Death on Air

The passing of HRH Prince Philip caused radio stations around the UK to quickly amend their playlists today. This was done – as one announcer explained on air – as a mark of respect for the Duke of Edinburgh.

So if you tune in to your local station you're not likely to hear any songs that relate to death, and nothing too heavy. Your favourite Satanic core and Gothic industrial tracks will have to wait for a bit, while Glenn Campbell and The Carpenters are dusted off and aired once again.

Not that radio jocks have had to scrabble urgently for an appropriately-mellow playlist – it will already have been there waiting in the wings, for occasions just such as this. When I worked in radio back in 1978, this was known as the D&D playlist – for 'Death and Disaster.'

Picture if you will a younger version of myself sitting at a radio desk that had large knurled knobs, a few faders, old-fashioned throw-switches, a row of gauges showing audio levels, and twin record turntables, one on either side. The microphone hung from above, and the headphones I wore were huge, but top quality. There wasn't a computer in sight.

Off to the right was a shelf with a collection of LPs (which stands for Long Playing records for those of you who are too young) which were the Death and Disaster records. These had been chosen – I was informed when I started – as the go-to stack of music in the event that a member of the Royal family died, or when there was some other nationwide tragedy. The music was innocuous, mostly instrumental, and unlikely to upset grieving listeners.

As announcers we were told that the most likely situation for using the D&D pile would be if the Queen Mother died, choking on her gin and tonic while screaming at a horse race on the telly. As it was, she outlasted my radio career by a long shot.

But anyway, here we are in 1978. Radio Nelson – call-sign 2ZN – was my first station, situated in the charming city of Nelson in New Zealand's South Island. It was a great station and very much a part of the local community.

So it came as no great surprise when our station manager, Don Jones, told us one day that in order to continue providing a valuable public service while the local newspaper was on strike and not publishing, we would be announcing local death notices following the six o'clock news each evening.

This, he said, was the least we could do, though elsewhere in the station the marketing bods were rubbing their hands in glee knowing that any local businesses wanting to advertise would now have to come to 2ZN rather than The Nelson Evening Mail.

2ZN Radio Nelson in the 1970s
Image: Nelson Photo News

We announcers were somewhat dismayed at this news. Not only did we have to read out the death notices, we were instructed to do each one twice. We prayed the newspaper's union and management would reach an agreement sooner rather than later, as we couldn't think of a more effective way to reduce the listening audience to record low levels.

In those days, on the top of each hour, we would take a news-feed from Radio New Zealand's corporate centre in the capital Wellington, and when that had finished we would switch back and read our local news, provided each day by our station journalists. It was following the local news at six o'clock that the death notices were to be read, using – you guessed it – music from the easy-listening Death and Disaster collection in the background. You can probably see what's coming.

I had been listening to the six o'clock news-feed and waiting nervously for our journalist to deliver our local bulletin, but even after the main news was halfway through he still hadn't shown. I had the death notices and had read through them, but no news is not good news.

Just before the main bulletin was due to finish the journo flew into the studio waving a raft of news stories at me and apologising profusely. I quickly scanned the pages so that I had some idea of what I'd be reading, then the main news finished and I turned on the mic. 'Good evening, it's four minutes past six and here's the local news...'

All was good and I got through the bulletin, except that during the final item I realised I'd forgotten to line up any D&D music for the death notices. Continuing reading, I reached out with my right hand and selected a disc from the Death and Disaster collection, secure in the knowledge that it had been chosen specially and would not offend anyone.

I put the LP on the turntable, dropped the needle onto it, and then, as I introduced the death notices I slowly faded the music up in the background. I was relieved to hear that it was indeed quiet, with no heavy guitar riffs, and no vocals.

'And now, we bring you today's death notices,' I said in a suitably sombre tone. 'We are sad to announce the passing of Dora Blakehurst of Motueka...'

I am making this name up right now as I have no idea who died, and even at the moment I was reading I wasn't taking any notice either because, through my headphones I was horrified to recognise the music that I'd blindly selected.

It was a very soft and instrumental version of Roberta Flack's 'Killing Me Softly.'

The Good, the Bad and the Boring - Famous People I have Interviewed (Part One)

Rowan Atkinson. Image courtesy of BBC

Dave Allen was fabulous, Douglas Adams was gracious, Rowan Atkinson was charming, and Mel Smith was obnoxious. Arthur Lowe of Dad's Army was downright boring.

How do I know this? Because I interviewed them all and many others during my time hosting a regional news programme in New Zealand during the 1980s . 

(A note of caution: many of the famous people I interviewed are now dead, so if anyone suggests I should talk to you, run for the hills)

Before I spill the beans on some of the world's rich and famous, let me explain how I came to be in a position to meet these noters. In a nutshell, I had joined what was, back in the late 1970s, the BCNZ - the Broadcasting Corporation of New Zealand. I worked firstly in radio as an announcer with Radio New Zealand (RNZ), and after a couple of years moved into television (TVNZ) as a continuity announcer. 

In those days, as in the UK, TV announcers appeared on screen between the programmes to back-announce one programme and preview those coming up. We did this live on air, and wrote our own scripts. Quaintly, there were only women on the day shift and men on the evening shift. We males got the raw end of the deal as we were on duty till midnight.

Continuity announcing, like flying...

Live continuity announcing was like flying – long periods of boredom interrupted by moments of sheer terror. 

Being live on TV was tense, because usually you had only a minute or so to do your stuff between programmes, and then while the programmes themselves were playing you had nothing to do at all, except maybe chat to the Programme and Technical Directors, or read a book. Or of course watch television.

So it wasn't too long before I started looking for other opportunities, but first I had my first ever meeting with someone famous.

I was asked to interview Arthur Lowe, well known at the time for playing Captain Mainwaring in the enormously successful British comedy Dad’s Army.

He was visiting our studios for some reason, and one of the Programme Directors persuaded him to be interviewed on tape, for possible broadcast. It was a very last-minute arrangement, and all I had to go on by way of research was an old copy of the BBC’s Who’s Who on TV. The biographical information on Lowe was minimal, though it did mention he was interested in vintage steam boats.

So, Arthur Lowe and I are sat in one of the small presentation studios with a camera glaring at us, and I start asking him questions.

Yawn...

My first mistake was that I expected him to be funny, since he reduced everyone to tears in every episode of Dad’s Army. I was so wrong. 

Arthur Lowe was one of the dullest men I’ve ever met. I thought I would lead him onto the subject of vintage steam boats, and asked, ‘So what do you like to do in your spare time?” To which he replied with a shake of his head, ‘Oh I don’t have any spare time.' End of conversation.

We recorded a 15-minute interview, and when we reviewed it later (after Lowe had left) we found we couldn’t use any of it; he was just so incredibly boring. It was a big disappointment for me, but also an eye-opener, because I realised (many years later) that it was actually my fault. 

My problem was I was still wet behind the ears as far as interviewing was concerned, and very naïve. I'd expected him to be amusing, but in fact he was a comic actor, not a comedian. However, that shouldn’t have made him any less interesting. 

What I should have done was ask him why didn’t he have any spare time, was he a

workaholic, what other work did he do apart from Dad’s Army, how did this impact on his family life, and so on. Unfortunately I didn’t, and worse: it was a mistake I was to repeat with someone more famous later. But at the time the conclusion we reached was that Arthur Lowe was just dull.

The novelty of live continuity announcing wore off after 18 months or so, though I knew I loved the television medium, so when a vacancy for a news anchor role came up I applied, and after a successful audition and interview I got the job.

Good Evening and welcome to Today Tonight

Suddenly I was in a role that carried a lot more gravitas. I was a newsreader and interviewer, with the added bonus of being able to go into the field to record short features. And every evening, Monday through Friday, we the regional news team had to deliver live local news, between 6.40pm and 7.00pm, which I fronted. It was my first experience of working in a busy newsroom, and I loved it.

Perhaps the best part of the news anchor job though was the chance to interview some really famous people, either live in the studio or out 'in the field' on film (yes, it was 16mm film then, not video tape – that came later).

Every time someone famous came to town to do a show or similar we would get the chance to interview them. In the time I fronted Today Tonight – about four years – I met and interviewed stars as diverse as Barry Humphries (Dame Edna), Douglas Adams (Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy), scientist and astronomer Carl Sagan, French mime artist Marcel Marceau, the Botanic Man Dr. David Bellamy, comedians Mel Smith and Griff Rhys-Jones, Irish comedian Dave Allen (Yes, okay, I know he looks bored in the photo but he wasn't; I'm scintillating company, especially with a glass of wine in hand...) Great Dane Victor Borge, astronomer Sir Patrick Moore, the legendary Rowan Atkinson and the equally legendary Spike Milligan.

Dave Allen and I waiting while the crew set up

Bands such as Dire Straits and the Hollies joined the list along with some local Kiwi noters too, such as poet Sam Hunt, Prime Minister Rob Muldoon and property magnate Sir Bob Jones, among others.

Because the programme was only 20 minutes’ duration our interviews were, of necessity, short – usually no more than five minutes’ long. In the studio this meant being quite strict with timing, but in the field you could interview at length and then edit down afterwards. Thus it was my interview with Rowan Atkinson in the studio passed in a flash. I can’t now recall what we talked about, but he was very gracious. At that time he was known for his role in the British comedy Not The Nine O’clock News and had yet to assume the persona of Mr Bean or Blackadder.

Rowan Atkinson in Not The Nine O'clock News.
Image: Pinterest

Unlike Arthur Lowe, Atkinson was a joy to interview, even though what we talked about is lost in my ever-depleting neurons. But I do recall one of the intriguing things about Atkinson and that was that he had a stutter. 

Nothing major, nothing that would cause excruciating embarrassment where he just couldn’t get a word out, but I could recognise the technique he used to overcome it – sometimes by changing a word he was about to use, or taking a breath or pausing as though thinking (I know about these because I stuttered as a child and used the same coping mechanisms). And yet, when you watch him in Blackadder or Johnny English there isn’t the slightest hint of a stammer.

I too discovered that if the microphone was on, I never ever stuttered, but outside of the studio I would occasionally still have trouble with words. 

I saw this same suppressive effect in action with another TVNZ presenter of the 80s who hosted a live Sunday studio-based religious programme. Off-air he had quite an obvious stutter, but once that red light was on you would never ever know. I wonder why nobody has done a thesis on this.

Rowan Atkinson kindly autographed my script that evening before he left with then-girlfriend Lesley Ash (later to star in Men Behaving Badly and more). I pinned the script to the wall of the dressing room I used, from where it was later stolen. I think I know who did it, but no doubt he had an 'aleebee'.

Irish comic Dave Allen was another charmer, and I'll tell you more about meeting him and others in Part Two. Soon. Well, sometime soon; let's get the festive season out of the way first :-)