World in My Eyes: The Autobiography

by Richard Blade

  So on February 14, 1987, the Mighty Met said goodbye forever and that little station in Pasadena at 106.7 on the dial became the giant killer.

  Later that year KROQ moved studios from that tiny building on Los Robles to a glistening high rise in Burbank, situated in the hub of all the media buildings. From our ninth floor windows we could gaze out of the control room and see Disney, NBC, Warner Brothers and Dick Clark Productions. We were now physically right in the middle of the entertainment world but spiritually that’s where we had always been because wherever KROQ was, that became the center of the action. As our jingle said ‘K-R-O-Q, it’s totally hip, it’s the only thing happening.’

  The move didn’t make us any better. Battling the old, unreliable gear in those cramped, tired spaces above Uniform Circus had forced us to be creative. It reminded us every day we were the outsiders, the renegade station that didn’t fit in and we used that feeling to fuel our on-air fire.

  Now we had equipment that didn’t fail, printed music logs that were generated by computer rather than hand-written by Larry and Rick, and vending machines in case we were hungry or thirsty. But for everything that was gained we lost the thing that was most vital to KROQ and had distinguished us from everyone else in radio, our freedom.

  Our new general manager called a jock meeting and told us that as of that day forward all “jock choices” were gone. No longer could we bring in a record we had found or been turned onto and just play it on the air and discover it together with our listeners. Now it would be the sole responsibility of the music director to determine what made our playlist. If somehow we managed to find a song that they had “overlooked” we should give it to the music director to listen to first and then, and only then, they would decide whether or not it should be on the radio.

  I was stunned. Memories of all the songs that my father had sent to me that ended up becoming huge hits came flooding back. Did this mean that many great artists that Jed or Freddy or Dusty or I might have championed would now be overlooked and never break big? If this had been the doctrine in ’82 and ’83 would that have meant that groups like Tears for Fears, Pet Shop Boys or The Smiths would have gone unheard? It was sadly very possible.

  Moments that could never have happened on any other station were now gone forever, such as the time Jed was given the new Oingo Boingo album from Danny Elfman himself and then asked the listeners to choose which track he should play first. They had to decide after he dropped the needle on each cut one by one and let just five seconds of music play before he lifted the tonearm from the vinyl and put it down in the middle of the next track. It was crazy, unprofessional and brilliant. You just had to keep listening to find out what would be chosen.

  Our new GM continued with his announcements. He put on a song, New Order’s “Blue Monday,” the biggest selling twelve-inch single in history, and let the opening drum beats that we all knew so well play for twenty seconds. Then he stopped the track.

  “That’s what we don’t want to play. We’re no longer looking to be a radio station that’s known for electronic dance music. KROQ is going in a rock direction. We want to put guitars ahead of synthesizers.”

  I was sick to my stomach. We had never differentiated guitars from synths before. For us there was just good music and bad music. Turn on my show and you would be as likely to hear The Alarm, Simple Minds, U2 or Midnight Oil as you would Gary Numan, Depeche Mode, Ultravox or OMD. We had a fight on our hands that we probably couldn’t win but I knew that a number of us would rally and do everything we could to keep the original KROQ flag flying.

  It was a tough battle and we all tried to not let it affect our sound on-air. We remained as irreverent and unpredictable as possible, but with my music freedom stifled I needed help and thought that taking the show a little more off-center might work. Hoping to get that vibe, our surf reporter, and the host of Loveline, the Poorman, joined me as my partner on the morning show.

  The two of us made a strange pair, the Englishman known for his music choices and the California beachbum famous for farting into the microphone but the audience loved it. To the listener tuning in it seemed like scripted comedy that “Blade and the Poorman” were always irritated with each other. But we were a real life odd couple and unfortunately that was the truth both on the air and off.

  When we weren’t doing the show we never saw each other socially or hung out, and the pretaped ‘bits’ that I would put together in the production room for the next day’s show usually didn’t go as planned because we had not spent any time together going over just how they should work. He was also perpetually late and would often come barging into the studio thirty minutes after the program was already underway and unintentionally interrupt a phone call or interview I was doing.

  Just as I was thinking things couldn’t get much worse I received the news that Rick Carroll had been admitted to a hospital in west LA and was not expected to recover. I rushed over that afternoon and visited with him as he lay there. He was very sick but totally responsive and happy to get a visitor. We talked for about an hour and I asked if he needed anything. It was devastating to see him that way. I came back again the next day and we talked about music and the state of radio.

  I stopped as I was leaving and turned to Rick, “Thank you, man. It all started for me with what you created, Rick. Without you things would have been very different not just for me but for everyone who grew up with KROQ. Who knows what music would be like today if you hadn’t been there.”

  Rick forced a weak smile.

  “I’ll be back tomorrow, boss,” I said as I left.

  I never saw Rick again. One of his greatest friends, a true music maven, Mike Jacobs, called and told me that Rick Carroll had passed away peacefully in his hospital bed from AIDS-related pneumonia.

  As soon as I found out that terrible news I went on the air and talked tearfully about Rick, what he had meant to music, to radio, to the listeners and to me. Of how he had pushed all of us to be better and how, the next time we heard a song from Duran Duran, The Cure or Sting, to ask ourselves where did we hear them first and where would the artists themselves be without the brilliance of Rick Carroll?

  I know the song was written about Ritchie Valens, Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper, but for me Don McLean’s words equally apply to July 10, 1989 as ‘the day the music died.’

  By the end of the summer of 1989 I was done. Rick was gone and I was unhappy doing the morning show I once loved and cherished. I kept thinking back to those early days, seven years before, when I would race up the metal stairs at the back of the KROQ building with a satchel full of new music, impatient to get on the air and share those unheard records with my listeners.

  A vacancy came up for middays and the management, knowing how discontent I had become, asked if I wanted to take it. I didn’t have to think twice. Now I could have a normal night’s sleep and roll into the station at nine thirty ready for a ten o’clock start. I said yes and left the show.

  Just a few months later the Poorman was taken off the breakfast show and replaced by Kevin and Bean who started a new era for the morning program on January 2, 1990. With their arrival the eighties on KROQ officially ended. The big hair, checkerboard Vans, vibrant colors and free sex of the previous decade disappeared and was replaced by plaid shirts, torn jeans, grunge music and the increasing fear of AIDS. I can’t help but feel that Kevin and Bean got the raw end of that deal.

  CEREMONY

  The late eighties might have been a confusing, upsetting time at KROQ but off the air things were different and between late 1987 and the end of 1988 four major things happened that changed my life from there on out.

  The first may seem minor but to me it was a revelation. I was now living with my girlfriend, Karen Scott, and she brought up the idea of getting a dog. I wasn’t sure at first; I liked dogs but I’d had no real experience with them. My parents didn’t want to have an animal in the house when I was a kid so despite my fervent pleas the only pet they let me have was
a bunny which I promptly named Thumper. I loved little Thumper but you don’t take rabbits for a walk so my animal bonding was limited to carrots and scratches behind her long, black ears.

  Karen promised that she had the time to take care of everything so I said to go ahead, she had free rein to get whatever dog she wanted, I didn’t really care. She ordered one from a breeder (which I would never do again – repeat after me, R-E-S-C-U-E) and four weeks later a tiny little American Eskimo fluffball arrived.

  She was so sweet, so little and within days, so sick. We rushed her to the vet who said she had some kind of digestive problem that at her young age could be fatal. We called the breeder who tried to blame us for feeding her the wrong food but we explained that the only thing we had given her was the kibble that had been sent with the little puppy, a two week supply, and we’d only had her five days.

  The breeder coldly stated there were no refunds but if we had to put her to sleep we should send a letter from the vet saying they had euthanized her and they’d see about giving us a discount on another dog. They talked as if they were simply replacing a defective tire on a car, not dealing with the life of a helpless living creature.

  The poor tiny pup lay on her side, too weak to stand and hadn’t eaten for two days. There were specks of blood around her butt and in her urine. She was dying.

  I lay next to her on the cold kitchen floor and rubbed her. I held the kibble to her mouth but she wouldn’t take it. We soaked it in warm water to make it soft but she still wouldn’t eat. My heart began to break. Karen was distraught as well and cried as she called the vet’s office to make an appointment to have this little baby dog put to sleep the next day.

  We could see how uncomfortable she was and didn’t want to move her unnecessarily so rather than leave her alone we brought our chairs into the kitchen and ate our dinner on our laps as she shook and trembled at our feet.

  Karen was putting everything away and I was back on the floor saying goodbye to this innocent little puppy when I had a thought.

  “Can you give me some of the chicken?” I asked Karen.

  “For the dog? You think that’s a good idea? She’s meant to be on the controlled puppy food,” said Karen.

  “We’re putting her down tomorrow; it can’t hurt. And she probably won’t eat it anyway. Just a small piece.”

  Karen handed me some chicken and I tore off thin shreds and held it gently to her tiny brown nose. She sniffed it twice then opened her mouth just a little, put out her tongue and swallowed the chicken.

  “She’s eating it,” I whispered to Karen. I wanted to shout in excitement but I didn’t want to scare the puppy.

  She took another piece then another. I would have fed her all night but Karen was the voice of reason, “Not too much. Don’t make her sick. We know her stomach is bad.”

  I knew that what Karen was saying was right so we stopped feeding her and just knelt down and stroked her. She tried to raise her head and look at us but she was too weak so she just lay there, enjoying the love.

  “She looks like a little angel,” said Karen.

  “She does,” I said “and that’s what we should call her, Angel.”

  Mum and Angel, January 1988

  “Honey, we can’t give her a name. Not if we’re taking her to the vet tomorrow to…” Karen’s voice trailed off as she burst into tears.

  “If she’s eating, she can make it.” I put my lips next to Angel’s ear and whispered, “I promise you’ll have a wonderful life, little Angel. All you have to do is be strong.”

  The next day she ate three times and by that night she could stand by herself. We did take her in to the vet but happily not to be put to sleep; instead it was to give her a series of medications to clear out the parasites she had picked up at that horrendous puppy mill.

  From that day on my given charity became animal rescue organizations and trying to convince people to adopt, not buy, their pets.

  Angel became a huge part of our lives and when I told Mum that we had a dog she became a little nervous about coming over and staying with me which she had done for two months every year ever since dad had died.

  “What if she doesn’t like me and bites me?” she worried.

  “Angel won’t bite you,” I promised, “but she might lick you to death.”

  When Mum arrived that Christmas she fell instantly in love with that little dog and it thrilled me to see the two of them playing together constantly.

  At the beginning of 1988 I decided it was time to go back to school. I’d always loved history and I’ll talk endlessly with anyone about the injustice of the Zulu wars, how the roots of the unrest in the Middle East were caused by World War I and Rome’s century-long battle with Carthage, but I chose to study American history and I had a special reason for that, I wanted to become an American citizen.

  I’d been a permanent resident – a green card holder – for more than a decade but now I figured it was time to really become a part of the country that had been so good to me and that I called home. As part of the requirements to become a US citizen you have to take an exam on US history so for six weeks I took a comprehensive class at LA’s Valley College.

  I wrote extensive notes, asked questions, read and re-read the textbooks and finally figured I had it all down. I knew how many branches of government there are (three), how many amendments there were to the constitution (26 were ratified by 1988), and all the Presidents, their terms and key dates in the continuing history of the United States of America.

  My papers were submitted and approved, my appointment made and off I went to the Federal Building in Los Angeles.

  I was nervous walking inside as memories came flooding back of my experiences there in December of 1976 but this time it was different. I was here, I was legal, and even if I failed the exam I’d still have my green card. But I was sweating a little when I stood at the window and was given the exam paper. I had to get a least six out of ten correct. I knew they were multiple choice so I had a one-in-four shot, but had I studied enough? All I could do was give it my best.

  I turned the paper over and looked at question one. I was shocked.

  Why does the flag have fifty stars?

  One for each state

  One for each Senator

  One for each amendment

  One for each original colony

  Seriously? That was the question? I answered and moved on to question two:

  When do we celebrate Independence Day?

  January 1

  April 15

  July 4

  Second Tuesday in November

  So here I am equipped to answer questions on the Louisiana Purchase (1803), the second British/American War (1812) and the Alamo (1836) and I’m being asked about July 4? I felt like requesting a harder test paper but I shut up and marked down the remaining eight finishing with:

  If the elected President can no longer serve, who then becomes President?

  The Speaker of the House

  The Vice President

  The Chief Justice

  The Postmaster General

  I’m not sure if I can recall my final score on the test, Oh yes I do– TEN! I think that if I’d missed even one I would have surrendered my green card there and then and left the country in disgrace.

  With the exam out of the way a second appointment was made for the swearing-in ceremony. This was held in the Convention Center in downtown LA and scheduled for November 30, 1988. It was quite spectacular and filled with emotion. More than 4,000 people were crammed into the massive room which featured two huge video screens playing Lee Greenwood’s ‘Proud to be an American”. As the Stars and Stripes fluttered in the wind and eagles soared into the firmament it was hard not to be moved, especially for a kid coming from a little town in England.

  With 1988 being a year of changes my next goal was to get back into SCUBA diving. Although I had certifications with BSAC through the RAF, I wanted to brush up on my skills so I convinced Karen to join me and w
e both took a PADI diving course.

  Having gone through my initial dive training with the military this was a piece of cake. We were presented with no nightmare scenarios where the instructor would swim up behind you, turn off your air and rip off your mask, instead it was all real world situations involving buoyancy, equalization and breath control. I loved it.

  Karen and I immediately continued on and took our advanced course, but that wasn’t enough for me. I took a rescue diver course with the guy who wrote the book on it, Dennis Graver, and then persuaded Karen to let me go to the Florida Keys for ten days and study to become a Divemaster.

  I realized how much I had missed the ocean and I remembered that boy in Torquay who made his own wetsuits and dreamed that one day he’d be diving in warm, clear water. I made a promise to myself that eventually this was what I’d do, quit the business and move somewhere to teach diving. There would be no money in it; it’s not a lucrative enterprise. In fact there’s a long-standing joke that the way you end up with a million dollars teaching diving is by starting with two million, but money isn’t everything. My father had shown me that. I’d seen the future in that cold mortuary and it is inescapable, so we have to live every day, enjoy our lives and not just chase the almighty dollar.

  When I returned from Florida Karen asked how had been.

  “Great.” I replied. “I signed up for an Instructor Development Course.”

  For the next eighteen months every spare moment I had, and every vacation I took was spent diving as I ramped up my studies and immersed myself completing technical courses in Santa Monica, Hawaii, Grand Cayman and the Great Barrier Reef.

  PADI offered a professional pathway so I started to climb that ladder, one rung at a time to the top. First I passed my IDC exams and received an Instructor ranking, then it was on to become a Master SCUBA Diver Trainer with specialties in deep diving, underwater navigation and boat diving. Next I enrolled in a series of medical courses and was certified as a Medic First Aid Instructor, then an IDC Staff Instructor which allowed me to help certify future instructors and finally on to becoming a Master Instructor. I looked at my diplomas and my certification cards and knew that they held a gateway to an opportunity that would be waiting for me one day.