bristol. I wanted to go so badly. But I loved her and Stephen so much and you, you were growing in her tummy, so I couldn’t leave.”
He took a deep breath and looked me square in the eyes as he continued to confide in me, “That’s my one regret, not insisting that we all go. I should have put my foot down and had us all move there as a family. That’s what I did a few years later and that’s how we ended up here in Torquay.”
I’d never seen Dad this open, this vulnerable. He’d always been such a giant to me—quiet, strong, steadfast.
“This country is going to hell right now. Inflation is what, seventeen percent? When my pupils leave school they are struggling to find jobs that don’t exist and end up on the dole, and with the riots that are happening up and down England it’s pulling everything and everyone down.”
He put his hand on my shoulder.
“You’re a lot like me, my son. But you have the chance to do what I couldn’t. This has to be your choice, not someone else’s. Just remember, as you get older, it’s not what you attempted that you regret it’s what you didn’t attempt. You’ve got nothing to fear from trying something new. If I could do it again I know what my choice would be.”
He smiled to change the mood. “Come on. Let’s walk a little.”
With those words spoken that afternoon, any remaining doubts were dispelled from my mind.
I wrote two identical letters to the program controllers at both Swansea Sound and UBN thanking them for their interest but letting them know I was leaving the country to DJ (again I think I may have forgotten to include that I didn’t actually have a job yet!) and that I would be in contact with them if I were to return to the British Isles.
Two days later everyone at number 22 was awake before the first rays of dawn to be certain that I’d make my flight to Los Angeles. Mum whipped up a plate of scrambled eggs to tide me over for my journey, and then held me tight as she said her tearful goodbyes. She stayed behind as my father drove me to Newton Abbott railway station in time to catch the London-bound train.
We stood together on the platform as the train appeared through the early morning fog and pulled to a stop in a billowing cloud of steam and coal dust. Dad gave me a final hug.
“Your mother was too upset to come. I know you did it in Europe and in Spain, but America might be different, my son. It’s a big country. They don’t mess around there. I think it’s great that you are going, and what you are trying to do, but if you need to come back, there will be no shame in it, we’re here.”
I looked into his bright blue eyes and saw nothing but love and encouragement. “Thanks, Dad. You’re always there for me, aren’t you? The next time we see each other you’ll be visiting me in Los Angeles.”
I grabbed my suitcase and climbed the two stairs onto the train. I lowered the window of my second-class carriage and leaned out as the green and grey Pullman began its eastbound journey to Paddington station, 200 miles away. Dad watched me and gave me a thumbs-up and a grin. It was a genuine smile and in that moment I could feel the excitement he had for me. It meant so much as I knew right then that I wasn’t going alone, I had him with me.
With my father’s blessing I left England with one suitcase, $450 and a round-trip air ticket that I was determined to only use one half of.
YOUNG AMERICANS
I was unprepared for what I was seeing. The dazzling glow below me stretched forever. The 747 had been descending for some time but the sea of red, orange and white lights showed no signs of letting up, if anything, they were getting brighter. I tried to do the calculation in my head, if our airspeed was averaging 200 miles an hour and we’d been on the descent path for more than fifteen minutes that meant we’d already flown over fifty miles of buildings and freeways and lights. Was that even possible? Just how big was Los Angeles anyway?
We touched down at 7:20pm on November 16, 1976. As I walked towards customs and immigration a huge poster of Mayor Tom Bradley welcomed me to “Los Angeles, The City of Angels.” I was actually here; I was in America for the first time. Like millions of hopefuls before me I had come to seek my fortune and build a new life. I carried with me a backpack, a suitcase, a return ticket on TWA dep
arting December 15 and a headful of dreams. I had less than thirty days and $450 to build a base here or to return to Torquay with my tail between my legs.
I arrived at my hotel in Hollywood considerably poorer. Lesson one learned, taxis aren’t cheap and LA is so spread out. Hollywood looked close to LAX on the map but I quickly grasped the fact that in Southern California distances aren’t measured in miles, they’re measured in time. Ask any local a question like, “How far is downtown LA from Disneyland?” and they won’t say “twenty-seven miles.” Instead they’ll come back with, “Well, if you leave now it’s about an hour, if you wait much longer it’ll be more like ninety minutes or so.” According to Einstein, time and space are constants, but then again Einstein was never forced to commute on the freeways of Los Angeles.
My nut was reduced to $427 as I got out of the yellow cab to check into my hotel, the Hollywood Studio Apartments. It had sounded so perfect back home when I had read those words in the TWA booklet. However it failed to explain that studio in America meant a small room; I had thought that the building had been given its prestigious title after being constructed for the sole purpose of serving the Hollywood Studios.
I imagined getting up in the morning and over breakfast running into Robert Redford, Clint Eastwood or Stanley Kubrick. We would share small talk about the difference between shooting in 35mm or 70mm and debate as to why no one had ever made a great filmed version of Othello. Instead, the Hollywood Studio Apartments on North Whitley, just a half block from Hollywood Boulevard itself, was a run-down, roach-infested dive whose main clients were ladies of the night who picked up most of their business from disillusioned tourists who were saddened by the total lack of glitz and glamour that awaited them on that boulevard of broken dreams.
It was almost midnight when I was given the key to my tiny room on the sixth floor. It seemed clean enough and it had a shower so in many ways it was better than a lot of places I’d stayed in Europe. What I wasn’t prepared for were the screams and yells coming from the street below all night long and the persistent wailing of police sirens. What the fuck had I gotten myself into? I collapsed onto the bed and courtesy of jet-lag fell asleep on top of the covers with all my clothes on.
World in My Eyes: The Autobiography Page 14