World in My Eyes: The Autobiography Read online

  Pauline was a very pretty blond and always caught your eye when she would shimmy on the dance floor in her miniskirts and thigh-high patent-leather boots. The only problem was that her room was upstairs on the second floor so, not being a skilled cat burglar, I now had to sneak in and out through the front door which was an equally perilous proposition. But the risk/ reward ratio was definitely in my favor and I learned to move quickly and silently through the quadrangle unobserved by the watching prefects. And let me just make a statement here, whoever coined the term “Too many cooks spoil the broth” had obviously never met these two Cooks!

  I continued to help Norm with the college dances which were booked every other Saturday throughout the term. I became very proficient at setting up the rental gear and troubleshooting any problems that occurred with the speaker leads and valve amplifiers. Norm began letting me DJ with him and start off the first hour of the dances. I had no record collection of my own at Westminster so I had to use Norm’s and I treated his seven-inch vinyl singles like gold.

  Soon I was getting the early crowd dancing and began to get confident using the microphone. My initial fear of being laughed at when I said something dissipated and I looked forward all week to getting behind the turntables and playing for the other students. I would emulate my DJ heroes from the radio like Emperor Rosko and Paul Burnett. I didn’t yet have a style of my own so I took my inspiration from those I considered to be the best.

  In February of 1971 there was a vacancy on the social club and I was elected onto it as secretary. It basically meant that I had to keep track of booking out the cafeteria and dealing with the disco rental gear. There were a few other activities that the social club was involved with like planning barbeques and trips to other campuses for sing-alongs, but none of that kumbaya stuff was important to me; I was focused on the college dances. A seed had been sown in my mind: maybe I could become a DJ.

  As June rolled around the college year was ending. I bid a sad but grateful goodbye to the two Cooks, and then said farewell to Keith, Phil and finally to Norm.

  He shook my hand and smiled, “Don’t let me down. You’re the DJ now.”

  And with that endorsement the baton or at least the two rented turntables and a microphone were handed over to me.

  Summer rolled by quickly in Torquay. I worked as a full silver-service waiter at the Rainbow House hotel. My job was to present and serve the food from individual silver platters onto the guests’ plates. In return they were expected to come for lunch and dinner dressed up. The minimum of a linen suit and tie was required at lunch, and for dinner a dark formal suit or tuxedo and bow-tie. It was very old-school but the diners loved it as it made them feel as if they had been transported back to a golden age in British history and as a result they were very generous with their tips.

  I worked hard and saved a lot of money that summer and used it for two things, the first of which was to put together a record collection that I could DJ with. I did this by scouring the record stores and combing through the used jukebox singles for sale at Torquay’s flea market.

  Outside #22 with my beloved MG Midget

  The second thing I did with my wages and tips was to pay off the loan from my parents for my Morris Minor. I then sold that car and bought a used sports car for two-hundred and twenty pounds, a bright-blue convertible MG Midget with a removal hardtop conversion perfect for Oxford’s brutal winters. I loved that car!

  September 1971 marked the start of my second year in college. Now I could choose which house to stay in so I opted to remain in PP. I had my own room and my ex-roommate couldn’t wait to leave that house of ill-repute and flee across campus to a more respectable location closer to the chapel.

  I was elected again to the social club and I immediately presented the committee an ambitious plan that I had come up with during the summer; we should buy our own DJ setup and stop renting it!

  My argument was simple; we were paying fifteen pounds each time we rented the gear and had it delivered. With twenty dances a year that came out to the princely sum of 300 pounds. We could buy a mobile disco setup for less than 400 pounds so within fifteen months it would be paid for and we’d start saving money. This made so much sense that the student union approved it right away and said I should be the one to head down to London and order the disco unit.

  LONDON CALLING

  Gas (petrol) was expensive in England and driving in London was a nightmare. As it was a straight shot down the M40 from Oxford to London and as the motorway ran right past Harcourt Hill I decided to hitchhike and save both the money and the mental anguish. I made my way down to the busy road and stuck my thumb out. Within minutes a beautiful Mini Cooper S pulled up and the driver wound down the window.

  “Where to?” he asked.

  “London. Going to Tottenham Court Road.”

  “That’s right by where I’m going, Oxford Street. Hop in.”

  I climbed into the lovely little car and we zoomed off.

  We chatted nonstop as we sped down the motorway. We introduced ourselves and laughed that we were both called Richard. He was excited that I was a DJ and told me he owned a record store on Oxford Street. I knew the store and had been there a few months before in April when I was in London visiting my brother. I’d actually bought a couple of records at his shop including Bridge Over Troubled Water from Simon and Garfunkel and Mona Bone Jakon from Cat Stevens.

  “Both great LPs, especially when you’re with a girl,” he laughed.

  I asked what had brought him up to Oxford.

  “Been looking for a place to put in a recording studio that also has some rooms. Kind of like a studio and hotel combo, so the artists can stay overnight and can play and record until they get tired and then just crash there. It’s too expensive to find anything like that in London. Prices are crazy there now. I was just up here looking at an old manor house and it seems to have everything I need. I might end up trying to buy that and using it for recordings and maybe even starting my own record label.”

  I told Richard I was heading to London to look for a DJ setup.

  “Tottenham Court Road is good. All kinds of shops down there selling gear and electronics. Might also want to try Roger Squires on Junction Road. It’s a bit of a ride on the Tube out to Tufnell Park but it might be worth it because that’s all he sells, stuff for discos.”

  He dropped me off at the intersection of Oxford Street and Tottenham Court Road then zipped off to his record shop. I watched as Richard Branson drove away and wondered if the young entrepreneur would follow through and sign the papers to buy The Manor Studio and start Virgin Records.

  I hit about eight stores before I eventually settled on a compact DJ unit with mixer and turntables, a 200-watt amp and two speakers with fifteen-inch woofers and horns. The price was 399 pounds and included all the leads, a microphone and delivery! Westminster College was about to have its own disco unit and I was in charge of it.

  THE FIRST CUT IS THE DEEPEST

  I returned to college with the good news on the purchase and the promise that it would be delivered before our next dance so we could start recouping its costs almost immediately. I was in a great mood as I wandered back to my room at PP house, my mind buzzing with plans for the upcoming college disco night. As I crossed the quad past L house those ideas turned to fond memories of Pauline and Sue as I remembered our late-night clandestine rendezvous and I was totally lost in thought as I walked straight into someone coming out of the door.

  “I’m so sorry,” I apologized. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

  “That’s alright,” she replied, “It was just a bump.”

  My God, she was beautiful. She was five foot six with shoulder-length blonde hair, piercing blue eyes, a face like a model and a body that any nineteen-year-old boy could only dream of holding.

  “I haven’t seen you around here before. Do you go to college here?” I asked.

  “Yes, but I just arrived a couple of days ago. I live in Hong Ko
ng and had problems getting my school papers transferred but they were very understanding and it’s all done now. What year are you in?”

  “I’m a second-year. My name’s Dick Sheppard. And you’re . . .?”

  “Carolyn Wilson.”

  It was as if I had known that name forever. It just resonated through my soul. Perhaps I was picking up vibrations from the future colliding backwards with the present. Either way right there in that moment I knew this girl would be an important part of my life. Call it kismet, call it fate, but let me call it as it was, love at first sight.

  Carolyn and I became inseparable. She was not only beautiful but also one of the coolest people I had ever met. I loved her and loved being with her. She would come to watch me swim and then dance all night when I DJ’d. She became my biggest supporter. When Carolyn was present I stepped up my game. I wanted to be better for her. My swim times became a little faster, my DJing a little more spot on.

  Taking Carolyn surfing

  I found out her father was rich, I mean silly rich. He was one of the managing directors of the Hong Kong and Shanghai Bank. They had a home on The Peak in Hong Kong and a house on the Isle of Man, an island 140 miles off the coast of England, which allowed them to have a residence in the United Kingdom without falling victim to Britain’s punitive taxation system.

  Carolyn and I talked about the future and she said that her family wanted her to marry well. Great! A waiter-turned-college-DJ who was probably going to end up being a teacher. That probably didn’t fit within their definition of well. But Carolyn wanted to follow her heart and not any financial plan that was imposed upon her. She was head over heels in love with me and I with her.

  Mum and Carolyn outside #22

  That Christmas Carolyn flew back from Hong Kong early so she could meet my parents in Torquay. Mum was very reticent about “that girl” coming to stay but within minutes of meeting her, Mum was embracing her like the daughter she never had. Dad, of course, fell instantly in love with Carolyn just as I had. Those were joyous days at number 22.

  GOING MOBILE

  As college resumed I came up with a little business plan. Oxford University was made up of more than thirty different colleges, all of which had campuses filled with students who loved to drink and party when their academic day was over. Virtually all of those colleges booked outside DJs to play at their dances. Why not book a fellow student who just happened to have all the gear necessary to rock the house?

  I made up a flyer advertising my mobile disco services with an address to write to and our house payphone number at PP and took them all over Oxford putting them up in the student-union halls of Christ Church, Exeter, Corpus Christi, Trinity, Magdalen, every college I could find. I also hit the notice boards at the entrance to Bodleian Library and all the major student pubs. Within two days I started getting calls.

  I had to keep a tight schedule as to when my swim meets were so I didn’t miss a competition or a road trip to Birmingham, Coventry, York or London. On the nights that I was free I took bookings all across Oxfordshire for Dick Sheppard’s Stereo Disco Show! At fifteen pounds a night I was doing well.

  It was a lot of work lugging all the gear, setting it up and then DJing for up to six hours for hundreds of piss-drunk students but it was more than paying the bills and my record collection started to expand rapidly. After I would get back to Westminster I would unload and store the precious mobile disco equipment then head back to PP. Most nights I would find Carolyn in my room waiting for me. It always had to be my room because she was a first-year with a roommate, but that was fine with me. As long as she was there then all was good with the world.

  In May of 1972 my father sent me an ad he had seen in a local paper looking for DJs to work in Torquay that summer. I liked the sound of that and wrote a letter to Brian Clifford at Soundwave Mobile Discos. Two phone calls and three weeks later I had secured a job with Brian to play at events all across south Devon. My days as a waiter were over, now my exploits as a DJ were about to begin in earnest.

  Brian Clifford had the biggest mobile-disco company in the West Country. He had five DJ units and a built-in clientele that he had acquired over the six years he had been in business. One night you could be DJing a house party, the next playing for a thousand people at a holiday camp.

  Brian stressed to me that he wanted DJs with personality.

  “Anyone can play records,” he explained, “I need someone who can bring the show!”

  He said that for most of his customers their party was the biggest event of the year for them so it had to be memorable.

  “If you hide behind the console then you are no good to me,” said Brian. “They’re paying good money to have you there so make them feel it was worth it.”

  That resonated with me and from that moment on I wanted to look, as well as sound, the part. If they wanted a show I would give them one.

  I went out and invested a little money in some “DJ clothes.” This included a sequined shirt with an oversized collar, wide flared pants, a silver jacket and two pairs of platform shoes. My mother nearly had a stroke when she first saw me walk in the house with my “platforms” on.

  “You look like a monster in those things!” she exclaimed.

  “Yes, and I’m surprised he can even walk in them. Mark my words, you’ll end up breaking your neck with those on,” said Dad.

  And in a way they were both right. I’m a little over six feet two inches tall barefoot so with those four-inch heels on I was rapidly approaching six seven! But couple those platforms with my shiny shirts and for sure you wouldn’t miss me as I danced wildly to Slade, Sweet and Bowie behind the DJ console.

  The crowds seemed to like it, perhaps because my enthusiastic but lousy dancing made them feel better about their own rhythmic impairment, and I started getting repeat bookings and referrals asking for me by name which pleased Brian no end as it meant more business for his company. For me it was fun and I began to really enjoy the excitement and nervous energy of not knowing what to expect when I walked into a new room except that it was my job to win everyone over and show them a great time.

  Brian commented on my voice and said I should make a demo tape to try to get on the radio so for the next few evenings I went over to his house, set up one of the DJ consoles in his garage and attempted to put together a short cassette featuring me doing my best impression of a radio DJ.

  My dad helped me type out a resume and insisted I include my previous experience in the “restaurant business” as it would show “backbone” and willingness to work. I was mortified. One look at that and I imagined that instead of the BBC hiring me to be their newest on-air DJ, they would have me work at Broadcast House as a waiter delivering scrambled eggs and a steaming pot of tea to the breakfast show.

  With Mum and my friend Dave, working the boats – Summer, 1972

  So with a ten-minute demo cassette, a resume that proudly featured serving wine at the Conway Court Hotel along with playing records for holidaymakers at Pontins, Barton Hall, I mailed off the demo and waited in vain.

  During the day the ocean was calling my name so I took a job working on Babbacombe beach renting out motor boats. First thing in the morning I would slip a trolley under the heavy, wooden boats and race with them down the steeply sloping, pebbled beach to the water using my body and legs as brakes to slow them down, Fred Flintstone fashion. You couldn’t wear shoes because the rocks were too slippery so it was brutal on your bare feet. But I was out in the sun and water all day meeting girls and DJing most nights so I had no complaints that summer.

  Actually I did have one complaint. After the freedom of having my own room at college, here I was back in my childhood bedroom at Mum and Dad’s house with little to no privacy. That meant I had nowhere to take all the girls I was meeting as a “beach boy” and DJ. I was relegated once again to stealthy encounters in parks and back seats. Knowing this was not an ideal situation for me or for the girls, I started making enquiries for the next summe
r; I knew if I could get my own apartment to rent then Torquay would become a completely different place.

  I rationalized to myself that I wasn’t really being unfaithful to Carolyn. She was in Hong Kong, 8,000 miles away, and when we got back together at college we would be exclusive, but if she wasn’t even in the same global hemisphere as me how could it be cheating? It’s amazing the logic a twenty-year-old boy can come up with.

  I started my third year at Oxford as a seasoned DJ. I’d taken what both Norm and Brian had taught me and evolved it into my own developing style. Other students noticed how I was dressing at the disco shows and really trying to “work the crowd.” I would get a lot of comments like “You look like a glam rocker” or “You should be in bloody Roxy Music dressed like that,” but they were said good-heartedly as I think they appreciated the effort I was making. Now the college dances were becoming more and more popular and even the hard-core Methodists would show up from time to time.

  My artwork for a college dance poster

  I was made captain of the swim team and between my increased pool training schedule and DJing around Oxford three or four nights a week my studies were relegated to the back burner which I knew would be a huge problem as in eight months I would be facing a series of major exams. Despite that sword of Damocles hanging over me, I was having way too much fun to be hunched over books when I could be spinning music at parties, beating out laps in the pool or spending precious time with Carolyn. Something had to suffer, so I chose academics to be the victim.

  Westminster College swim team

  UNDER PRESSURE