Being a huge Bond fan I pushed hard until I got the gig and ended up sitting next to Timothy Dalton for the screening. I was so excited that I couldn’t wait for the film to begin, and when Monty Norman’s “Dum Da Da Dum” theme finally started and the gun-barrel logo appeared on the screen I had to pinch myself to realize that I was really watching a Bond movie sitting next to 007 himself.
However the film didn’t live up to my high expectations and when the lights finally came back on and Dalton, Timothy Dalton, turned to me and said, “So what did you think of it?” all I could come up with was something like “It was in focus the whole time.” Now here I was in-studio facing my long-time friend, Jeffrey Spry, and he was asking the same question. I had to tell him the truth.
“I don’t think it’s right for the station at the moment.”
Boom. Unknown to me that statement made me judge, jury and executioner. And just like that the sentence was passed. Sadly it was the truth. KROQ was struggling to cope with the way music was changing and had deliberately – and in my opinion, mistakenly - pulled away from anything that sounded remotely ’80s. Only a few bands that had emerged during the previous decade were still on the KROQ playlist (outside of my Flashback Lunch) and that list was very rock based.
Apart from Depeche Mode, Duran Duran, New Order and The Cure, the only ’80’s groups that appeared in regular rotation were Red Hot Chili Peppers, Jane’s Addiction, Guns’N’Roses and Nine Inch Nails. There was no place for Felony on that playlist.
“Are you sure? Maybe one play?” pleaded Jeffrey.
“Leave it with me. I’ll make copies and give one to Lewis (our music director) and one to Rodney (Bingenheimer). Maybe they can find a spot for it.”
Jeffrey wasn’t a stupid man. He knew what that meant. He took one more shot.
“How about on your Flashback Lunch?”
“Jeffrey,” I said, “it’s new music. It’s not a Flashback.”
“I know. But I guess I’m a Flashback, right?”
“Yeah,” I was really sad for him, “and I’ll play ‘The Fanatic’ for you tomorrow. People still love that song. And they love you. I’ll give you a shoutout on the air.”
“Okay. I get it. Thanks for taking the time to listen.” He got up from the swivel chair in production and headed for the heavy soundproof door.
I stood up with him. “Maybe you can bring in another song in a few months?” I said hopefully.
Jeffrey shook his head even as he said, “Maybe.”
The rest of our conversation was a blur as I walked him to the elevator. The final glimpse I had of my friend who so loved his brief romance with stardom was as he stepped into the elevator, his scarf trailing behind him. Normally he would have looked back, waved and said something like “See you at the next gig.” But there was none of that today. Jeffrey had already decided where his next gig was going to be. He stood there silently as the elevator doors closed on him.
Was there something I should have said differently? Given him false encouragement perhaps? I’ve asked myself that a thousand times since and I’m asking myself again as I type this. Maybe I could have invited him down to my Friday night gig at The Palace in Hollywood and had him walk on stage with me in front of more than a thousand fans. Would that moment back in the spotlight have changed anything? I don’t know.
Five days later, on March 10, 1992, I was on the phone with Mum. It was my dad’s birthday and I was comforting Mum – and she comforting me – on his loss. It was at that moment that I was interrupted by another call. On the line was Joe Spry, Jeffrey’s brother. He was calling to tell me the tragic news. His brother, my friend, Jeffrey Spry, was dead. He had shot himself the day before, leaving behind his wife, Tamara, and their children.
I offered some meaningless words of consolation and returned to the call with my mother. Somehow I got through the conversation with her and hung up. I clicked on the “On Air” light in the production room so no one could walk in on me and leaned back in the chair. The world was spinning. Had I contributed to this person’s death? Was this the price of ambition? I resolved that day that if ever there was another time that I was put in the position of being able to do something and help a friend who was in dire straits then I would do everything I could to intervene and change the course of events for the better. I didn’t realize I would have the chance to do just that only three years later.
It happened while Kevin and Bean were on vacation. LA’s top-rated morning team was taking a few days off. I loved Kevin and Bean and even though they had replaced me on the KROQ morning show I had no hard feelings towards them.
Listeners would – and continue to – come up to me and say that my morning show was much better than Kevin and Bean’s but in all honesty I have to disagree. Kevin and Bean, in addition to achieving monster ratings, produced amazing talent that sprang from their program including Ralph Garman, Adam Carolla and Jimmy Kimmel. So whenever I would be asked to fill in for Kevin and Bean I was always proud to do so.
With Depeche Mode’s Dave Gahan in studio and assistant Michelle Gonzalez.
The morning of August 17, 1995 started off quietly as most Thursdays do. The excitement of the weekend was still a day away and there wasn’t the frantic feel of the listeners on the phone desperate to get their requests played. Not to say the lines weren’t busy. They were and had been all week.
My assistant, Michelle Gonzalez, was outside the studio in the hallway finding great calls for me to either take live on the air or tape for playback later. I had gotten into the practice of recording everything and thanks to the advent of digital technology and hard drives I was able to edit and playback calls within literally a minute.
I was just starting a classic feature of mine, Bogus Entertainment, where the listener has to guess which one of four showbiz stories I’ve made up to fool them, when Michelle rushed into the studio. She had a caller on the line who claimed to be a paramedic who had just treated Dave Gahan for multiple lacerations on his wrists and had him admitted to the Cedars-Sinai emergency room in critical condition. I dropped into a song and talked with the paramedic off the air. He sounded genuine.
I was a Medic First Aid Instructor, something I picked up while taking my SCUBA diving instructor’s course, and everything this guy said sounded spot on, from where he picked Dave up to how he treated his wounds and how he was transported to the hospital’s ER for treatment.
I was upset and pissed. Dave had been in a downward spiral for the past two years and it didn’t seem like anything had been done to help him. No interventions or rehab. And now he could be about to die. But I had to make sure it was true before saying anything.
I got the number and called Cedars-Sinai. I asked for Emergency and the operator put me through to the admitting desk.
I knew there would be restrictions on the release of information so as soon as my call was answered I led off with, “I think my brother’s just been admitted into your hospital. My name’s Stephen Gahan. His name is Dave Gahan. He’s English. How is he?” I waited while the admission’s nurse pulled his file.
“We don’t have too much right now. It looks like he’s stable. He’s in ICU.”
“I was told he cut his wrists. Is that correct?”
There was a pause as she checked. “Yes. Multiple lacerations on both wrists.”
“Damn,” I said. “It was self-inflicted, right?”
Another pause. “At this moment, that’s how it seems.” Pause. “Everything points to that. We have the admission written up as an attempted suicide. He can’t have any visitors until he clears the ICU. That may be a few hours.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“We hope so. He has lost a lot of blood but he has the best doctors anywhere taking care of him now.”
In Florida with Dave Gahan, Scott Mason and Martin Gore
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6DJdb33a6s
A link to Dave drunk-dialing me twice in one night!
“Okay. Thank
you for your help.” I hung up the phone. I looked at Michelle who’d heard the whole call. I added one word to the conversation. “Shit!”
Dave was a great friend of mine. We’d known each other since 1983 and done many things together. Dave had invited me on the road with Depeche Mode, had me introduce them at a multitude of their live shows, featured me in the band’s movie 101, helped me put together the infamous Wherehouse in-store for the Violator release, flown me and Scott Mason out to Florida to host their press-conference for the Songs of Faith & Devotion album, and even drunk-dialed me dozens of times from around the world when he needed a friend to talk to.
I slipped on my headphones, opened the microphone and faded down the music. I took a deep breath because I realized the implications of what I was about to do; I was going to break the news to the world that one of the most important artists in the history of modern rock and a good friend, had tried to end his own life.
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” I spoke into the mic, “but I just found out something really disturbing. Dave Gahan, lead singer of Depeche Mode, tried to kill himself this morning by slashing his wrists. He was rushed to hospital less than thirty minutes ago. I just spoke with the nurse who admitted him and she thinks he’ll be okay but he’s currently in the intensive care unit. Send out positive thoughts. We are all hoping for the best for him and DMode. Keep it on KROQ and we’ll keep you updated. Here’s “Never Let Me Down” for Dave on K-Rock. Stay strong, my friend.”
I hit play and music flooded the airwaves.
Michelle and I worked the phones. It was all tears and well-wishes. As the song ended I began playing back calls. I did a quick recap of the situation on the air and went into a seminal song by Depeche Mode that deals with suicide, “Blasphemous Rumours.” It was during that track about a 16-year-old girl, bored with life, when the hotline rang.
I had been waiting for its ominous red light to start flashing. It would almost definitely be our program director, Kevin Weatherly, asking why I had deviated from the format. An understandable question as it was the second DM track in a row a little before seven in the morning. I answered with a not-so-cheerful “Good morning”. An unfamiliar voice (at least over the phone) responded.
“Who is this?” asked the voice.
“Who are you calling?” I replied. Occasionally listeners got the hotline number and you did not want to encourage them. This line was strictly for business.
“I’m calling whoever is on the air right now at K- Rock.”
“Well, that would be me.”
“Richard Blade, right?” the voice asked.
“Yup. Who is this?”
He told me his name. I recognized it instantly. I’d met him a number of times, both at the record label and here at the station. He was a diminutive little know-it-all who thought himself superior to everyone. He had the attitude that he was doing you a favor just by breathing the same air that you were. The dweeb continued.
“What the hell have you been saying on the air?”
That was an easy answer. “That Dave Gahan tried to commit suicide. That he’s in ICU at Cedars fighting for his life.”
“That’s bullshit!” the dweeb yelled down the phone. “Stop saying that immediately. You need to go on the air right now and take it back.”
“That’s not going to happen.” I was getting pissed. A record company minion was not going to dictate to me, especially not at a moment like this. “I’m going to play Depeche Mode all morning until everybody knows.”
“I’m going to get you fired for spreading lies.”
“Do it. I’m not going to stop. Hold on.” I placed him on hold and clicked the mic live on air. I leant forward and talked into it, knowing that he would hear every word while he was on hold.
I continued with the story of Dave’s attempted suicide and as I talked a thought crossed my mind of something that had happened the previous year to a huge artist on the same label that this self-centered turd worked with. And then I remembered Jeffrey Spry and my complete inability to save him. It was a perfect storm of guilt, retribution and an insider’s knowledge that swept over me. I decided to run with it, knowing that this quite possibly might be my last show ever on any radio station on the planet if I was wrong, but if I was right then I had the chance to help save Dave.
“I just got a call from one of the big wigs at the record label that works with Depeche Mode.” I said. “He wants me to stop talking about Dave’s suicide attempt. He doesn’t want me to tell you that he slashed his wrists and he’s in intensive care and that the hospital still doesn’t know if he’ll pull through. I know what he wants to do. He wants to hush it all up and make it seem like an accident. That way he doesn’t have to worry about Dave getting clean or getting mad and then maybe leaving the label.”
I could imagine the record geek screaming down the phone as my voice played to him on hold.
“He is more worried about collecting Depeche Mode’s publishing money than saving Dave’s life. Just over a year ago another artist had an accidental overdose in Italy from a combination of aspirin and sleeping tablets. We were told to say on the radio that it was a fluke, a mistake, not to make a big deal of it. But it wasn’t true. It had been a full-on suicide attempt, a cry for help. But it was covered up rather than getting that artist help. And what happened? Less than five weeks later that same artist went missing and it took the record company goons two days to locate him after an ‘exhaustive search.’ And where did they finally find him? With his head blown off, dead on the floor of his own apartment in Seattle. Some search! They hadn’t even bothered looking for him where he lived! The artist’s name was Kurt Cobain, and that’s what they let happen to him.”
I paused and let the ‘dead air’ speak for me before I continued, “I’m not going to let that same thing happen to Dave. He’s been a friend for too long and given us all too much over the years to let him make the same mistake. This idiot from the record label can threaten me all he wants but I’m not going to stop saying this. Let’s get Dave the help he needs before it’s too late.” I started “Policy of Truth.”
With the song playing I went back to the phone. “Yes?” I asked.
I think the reply included several choice curse words. The gist of the rest of his hurried words was that I was about to lose my job and that I had had improper sexual relations with my mum. He hung up.
I watched the hotline and waited. Less than sixty seconds went by and it flashed red. I answered on the first ring. It was Gene Sandbloom, assistant program director. The record company goon had called him and read him the riot act but Gene, ever cool, wanted my side of the story. I told Gene everything that had gone down since the very first call with the paramedic. He was quiet for a moment, thinking before he spoke. Gene is a good guy and loves musicians and artists like I do. He was concise and to the point.
“If you are sure, really sure, run with it. But if you’re wrong it won’t just be your job, it’ll be all our jobs and the station’s license.”
Wow. That was putting a lot of responsibility on my shoulders. KROQ was the most important rock station in America. Its broadcast license was now worth over six hundred million dollars. No pressure there! This would not be a good day to fuck up.
I jumped on the mic and recapped the story again. I told the listeners that they could send their well-wishes to Dave addressed to me at the radio station and I would keep the Depeche Mode music going all morning. I wished Dave strength and started a 1981 classic “New Life.” By now the hotline was blazing again. The slimy record company exec was back with another threat.
“Lawyers are on their way over with a cease and desist notice. Plus if you say one more word about this on the air we will sue you personally for everything from slander to interfering with free commerce.”
My voice might have sounded calm but inside I was Scared with a capital S! I had to play the only card that I had. “You know we record all our incoming calls, correct?”
; “Yeah, of course I know that.”
“Well, I have you on tape threatening me.”
“So? I’m just protecting our artist.”
“You’re protecting the record company’s money. I also have this on tape,” I hit playback and both calls – the initial paramedic’s and my call to Cedars-Sinai, went down the line to his ears only.
“So how will that sound when I play your threatening calls to me on the air saying that this never happened and then the paramedic’s call and the comments from the admission’s nurse confirming that it did and that you are the one who is deliberately lying?”
Silence.
“So send over the lawyers. I’ll read their cease and desist notices live on the air to the listeners then play all the calls again, including yours. Let’s see who becomes the scapegoat then and loses their job.” The line went dead as the record company exec slammed the phone down on me.
Michelle smiled at me. We dropped from Def Con 5 to Def Con 3. The lawyers never showed up but the reporters did. Everyone from the Los Angeles Times to USA Today filed in. Even Britain’s Daily Express and Melody Maker sent people over to interview me and get the scoop on Dave’s condition. Within hours the record company was forced to go public with the news that Dave had tried to kill himself and that pending a 72-hour suicide watch they promised they would be getting him help.
I was mentally and physically drained when I got off the air at 10am but I didn’t leave the station until after 2pm. Camera crews from all the television news services turned up to get the inside story on what had happened. It was mayhem at KROQ with reporters pushing and shoving and cameras and lighting equipment piled up in the hallways, but with each interview I felt that perhaps Dave was a little closer to getting the assistance he needed. Certainly any future cries for help would not go ignored.
As I drove home hours later, alone in my car, I felt that something had been achieved that day. That I had actually been able to help a friend. My past failure to intervene had taught me that sometimes you just have to step up and act. I said a little prayer that Jeffrey Spry, the kid from Fresno who so wanted to be a rockstar, was watching and that wherever he was he knew that he had been a major part of saving the life of one of the most important figures in modern music.
World in My Eyes: The Autobiography Page 43