"Video Killed The Radio Star."

Happy Thanksgiving, folks.  The new volume of Perry Mason finally arrived, Season 5, Volume 2.  First episode from January 1, 1962, entitled "The Case of the Shapely Shadow."  Still stuck in all this nostalgia.  Just started Season 2 of The Man From U.N.C.L.E.  And how about that recent announcement that George Clooney will play Napoleon Solo in a feature remake of the series?  I think George Clooney should play Perry Mason.  He compared himself to Raymond Burr once.  Maybe he's not as heavy as Raymond Burr, but he certainly isn't as thin as Robert Vaughn.  Anyway, "...Shapely Shadow" reminds me of one of my other on-and-off obsessions: The Shadow. 

As a kid, I was a fan of The Shadow radio show, pulp magazines, paperback reprints and early comics.  Who didn't love radio and not enjoy The Shadow?  When Space Pirate Radio began in 1974, despite my love for the original shows, he was still a great character to poke fun at ("C'mon Margo...let me cloud your mind!").  One of the funniest of the early Mad comic parodies was of the Shadow.  After unclouding the mind of Margo Lane, the Shadow is revealed to be about 2 feet tall in slouch hat and cloak, with nose a foot long.  I even named one of my cats in my teenage years after the Mad Magazine character, Lamont Shadowskeedeeboomboom.

So my early born passion for The Shadow motivated me to get involved with the Universal production starring Alec Baldwin  Fans of The Shadow have always had to put up with the contradictions in the character in its various formats.  The pulp Shadow is not invisible; does not cloud minds.  The radio Shadow does.  Orson Welles wasn't the first to play The Shadow, but he was the first to develop it as a character rather than a radio host.  Previous film attempts have all been a batch of mixed blessings, so fans of Walter Gibson's pulp character have never seen a true interpretation.  Throughout the years, the character had been in film development hell with various starts and stops. Many actors were considered and possibly attached to a production: Ben Cross, for one; Liam Neeson, for another (his Darkman had certainly covered similar ground).  So now Alec Baldwin, deprived of the Tom Clancy franchise, is attached, hoping there might be a success similar to Batman (which of course was inspired by The Shadow).

So at this time in my life, I've acquired a small collection of Shadow paraphernalia (second only to my collection on Peter Sellers, and all of them outdistanced by my esoteric music collection).  My love for the subject prompted my to consider publishing a new history of The Shadow entitled "Who Knows What Evil?"  This gets me in contact with Universal and the producers of the film, who invite me to contribute research on the project.  So in January of 1994, I'm back on the Universal Studios lot where I last had spent 3 days filming the prison finale on 1980's The Blues Brothers.  The studio has always been kind of a funny place for me.  I would write an article trashing its assembly line schedule of productions, and then within a month, be working in one of their films.  I was going to mention in my previous blog about jobs, how Universal had once offered me an opportunity to screenwrite for the Incredible Hulk TV series.  But being the purist snob that I was, since I wasn't a fan of Marvel Comics, I turned it down.  Probably blew the best chance for career advancement there, but, hey...can't stop being eccentric. 

But back to The Shadow.  I was fortunate enough to be on the set of The Shadow's private sanctum.  This is the scene where Lamont Cranston is invaded by his arch enemy, Shiwan Khan, played by actor John Lone.  The production staff is treating me with fine hospitality and I am introduced to director, Russell Mulcahy.  He is well known for directing Highlander.  But because of my music background, he is also known to me as the director of The Buggles video that inaugurated MTV (not to mention, his films for Duran Duran).  I told you not to mention that.  So upon introduction, I hum the little ditty and surprisingly he doesn't punch me out. We are friends for the day.  He is courteous and accomodating to me on his set, and even invites me to take his photograph in the director's chair. 

It is a wonderfully relaxed and open set, moreso than others I've either worked on or visited.  Alec Baldwin is extremely friendly, although he smokes like a fiend.  The set is enclosed and Russell directs from outside on a monitor.  He doesn't find it necessary to be that close to the action and viewing this style of directing at the time seems unique to me.  I am witnessing the change in production techniques.  John Lone is very friendly and enjoys talking about his work on Bertolucci's The Last Emperor and Alan Rudolph's The Moderns.  He seems a little uncomfortable in the wig.  Penelope Ann Miller is on the set, though not in this scene.  She is really friendly to me and invites me to stay another day (which will be her final day on set) to interview her.  We talk about the character of Margo Lane, which she seems to find helpful.  I put forth my theory that Margo Lane was inspired by actress Myrna Loy and this perks her up.  Later she will mention this in some interviews, which will bug other Shadow historians who feel Margo Lane had nothing to do with Myrna Loy.  It's fun to see your influence at work. 

Also on the set was Jim Brown, entertainment editor for NBC's The Today Show.  He's putting together a piece for the program.  And down the line, I will get a call from him and an invite to the NBC Studios to bring myself and examples of my Shadow collection for his feature on the film.  Groovy.  I will be a part of one of those discarded DVD extras, where I, along with the principal actors, will comment on aspects of the film.  I suggest to Jim Brown the inclusion of Jonathan Winters, who's in the film and happens to be in the NBC Studios on the day we are filming.  Of course, my producer/director's side creates a suggestion that will minimize my performer's amount of screen time.  Why don't I think of these things at the time?  Either way, the program did air on The Today Show and was seen in most of the U.S., except I think in Los Angeles where it got pre-empted for the O.J. Simpson decision.  Damn you O.J.! 

Also on that day at Universal, I met author James Luceno, who was there seeping up the mood as he had been given the job of writing the paperback novelization of The Shadow film.  A very friendly guy, typical of the spirit of sci-fi authors, he had previously written a Young Indiana Jones novel.  At the time, his ambition was to do Star Wars books, and I am happy to say that he has succeeded admirably in this area.  During the time of his writing The Shadow adaptation, we were in contact.  I sent him all of the background information on the character that I felt would help his book.  Copies of comics and things like that.  He sent me privileged information regarding the character from his side and he was very kind to acknowledge my assistance in his book.  Unfortunately, my own literary effort never saw the light of day. 

All in all, despite the film's shortcomings, it was an extremely delightful connection into a world long gone by.  A mysterious figure, shrouded in fog on a roof somewhere in 1930s Chinatown.  Marvelous!  Who is this figure?  The mystery deepens.  We do know this...if Lamont Cranston was a Man About Town, the best that I can do is be a Man About Blocks. 

"Open Channel D."

Bob's your U.N.C.L.E. (Part 1)

Hello folks.  How are you, folks?  The wife and I just finished watching a Columbo episode from the 5th season starring Robert Vaughn and directed by Patrick McGoohan.  Wow, Napoleon Solo directed by John Drake, Number 6, Danger Man, Secret Agent and the Prisoner.  A pretty amazing meeting of '60s spy icons.  And what a week it has been for swinging '60s spy nostalgia.  I bought myself a toy: the complete set of The Man From U.N.C.L.E.  Among my early obsessions in 1964 was a love for that black and white, NBC TV series.  I was hooked from the initial airing of the first show and was a fan from day one.  Like today's loons in love with Lost, The Man From U.N.C.L.E. was the hipster, cool show of the early '60s.  Robert Vaughn as Napoleon Solo was the American's identification with the James Bond-type, but for us Beatle-bred, iconoclastic teenagers, David McCallum's avant-garde Russian, Illya Kuryakin, was the one to identify with.  As I think I've mentioned before, my insistence on wearing black turtlenecks with coats and refusing to cut my hair over my ears and behind the back caused suspension at my uber-fascist high school, John A. Rowland High School in Rowland Heights, CA--the upper armpit of the City of Industry, near the garden spot community of La Puente (hmmm...can heaven exist anywhere else on earth?). 

Anyway, big fan of the show.  Stayed with it through its first, great, black and white season, although I was torn apart when the show was moved to Monday nights, which was the night that I would go into Hollywood and work on the KCOP TV Channel 13 horror program, Jeepers Creepers.  More about this later, but I do remember being in the make-up room at Channel 13 and watching the monitor being tuned to The Man From U.N.C.L.E.  But I digress.  It was my involvement with Rowland High School that got me invited to the set of The Man From U.N.C.L.E. in 1966.  I wrote for the high school newspaper and at the time there was a magazine called Scene which was primarily a teen-based publication made up of contributions from  various high school literary staffs.  The show, wishing to increase its popularity with a younger audience, invited one writer from each high school to attend a Saturday get-together on the MGM Studios lot.  The invitation included the opportunity to visit all of the sets for the show, watch a preview of the next week's unaired episode, and finally, to meet and interview stars Robert Vaughn and David McCallum.  This is terrific!  The only problem was that I was not the number one writer at the paper.  So the invitation went to a more credentialed lady contributor, who casually showed me the invitation she had received.  I freaked.  But my intense spy training kept it cool and unnoticeable.  Was anyone looking?  Could I club her over the head and stick her into the multi-purpose room?  Would anyone notice?  I'd seen how this was done.  It could look like an accident.  They wouldn't find her.  At least not until after lunch period.  I coolly eyed my surroundings.  But suddenly, my plot took a strange direction...she said "I can't go, do you want to?"  How fine is that line between life and death?  Amazing, really.  "Oh, thanks, yes, I'd love to."  And so the violence factor was removed.  All was well. 

Well, anyway, to make a long story longer, I got up far too early on Saturday morning and took a series of buses to Culver City to wind up at the front of the world famous Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer Studios.  Wow.  And it was all so casual.  Very relaxed.  What a time.  You probably can't see it in the photograph, but the marquee on top of the studios promotes the release of their latest mega-motion picture, Doctor Zhivago.  But I was not there for that.  I was there to enter Del Floria's Tailor Shop and travel through the halls of United Network Command for Law and Enforcement.  U.N.C.L.E. headquarters.  And we saw it all: the spinning table, the round globe, Alexander Waverly's communications center, those U.N.C.L.E. hallways.  The deep innards of that mysterious organization revealed.  A fan's delight. 

In the MGM screening room, we watched "The Foreign Legion Affair," which I expected as U.N.C.L.E. had been broadcast the night before (now on Friday evenings) and the preview for next week's show was the one we were now watching.  We are now in Season 2, all in colour, and the camp is rising considerably, while the serious espionage level is dropping.  Although I am not aware of the showbiz politics at the time, I believe this is due to the exit of original producer, Sam Rolfe, and the entrance of new producer, David Victor.  I noticed on my original U.N.C.L.E. membership cards (which you would get if you wrote NBC saying you were a fan of the show) that David Victor had replaced Sam Rolfe.  Ironically, I have kept the David Victor card in my wallet since I received it in the mid-60s.  I see that I was promoted.

So after the viewing, stars Robert Vaughn and David McCallum come out and chat with the peanut gallery of writers.  Vaughn wore a Tyrolean-styled hat, which he referred to as his "weekend hat."  McCallum said he was wearing it because he didn't have his toupee on.  I don't think those two really got along very well.  I was dressed in my mock-Illya style turtleneck and coat.  McCallum looked at me with a dazed, surrealistic glance, which suggested "what the hell are you dressed like?"  I whipped out my classic Kodak and snapped the rare Access Hollywood exclusive you now see.

As I have mentioned before, although I admired Robert Vaughn for his politics (he was a Kennedy-style Democrat, and at one time was considered to run for the California Senate...but I think some spooky types may have scared him away from it), I narcissistically identified with David McCallum.  I was quite disappointed to discover that David McCallum was extremely, ultra-conservative.  In the past, I always took his side thinking how he had been wronged by his ex-wife Jill Ireland and Charles Bronson.  After all, in every episode of The Man From U.N.C.L.E., the supposedly single Illya Kuryakin is seen wearing his wedding band.  And he and his wife, Jill, appeared in two episodes in the first season.  They were a picture-perfect couple, these two blonds who had met in England in the J. Arthur Rank period.  But as I always frequently discover, you can be surprised and you may have to rethink things.  For me, I have to find what is consistent.  It's the irregularities that disturb me.  So I'm not naive to be fooled by the performance, but in the case of David McCallum, he was closer to the spy that he portrayed in one fact: he never revealed anything about himself.  At the time, he hung out in the hip circles, released cool musical albums, appeared on Hullabaloo, acted as if he was sincerely a part of the counter-culture.  It surprised me in later interviews how conservative and socialist-paranoid he was.  Is it just the cliche of the tightwad Scotsman?  Or is it something else?  After all, the CIA has props from The Man From U.N.C.L.E. in Langley.  They use the show as a recruiting tool.  "Hey kids, come to Langley!  We'll give you an exploding pen!  It's got gas!"  So it makes you question everything.  I remember accidentally running into Charles Bronson with Jill Ireland in Del Mar, CA.  They owned a timeshare in the hotel I was staying at.  Charles Bronson.  The star of those Death Wish movies directed by Michael Winner, who it's been listed was once a boyfriend of Jill Ireland.  I'm confused.  I'm petting my cats now.  Thank god they're not in show business.

Thank god I got out of this spy obsession.  For a while, I thought "what the hell is wrong with me?  U.N.C.L.E.'s the CIA."  Then on later re-thought, I considered that perhaps U.N.C.L.E. represented the United Nations or Interpol.  After all, they did show the UN building in early episodes.  And as the announcer said "U.N.C.L.E. was made up of multi-nationalities."  So perhaps this police force was more utopian than fascist.  Perhaps Thrush was closer to the CIA with its new world order agenda.

So what did we learn here?  Anything of importance?  Deep, sociological insight?  Or just pop culture?  Conspiracies and cover-up?  Or cool hairstyles and turtlenecks?  Light fiction or deeper meaning?  Life imitating art?  Didn't G. Gordon Liddy think he was the real James Bond?  Food for thought.  Be seeing you.

"..Outlawed in a world of science which previously honored me as a genius..."

An old friend, Joe Palladino, wrote me a while back telling me that he was putting together a film about the history of radio station KTYD and would I be involved.  Like a smart ass, I joked "seriously, is KTYD still around?" and made derogatory comments about voice tracks created in Bakersfield and endless ads for shooters on another Eagles classic rock weekend.  As I have said here before, for me, KTYD died in 1985.

Joe's letter created mixed feelings in yours truly.  Anyone who has read previous recollections about Space Pirate Radio can easily detect a love/hate relationship with the station.  Let me try to explain some of the smoke and mirrors here.  I really love radio.  I mean, I really love radio.  The magic of it.  All its possibilities.  The problem is that not everyone in radio shares this enthusiasm.  So when I found myself involved with freeform station KTYD in 1973, I assumed we were all free radicals, doing it for the passion, the love of music and trying to make a change.  I wasn't expecting so many of those long-haired, dope smoking individuals to be harboring a desire to turn into balding, 50-year-old businessmen so early.  Some of them were already bald, but they had that Ben Franklin look.  So you still thought they were cool.  But back to KTYD.  There's been much written about the station and I'm amazed at how wrong a lot of it has been.  There was a KTYD reunion a number of years back, held at Fess Parker's thing (in 1974, we would have wanted to burn the place to the ground--not assess its property value).  Many old faces gathered together.  Sadly for me, the gathering of the tribes bordered on the pathetic.  Instead of a reunion of kindred spirits and creative anarchists, it had the air of a sodden sales convention for the Scooter Store.  Ironically at this party, I was the designated driver.  Besides the horror of seeing the room filled up with sales lemmings of the new KTYD (those who had signed a pact with Clear Channel), the greatest disappointment was the fact that no one remembered anything of substance or importance.  There was a lot of talk about drugs and who had or hadn't been with the female music director. But basically, the revelation of then and when in the here and now was completely absent.

The old cliche is that if you remember the '60s, you didn't live them.  And the same could be said for the '70s.  I lived them and pretty hard.  But I recall them quite vividly, more often fondly, rather than with horror.  Of course, the Virgo in me (theme--"thanks folks for all the cards and letters") retains being an archivist, so that might help.  So I've kept the pertinent information.  As is, the basic facts about KTYD should be that it began in September of 1973 and that the program director, Larry Johnson from San Jose, turned an old county & western/oldies, Dick Clark owned, canned radio station into a living, breathing, freeform rock broadcaster.  24 hours, pretty much all live.  So Klassic KTYD 37 years ago (oh, me organs) pretty much revolves around who Larry Johnson hired to the station.  Besides Larry, the main headliners were music director, Laurie Cobb, and disc jockeys Ray Briare, Mark Ward, Bill Zimmer, and Jim Trapp.  It is at this part of the story, kids, where Larry brings on David and Tiny Ossman of the Firesign Theatre to do their stoney, retro nostalgia show, Easy Street.  And, has been noted in a previous remembrance, yours truly is in the entourage. 

The story so far.  As you remember last time, I enter the 8th floor studios of KTYD, high atop the 'Hotel' Granada Theatre building.  I get a weird feeling that something's going to happen here.  And I am quite sober.  As mentioned earlier, Larry Johnson, friendly and outgoing, is a big fan of the Firesign Theatre.  So anyone who is a friend, is probably somewhat annointed.  Up until this point, even with my previous background in radio, I assumed that the concept of Space Pirate Radio was so obvious, that someone else would probably do it ahead of me.  But they hadn't.  And especially not on commercial radio.  So, struck by a bolt of energy from Zeus, this son of Hermes decides I will pitch the concept to Mr. Johnson over lunch.  I explain the idea for the show and what I wish to do and he agrees.  Without an audition tape, resume, or sound sample, an on the air premiere is scheduled for Saturday night/Sunday morning, January 27, 1974. 

Now this...is before "founding" members Edward Bear and Dave Heffner have even been heard on the station.  Not to try to pick nits here, but so often people who came on years later are listed as the original KTYD.  I don't even claim to be original because I wasn't there in September of '73.  I was there in November of '73.  In my mind, so-called "founding" members of KTYD are pretty much all together in the first year.  The ball is rolling.  The feeling is there.  The spirit is happening.  People are picking up on what's going on.  Disc jockeys around the state and country are hearing the buzz and want to be a part of it. As long as Larry Johnson is the program director, later people coming onboard are still a part of the momentum of the station, but the fundamentals have already been established. 

This is not to discredit those who came later.  On the contrary, the station fleshed out even more and became for the community the idealistic, multi-formated, (dare I say it) utopian radio station that the corporate blood suckers would do their best to disassemble.  I mean, freeform, man.  This means that at one time we had complete freedom.  We didn't make much money; in fact, we were quite poor.  But we felt rich in knowing that everything we did was based on what we believed in.  The music we played, we loved.  We weren't told by some wanker market consultant from Florida that the song we were playing had tested well in Sarasota...we played what we liked and what the audience connected with.  So to wrap up this KTYD thing, the original station was a collection of eclectic souls with many tastes, many talents, and many flaws.  But we did it 'cause we loved it and you knew that sometime, somewhere on that station, what you particularly liked, whatever style of music (from blues, jazz, hard rock, folk, country, classical, avant-garde, whatever), you knew that someone on that station was playing it 'cause they dug it and you dug it.  And that's why you tuned in.  For a while, you could tell there were no strings on the voices that were talking to you.  No puppets.  So we are back to my love/hate relationship with radio.  I love it for what it was and what it could be.  I hate it for what it became and what it is.  In a way, this continues my original concept for Space Pirate Radio.  Although a part of KTYD, I felt apart from KTYD.  Space Pirate Radio was always a sputnik.  A satellite revolving in orbit around home base.  Beaming a message down, hoping to reach a few.  In orbit, necessary...but separate.  

"I need a bohemian atmosphere."

Colonel Mustard in the library with the candlestick.  The environment of the study should be one of philosophical transcendence and inspirational bliss.  However, this late entry in the month of Saint Augustine has become cranky because we just finished watching Michael Caine in Harry Brown.  Yes, Michael Caine, that icon of '60s swinging London.  "My name is Michael Caine."  In his greatest film yet: Get Carter A Wheelchair.  We as moviegoers should be thankful that today's savvy industry leaders refuse to let the Charles Bronson Death Wish franchise disappear.  There is hope for every aging actor to become a revenge-driven vigilante.  My heart breaks at the thought that this brilliant writing formula didn't happen sooner.  How I would have loved to have seen Walter Brennan still active post-The Real McCoys, armed with an AK-47, gunning down drug dealers in Compton.  Can't you picture Wilford Brimley pistol whipping some hood in Griffith Park terrorizing a blue haired lady with her chihuahua?  But I digress.  Back to Michael Caine.  The swinging '60s icon.  What a load of crap.  Just because he wore black, horn-rimmed glasses as spy Harry Palmer in The Ipcress File didn't mean Monsieur Caine was a bookish, liberal intellectual.  I've enjoyed so many of his early films, but just because they were set in a certain time and space doesn't mean the actor himself reflected our particular sympathies.  Beware, my friend...Mr. Caine has always been a conservative Tory who will do any film as long as you meet his paycheck.  Remember all those disaster movies of the '70s?  The Swarm?  And certainly from that point on, Michael Caine is at his finest.  "I can't pick up my Oscar, I'm filming Jaws: The Revenge."  Remember how bad his glasses looked?  Hanging around with Joan Collins and all those questionable rich businessmen from Tehran?  Oh, those were the good old days.  I guess I'm going through a love/hate catharsis with Mr. Caine.  I still own the original The Italian Job, the original Get Carter (and I guess I can give Michael credit for being good in the original Sleuth as well as the remake), and I really did enjoy the film Flawless.  And I admire much about Pulp except for the animal killing.  I can quote dialogue between him and Oskar Homolka in Funeral In Berlin.  So what's the problem?  Harry Brown, for one.  And the fact that Michael Caine still does it for the money first and the art second.  For every Hannah And Her Sisters, there's The Island and four other god awful titles that I do not wish to flog you with at this moment.  Man, I am cranky.  I just wanted to talk about my digs.  Instead, here I am doing a bad Sight & Sound article about how Michael Caine's best films depend upon his director and screenplay writer.  Oh my god.  So how do I get out of this?  Oh, okay.  When Michael Caine was a struggling actor, he shared lodgings with another struggling bohemian actor, Terence Stamp. 

Whew!  Well, kids, there's nothing like those early artistic days for capturing the bohemian spirit.  I had those days, yes sir, Jim.  Before I got married, the Artist As A Younger Man enjoyed the environment and the enthusiasm that decorated it.  A man's home was his Kastle, and in my Kase, sometimes it was in the truest Kafka sense.  The hovel as a home had to reflect all of the passions that kept me young at heart, bladder and knee. 

So now we are tuned into the Home & Garden channel on acid.  Observe the neo-gothic, early Armenian, post-modern, pre-surrealistic, proto-psychedelic, art deco, with a hint of Swedish moderne, and a whiff of pre-Weimar, post-Bauhaus, early Russian-Turkish hallucination.  A Frank Lloyd Wright design after a heavy Mexican dinner.  A collision of Amish and Danish decor with Mayan/Pagan trauma.  This is perhaps initially and shockingly evident upon viewing the illustrations on display.  Note the cacophony of merging motifs and themes.  One can see the pilgrim's attempt at building a tower of Babel made entirely of vinyl.  Reaching to the heavens, this lost library of sound.  Like a memory of fabled Alexandria, from Amon Duul II to Zabriskie Point.

The rooms (which in debate, could be considered just one room, including the shower) were not unlike an early salon.  Tapestries on the walls, peacock feathers sticking out of German wine bottles, heroes and mementos on display.  Trash, works of art and magical things too.  Plus dust and wires.  "Dustin Wires?  Wasn't he that '60s actor who got it on with Anne Bancroft?"  And speaking of German wine, as has been noted in earlier entries, Space Pirate Radio shows were fueled on the power of German white wine.  Here now is photographic proof of the stockpile, strategically located next to the photo of Einstein on the back cover of the M album, the Japanese poster for Yellow Magic Orchestra, and the image of Pamela Stephenson as Magritte from The Face magazine.  For anyone interested in the obscure, the plastic glass in front of the vintage Coca-Cola tray and green glass container of collected matchbooks is, in fact, the one given to me by Roger Waters upon my first meeting with Pink Floyd at the L.A. Sports Arena.  The Chalice Revealed!

And scandalously we continue into the private quarters of the bedroom.  Note the sinful one-sheet posters for Emmanuelle The Joys Of A Woman, Nastassja Kinski in Stay As You Are, and the obscured poster of Laura Antonelli in The Divine Nymph. 

And finally, for adults only, the ultimate destination, the last place to hide, o banheiro surrealista erotico!  Oh my!

Oh my, oh my!  La salle de bains surrealiste erotique.  El cuarto de bano surrealista erotico.  Das erotische surrealistische Badezimmer.  De erotische surrealistische badkamers.  The erotic surrealist bathroom.  Where hygiene and art come together in collage.  I thought it was beautiful.  More beautiful than the Louvre.  Ironically, when I was in Paris visiting the Louvre, my parents who had an unexpected visitor, found themselves vacating their apartment and coming to stay at mine.  Oh dear.  Neither of them had ever visited the ESP (the erotic surrealist pissoir).  My father said that being in the bathroom was rather disquieting.  Wherever he looked, someone was munching on someone else.  After hearing this, I came to my senses, became a Catholic and entered the priesthood.  Sure. 

"By gad, sir, you are a character."

Slipping away from music for the moment and back to film.  One of my most guilty pleasures is the love of character actors.  As it has been apparent in previous entries, it is the character actors in the films that I tend to enjoy the most in my cinematic experience.  Stars or leading actors motivate me less into a movie house than the support characters.  With the release of each new film, it is the secondary names I look upon. 

This love of character actors comes from my early childhood.  Films of the '30s and '40s were always loaded with the interesting characters who were there to support, torment or bedevil the leads.  Their names are etched in monochrome: from Peter Lorre to George Zucco; Lionel Atwill to Martin Kosleck.  Many character actors could also be leads, like Basil Rathbone, Karloff and Lugosi, up to Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee.  But for me, more than often, the secondary and even third-tiered actors were the most interesting.  My god, the list is endless.  I would rather watch Gale Sondergaard or Anna May Wong over Katherine Hepburn. In a way, I prefer the character actor to remain in the number 2 or 3 spot, rather than becoming the star vehicle.  There are exceptions, including some of the names I've mentioned.  Myrna Loy and William Powell are two more examples. 

So we step into the Tardis and speed into my era, the Swinging Sixties.  And a whole new chapter of character actors pop onto the scene.  There are so many.  Hopefully I will have time to mention them all.  So stepping out of the police box, I find myself happy to be in the same time and place as the Santa Barbara International Film Festival.  Sixties?  No, it's upside down.  We are in the nineties.  In my current guise as Arts & Entertainment Editor for radio station KTMS, as well as the on-going entity of Space Pirate Radio, I now find myself lucky enough to rub elbows and other body parts, with actors who appeared in many of the cult films that have delighted my peculiar tastes.  In one 24 hour period, I have attended the film premiere of a movie starring Amanda Donohoe, a particular favourite actress of mine, who has worked with both Nicolas Roeg in Castaway and Ken Russell in Lair Of The White Worm.  The film was Diamond Skulls, directed by Nick Broomfield (a lovely gentleman and an artist in his own right, who took the photograph of me and Amanda).  I spent two pleasurable days in their company, extolling the joys of British cinema and many anecdotes about Oliver Reed. 

It was at this premiere that I had the incredible pleasure of meeting one of the most friendly character actors of all time, Clive Revill.  My wife who loves Star Wars still lets me in the house thanks to my close encounter with the original Emperor.  Despite my proximity to this master of the Dark Side, we had more giggles and fun with his work in films like The Legend Of Hell House, Kaleidoscope, Fathom, The Assassination Bureau, and Modesty Blaise.  He was so damned friendly.  I like to think that he was just happy to meet somebody in America who knew his body of work.  But seriously, he was genuinely delightful and thinking about it now, I could just give him a big cuddle.  I mean, I relate to this cat.  He has worked in so many interesting projects and with so many different people and yet, had none of the bullshit trappings of a showbiz entourage.  I have the deepest respect for his art and talent.  He personifies what it is about the character actor that inspires me.  I am almost regretful that I didn't hustle him up to my show for more anecdotes and insights into his life experience.

Over the years, the Santa Barbara International Film Festival presented to me the opportunity to meet many, many artists in the film industry, past and present.  I had the pleasure of getting to know the great Turhan Bey through the festival.  This incredible man from the golden age of Hollywood.  Another example of the classic character actor.  What a gentleman.  And what a voice.  His IDs for Space Pirate Radio continue to give me chills.  From his performance in The Mummy's Tomb to his work with Maria Montez and Jon Hall, and ultimately his career as a photographer in Vienna.  The man is a class act. 

It was also during this time that I got to meet Tyrone Power Jr.  He and his lovely wife at the time, DeLane Matthews, were premiering the film Healer which also featured Turhan Bey and David McCallum.  So Ty, who had never actually known his father, had inherited his father's good looks on top of an extremely muscular build.  I felt that if his career had been handled successfully, he could have easily walked into the Zorro franchise that his father had made famous. 

So now I'm not sure if this rant has been about character actors and/or the Santa Barbara International Film Festival.  I certainly met many interesting artists during my involvement.  Richard Farnsworth stands out.  The old school, of course: Robert Mitchum, Bradford Dillman, Karl Malden, Anthony Zerbe, Don Murrary, Carol Lynley, Anne Francis, Richard Widmark and Michael Parks.  Santa Barbara was the perfect eccentric city for character actors.  I remember doing a radio broadcast with a highly inebriated James Brolin.  And with him was Stuart Whitman, also equally lubricated.  This was radio.  And on the air, Stuart Whitman said that anyone coming into the restaurant that we were broadcasting from who was wearing a tie would have it cut off.  Whitman, threatened to cut my tie off.  This was very odd.  I was wearing a turtleneck at the time.

"Listen to them. Children of the night. What music they make."

And with those words on the airwaves, the show starts. The music begins.

My wife loves concerts. She sees far more shows these days than I do. But blissfully, it was the music that brought us together. Now before I start sounding like Peter Fonda in that commercial for Flower Power, I...uh, oh nevermind. (I had dinner with Peter Fonda once, but that's another story. The Castle Of Otranto by Horace Walpole. That's another story too.) Sorry, I lost my mind there...

Oh, yes, the music. Concerts. Obviously, it was the music that inspired me to start Space Pirate Radio. However, most of my concert-going experiences happened after I began the show in 1973. As the show expanded in its range of music, I was able to attend more shows featuring the artists that I had played as import records only. My love of new, foreign music helped keep the discoveries coming. One artist or record label would inspire me to explore a different offshoot. If I saw a name of an artist or producer on one disc and found it on another, then that would tempt my curiosity to hear the sounds that were offered. This is what made it all exciting, folks. New discoveries. Archeology in sound.

My initial tendencies were to explore the experimental, electronic music from the Pink Floyd/psychedelic school that had inspired the Germans. Tangerine Dream, Ash Ra Tempel and especially Amon Duul II were the key inspirations for getting the show on the air. I was pleased to have the first show on commercial radio that aired these artists. Someone once described me as the John Peel of the US, but I was able to play the entire songs--full sides worth. The luxury of a 6 hour show late at night in the early morning hours.

There were, however, exceptions to the all-electronic mantra that the show seemed to pulsate to. But yet, there was still something magical and psychedelic and progressive to it all. One example came from the folk school. I used to believe that in the 60s, in London at the UFO Club, there were three schools of experimental music: space rock, as personified by house band, the Pink Floyd; space jazz, as represented by the Soft Machine; and space folk, as interpreted by the Incredible String Band. Each one of these three bands triggered off whole schools of musical experimentation by an unlimited variety of artists. Now I could do a doctorate thesis here, but I won't. Instead, I will detour with the space folk and mention Alan Stivell.

Alan Stivell at the time was a very interesting Breton artist who did for the Celtic harp what Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull had done with the flute. He made it jazz, man. Stivell was hugely popular in France and Europe but unplayed in the United States. His album "Renaissance of the Celtic Harp" was as spacey and innovative as anything else could be under the power of electricity. Space Pirate Radio was again the first place to showcase him on commercial radio. To listeners, his work was legendary. Quite magical. His live performances at such places as the Olympia Theatre in Paris were envied and appreciated. He had never performed in California. In 1982 that would change.

Stephen Cloud, a concert promoter in Santa Barbara, often took chances on shows that should be done for art's sake and booked Stivell at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History on February 11. Stivell would play the night before in San Francisco and follow the next day in Los Angeles with Robin Williamson of the Incredible String Band. Cloud appreciated Stivell's music but wasn't sure the show would do well due to its eclectic nature. It sold out and had to turn many away. The success of the show prompted Stivell to return the following year at the Victoria Street Theatre. Stivell was a lot of fun to be with. Very easy-going. All the ladies were charmed by him. He came over to my apartment, did a casual interview and some fun IDs.

So back to concerts. It was always a high point to see a concert by someone you had admired and shared with on the air. And then to either have them on the show or hang out backstage and talk about this and that...quite fun, really. I am blessed to say that there have been quite a number of those moments. I've already mentioned a number of them here. There are others I wish to go into length with later. Tangerine Dream, Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music, were quite special. My two days with Mike Oldfield were unique. Steve Hackett and Rick Wakeman stand out. My dinner with Robin Williamson and his wife Janet turned into a very memorable show.

Oh, there were concerts before my show. The Standells ("love that dirty water") and the Knickerbockers ("Lies"), an American band that wanted to sound like the Beatles, both played my decrepit high school. I saw Janis Joplin after she had left Big Brother, debuting with her Kosmic Blues Band at the San Bernadino Swing Auditorium in 1968. Brought her a bottle of Southern Comfort and hung out in the first row. Janis headlined the show along with Lee Michaels, MC5 and some new band called Chicago Transit Authority. Oh my. Those horns. Snuck into a Mothers Of Invention/Alice Cooper concert at Cal State Fullerton. Later I would have Frank Zappa on my show and redefine the art of interviewing. Story to come later.

Anyway, the heyday of concerts was definitely during the Space Pirate Radio era of 1974-1994. From 1974 until about 1985, KTYD had a lock-in with just about every concert. There were high points and low points, both at the historic Arlington Theatre. The zenith: a co-promotion with Gentle Giant for a wonderfully relaxed yet powerful performance. The nadir: The Clash, where I felt we were all extras in a monster car rally performing A Clockwork Orange.

It saddens me to think of the concerts that nearly happened but didn't. Tangerine Dream would have played Santa Barbara years before they did my 20th anniversary party for Space Pirate Radio at the Ventura Theatre. And Genesis was going to do The Lamb Lies Down On Broadway at UCSB, but the promoter cancelled it because Fleetwood Mac was playing the same weekend. This saddens me. The tears are coming. But saddest of all is thinking that we had to turn down a one night only concert performance of Zamfir with Joy Division. Moron, this later.

"The important thing is to pull yourself up by your own hair..."

"...to turn yourself inside out and see the whole world with fresh eyes."

Everyone should have a teacher that inspires them. Through most of my school years, I had instructors that I got along with more than others. They were usually English or Speech and Drama teachers. Those persons were the few who upon occasion you could share a bit of dialogue, some philosophy, history and information. And often share a joke or two with them.

It wasn't until I ended up at Santa Barbara City College that I met a very special person in Max Whittaker. He was head of the Drama Department and was quite a delightful person. I admit I was never a very disciplined student. Not good with the textbooks and slow with the responsibility of it all. I was more of a dreamer. I needed someone to connect the dream into a practical application. Initially, I took Mr. Whittaker's basic Drama courses and enjoyed the discussions on historical theatre from the Greeks on, etc. But I still felt detached. It was however working in his theatre production classes that I learned to appreciate the talents of the man.

Max Whittaker was a unique individual who truly loved theatre in all its variety. He had an enthusiasm about the art form which he shared among his students if they were willing to tune into his wavelength. He was there for the student, not for his own ego or sense of accomplishment. Santa Barbara, being a showbiz-y commune, was filled with Drama instructors whose eyes glittered with the twinkle of that town to the south, Hollywood. There were instructors in the high schools who were good at molding up-and-coming pretty thespians for a career on the silver screen. They were industry-types. Max was old school, in the sense that he wished to inspire the student with the love of the art of theatre rather than the product.

I guess I might as well mention here, since I called him Max in that sentence, that I actually never called him by his first name. He had all the other students call him Max, yet in a Steed/Peel Avengers-like way, because I respected the man so much, I could never call him anything but Mr. Whittaker. Yet I think as teacher-student, we were probably more in tune than any of the other first name callers.

Mr. Whittaker and his wife Lois loved theatre. Every summer they would travel to London and see a variety of the latest theatrical offerings. He had an appreciation of the classics but was always open to the most new and cutting edge of productions. It gave me real pleasure to talk about obscure works of theatre with him and see a genuine passion in his eyes for the continued possibilities of theatrical experimentation. When I had seen a recent production of "Abelard and Eloise" at the L.A. Music Center with Keith Michell and Diana Rigg, my suggestion for the work to be produced at the college was embraced by him.

The ultimate thing about Mr. Whittaker that I appreciated most was his encouragement. In a world where I have been surrounded by tin-plated authorities who loved to say the word "no," Max Whittaker, when offered a creative suggestion, would enthusiastically say "yes." I was fortunate to be directed by the man in five different productions: "Bury the Dead," "The Night Thoreau Spent In Jail," "Love Rides the Rails," "Abelard and Eloise" and "Arsenic and Old Lace." Each production better and more satisfying than the last. He also let me write and direct the first X-rated play on campus entitled "Void In Wisconsin" in 1972. Instead of censoring me, he allowed me to put on an even bigger and more outrageous play, "Nothing is Sacred" in 1973. And if that wasn't enough, he made it possible for me to return to Santa Barbara City College as an instructor and write and direct my own production of "Casanova's Lips."


"Love Rides the Rails" in 1973, an old time melodrama, liberally ingested with an anarchist's sense of psychedelia, was a comic masterpiece. It turned out to be the most successful play that had been done at SBCC's antique little theatre. Mr. Whittaker was truly delighted at the outcome of this show and everyone connected with the production had a marvelous time. He gave me complete freedom to be innovative with the sinister sidekick character, Dirk Sneath (pictured in the flyer with main villain, Simon Darkway, as portrayed by R. Leo Schreiber). I appreciated Mr. Whittaker's trust in me to be creative with the character. He had been disappointed in the past with theatre students who could not take direction. Up to this time, his greatest sorrow was directing David Crosby (yes, that David Crosby) in a Tennessee Williams play where Mr. Crosby ignored all rehearsed blocking and in true method style, reinvented the production, much to the horror of cast and crew. So I was very pleased that in "Love Rides the Rails" Mr. Whittaker let me tinker with the character in my own comic way. It was due to the success of this play that I was invited back in 1976 to direct another melodrama in honor of the bicentennial, "Casanova's Lips."

The old theatre above Santa Barbara City College's administrative department was intimate but antiquated. I liked it, but then I'm old, intimate and antiquated. The theatre critic for the Santa Barbara News-Press, Bob Barber, couldn't review a single play in the college without complaining about the seats. So it was always Mr. Whittaker 's dream that the school would get a new theatre. He lobbied for it and he lobbied for it. When it finally happened, that a new theatre complex would open on the other side of the hill, the credit would go to new theatre director, Dr. Pope Freeman, recently arrived from Tulane University.

So in 1979 the ultra-modern Garvin Theatre opens up for a summer repertoire debut. Guest Equity actors will interact with students in three plays. The beautiful new Garvin Theatre will host productions of "Romeo & Juliet" and "H.M.S. Pinafore" (both with Star Trek veteran Kay Kuter). Neither are directed by Max Whittaker. Max is assigned to do that old theatrical chestnut "Arsenic and Old Lace." This is to be in the new Studio Theatre, which, in some ways could be considered, in its basic state, an ultra-clean multipurpose room.

But thanks to the creative set designers, along with Mr. Whittaker's good karma, this production of "Arsenic and Old Lace" is simply delightful and charms the audiences away from the other two productions in that super-modern new theatre. I am pleased, very pleased, to be in that show as Dr. Einstein, the character made famous by Peter Lorre in the film version. This is my last time on the stage. It gives me joy that Max Whittaker's little play is a bigger success than the other two highly promoted shows in the new theatre. I feel it is meant to be. Mr. Whittaker will ultimately do work in the theatre that he dreamt about (like "Equus," which I will watch in the audience).

Anyway, my thanks to this dear man who regularly sacrificed his own reputation if it would be helpful to the learning experience of the student. A true patron of the arts and a man who never received the full appreciation he deserved.

"I think it would be fun to run a newspaper."

Architecture may have played a role in the shaping of Space Pirate Radio. The buildings that housed the studios that broadcast the program had an effect on the overall mood of the show. Definitely in 1973, the studios of KTYD in the Granada Theatre building in Santa Barbara added to the theatrical element of the program itself. Located on the upper 8th floor, the tiny studios looked down State St. to the Santa Barbara harbor. For those unfamiliar with the town, it is almost Disneyland-like in its red tile, Lego-like atmosphere. It really is a toy town. And broadcasting after midnight, looking out the window to the ominous, glowing oil derricks in the waters, added to that initial pirate radio feel of the 60's English stations. And being 8 floors up, that helped add to the Space Pirate feel of either broadcasting from a satellite, space station or moon-like environment. It was great fun. The entire Granada Theatre building belonged to me. Lights dimmed. A blue bulb replaced the studio lamp. A candle burning in one of those orange glasses you get at cheap Italian restaurants. Sandalwood incense burning into the cork board walls. A small crystal glass, often refilled with a full bottle of German white wine. The Cosmic Jokers, Ash Ra Tempel or Klaus Schulze playing in the background. This was my Tardis. This environment had a profound effect on how the show evolved.

When KTYD left the Granada Theatre and moved to new, modern housing out in Goleta in 1984, the show also seemed sleeker. The picture of Bill Bruford and myself broadcasting are from those studios. A different feel for the time. It was the 80's. And I could no longer climb out on the fire escape at the top of the Granada Theatre and see the placement of the Big Dipper while pumping out Tangerine Dream through the far right production studio.

So when I bid adieu to KTYD in 1985 (sadly, because I really wanted to outlive everyone else that had been fired), I went back to old town Santa Barbara and found myself broadcasting Space Pirate Radio from the inside of the Santa Barbara News Press building. As nostalgic as I felt surviving the many regimes of psychotic general managers and various program and music directors at KTYD, I discovered that being at KTMS AM & FM radio was probably the best time for the program. In many ways. First, I actually worked for a program director and a general manager who weren't mental and treated me in a professional and friendly manner. Second, I was given more freedom from management than I had ever been given before. In the past, you stole your freedoms. You just did it and got away with it. At KTMS, management said "Do it. Rock the boat." I hadn't received such encouragement since my days in theatre. The new radio bosses gave me a full time, weekly, evening program, plus Space Pirate Radio, the best salary anybody was receiving at the station, and a key to the vast record library so I could program anything I wanted to, anytime. Now seriously, who could be happier?

KTMS AM & FM radio, located in the Santa Barbara News-Press building, was doing its best to take on #1 rated KTYD. They had changed the FM call letters to KKOO or 2KO, Knock Out Radio. An absolutely horrible idea for a radio name. This saddened me. It seemed that the nicer people weren't the most creative savvy. Unfortunately, this was due to the fact that the station, as owned by the newspaper, was on its last legs and was attempting to do something, anything different. To me, this was also very sad because even though KTYD had the stronger ratings and sales people behind it, KTMS had the power of being owned by Santa Barbara's daily newspaper. Its AM station was the news authority. I saw the possibility of print and media forming an incredible source of community information and art and entertainment, but somehow it was all falling apart. In theory, KTMS should have been the dominant provider of all things media in town. The writing was on the wall however. The FCC under Reagan was deregulating local ownership of radio stations and monopoly restrictions were coming up saying that a newspaper couldn't own radio stations. Now, isn't that a joke in the FOX News Corp. world of today? My God! A local newspaper owns an AM/FM radio station! So before 1985 was over, the Santa Barbara News-Press publishing empire would have to sell its broadcasting operations.

So back to architecture. For a short period of time, Space Pirate Radio broadcast inside the Xanadu-like sanctum of the Santa Barbara News-Press building. As much as I loved the view from the 8th floor of the Granada Theatre, the atmosphere and ambiance of being inside a newspaper building was very unique. The daily paper was printed below, while upstairs in a dark archive of rooms and halls, tucked away in the corner, were two radio stations. As I said before, the station's days were numbered. Ultimately, they were sold for relatively cheap to an outfit from Modesto, CA that had decided the FM station should become KHTY, Y-97, the Hot FM!!! Oh my God! Santa Barbara was going to get a Top 40 radio station on the FM. I will be fired...and then hired within 24 hours, but that's another story. Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte. That's another story too.

The stations will move again. Not to any part of historic Santa Barbara, unless there was some sort of Native American massacre. We will move into some strange building that looks like a leftover Century 21 real estate complex, stuck in a sink hole on an urban street next to the house of a crystal meth producer who was actually a police informant. Despite the picture postcard environment, I will actually do some decent shows here. I will continue doing Space Pirate Radio on the FM and work as Arts & Entertainment editor for the news channel KTMS AM. This will be a good time artistically, covering the Santa Barbara International Film Festival and having many guests on the programs. It's not a bad gig.

But I will always hold a fond place in my heart for the buildings of old Santa Barbara. The fabulous Granada Theatre, 8 floors and rising. Ah, the memories. And the Santa Barbara News-Press building in the De La Guerra Plaza. Just across the street, the Paradise Cafe. Having a glass of Sauvignon Blanc with my boss, program director Bob Senn. And him not minding the fact that I should probably be on the air in 10 minutes. Blissfully ambling through the newspaper loading dock, entering to go upstairs for another evening of rock & roll, wine in system, newsprint in the air, and the thoughts of music to come. Welcome home, Mr. Kane.

"Quiet enough for a drum solo?"

On Saturday night, April 30, 1966, I was watching my favourite British TV show, Secret Agent. Known as Danger Man in the UK, Patrick McGoohan as cynical agent John Drake, was the epitome of ubercool. He was the real deal. What we thought spies were really like. Anyway, I digress. That night's particular episode was called "The Not So Jolly Roger," and our beloved John Drake was undercover pretending to be a pirate radio station disc jockey! Cool! And the even cooler thing was that the episode was shot on some old World War II observation platforms in the British sea that was actually a real pirate radio station. Radio 390 was what the station was in real life, but in the episode, the station is called "your friendly pirate Radio Jolly Roger."

At that time in my life, the magic of radio captivated me. I had dreams of bringing together all the crazy things that inspired me into one concept of a radio program. I loved science fiction and horror movies. The other worldly electronics of Forbidden Planet in 1956 had inspired me to listen for the unusual. Odd sounds invoked odd thoughts. The Theremin in The Day The Earth Stood Still in 1951. Couple this with classical music and the new rocking sound of mod England. Mix this with the mystery of an old-time radio adventure like the Shadow. Throw in the comic surrealism of the Goon Show. The international connection of the shortwave. And yet, have the immediacy and intimacy of being a ham radio operator where you are in direct contact with the receiver of your signal, live and at that moment. These were the basic alchemical elements of what would become Space Pirate Radio.

So I loved the concept of pirate radio at the time it existed in my life. There were these pirate radio stations in Europe, which I couldn't hear. The closest I had in California was listening to the Mexican stations. Those powerful signals broadcasting without FCC restrictions, south of the border into our domesticated urban centers. XERB was the most famous. Home of Wolfman Jack. Playing those throbbing rock & roll records. Talking about having his little brown bottle and not having a clue what he meant until much later. Telling lovelorn lady listeners to "hug your pillow." He was a lunatic. He was the Wolfman. He only came out at night. I could dig it.

So in the world of 1966, if pirate radio operated outside the legal limits of countries that forbade it, in a future dystopian world...your author pondered...a pirate radio station would have to exist outside the earth. So before satellite radio, I saw satellite radio. Or instead of a pirate ship broadcasting from sea, I saw a pirate ship broadcasting from space. Or instead of broadcasting from Luxembourg into England, I saw broadcasting from the moon down to Earth.

So the seeds were being sown. The elements were coming together. I never knew until I bought the Danger Man box set that that fateful episode of Secret Agent was called "The Not So Jolly Roger." I used to do a pirate character on my program called Long John Aluminum, who commanded his shipmate to hoist the Jolly Roger. He, who in turn responded, "he's not so jolly." "Then hoist the not so Jolly Roger," Long John replied. This was followed by the sounds of some grumbling twit being raised up the mast. So the things we forget, maybe we don't forget.

"You might say it's quiet enough for a drum solo."

Among the many pleasures of doing Space Pirate Radio, besides introducing new music, is actually meeting the artists who create it. Many of the top musicians in the field of progressive, electronic and experimental music have graciously appeared on my program. When I stop and try to actually list everybody who I have met through the show, I am amazed at the variety of talent and styles that I have encountered. It is impossible to single out any one guest over the other. I have been tremendously honoured at the persons who have paid the show a visit or let me through their doors with or without a microphone. I had a lot of fun with many guests. Robin Williamson, of the Incredible String Band, with his wife Janet were a real joy. I found that dinner and wine before going on air could produce some magical moments in the studio. Bryan Ferry, politely refusing interviews with all the major media, but coming to my humble radio station because he had heard years earlier me playing Roxy Music, Bryan Ferry, Brian Eno, Andy Mackay and Phil Manzanera import albums on a commercial radio station when none of the big pros would play them. Everyone from Pink Floyd except Syd Barrett. Edgar Froese of Tangerine Dream. An interesting evening and a stoney breakfast with Mike Oldfield. Steve Hackett of Genesis. Rick Wakeman. A very lovely interview with Pete Bardens of Camel. Thomas Dolby. From Sting to Primal Scream, from Steve Roach to Richard Butler of the Psychedelic Furs. Oh yeah, and Frank Zappa. Hopefully, if I don't bore you silly, I will detail many more of these encounters on later entries.

I thought I would start with lovely time spent with Bill Bruford (pictured). I met him when he was drumming for King Crimson. They did two shows in Santa Barbara at the Mission Theatre on June 4, 1984. I'm not sure that they were happy to do two shows. They probably intended to blow off the second show completely. As it so often turns out, dread in these cases translates into adrenaline, and they did probably one of the finest shows in the history of that line-up. Even Fripp was smiling. Tony Levin was gobsmacked. It was a great show and a really good interview. Bill was terrific and dressed very in the 80s style, unlike Adrian Belew, who I met earlier in the day at the hotel by the pool, in shorts, covered in fish oil ("Don't shake my hand, Guy"). Like an earlier encounter with Nick Mason, it often seems that drummers are the nicest musicians.

"Everything I've ever told you has been a lie, including that"

"Including what?"
"That everything I've ever told you has been a lie. That's not true."

A young Orson Welles got a theatre job in Ireland by saying he was a big Broadway star. He wasn't. Peter Sellers called up a BBC producer pretending to be, not one, but two, comic actors praising the talents of a young comedian they had seen named Peter Sellers. I got my first radio job pretending I was English. I wasn't. The year was 1968. The station was KTBT FM in Garden Grove, CA. And I felt that the world needed a program that played all those really cool British songs that only appeared on the imports--not on the American releases. Beatles, Kinks and Who albums in England would usually have 12-14 songs on them; American companies would release them usually with 10 songs, saving the remaining songs to make up another album that they would sell later. So for a short period of time, these extra songs of England would be "rarities" or unreleased in this country, and would have an air of excitement about them, if any American DJ would play them. Often they would appear as exclusive cuts debuted on local AM stations like Los Angeles' KHJ, KRLA or KFWB (before it became a news station).

KTBT was one of the first, so-called, freeform FM rock and roll stations challenging the Top 40 AM format. KPPC in Pasadena was another in Southern California. KTBT, however, sounded like an AM station--a sort of KHJ on acid, with album oriented cuts mixed in with the Top 40. I called my show "British Underground," with my affected British accent, but I used my real name, Guy Guden. All the other DJs used fake names, like Charlie Hookah and J. William Weed. The radio station broadcast in the middle of a stereo store in a shopping mall in Orange County. The announcer and engineer would broadcast in the center of the store in a booth. I, playing Jeff Beck's "Beck's Bolero," while customers are pondering the purchase of a Sansui receiver, and perhaps a pair of Quadroflex speakers. It was strange, but somehow I carried on. I'll never be sure if the station management really believed I was British. It didn't matter. The deed had been done. And it was the start of it all.