Johnnie Walker - The Autobiography

JOHNNIE WALKER

MICHAEL JOSEPH

an imprint of

PENGUIN BOOKS

MICHAEL JOSEPH

Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephens Green, Dublin 2, Ireland
(a division of Penguin Books Ltd)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)
Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand
(a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

www.penguin.com

First published 2007
1

Copyright Johnnie Walker, 2007

Photograph of Hedge Heritage Softail Classic by Kevin Wilson;
photograph of Johnnie and Tiggys wedding taken by Kate Caldicott;
all other photographs taken from Johnnie Walkers private collection.

The moral right of the author has been asserted

All rights reserved
Without limiting the rights under copyright
reserved above, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior
written permission of both the copyright owner and
the above publisher of this book

EISBN: 9780141900643

To the Great Spirit, Trevor, Mary, Tiggy, Sam and Beth

It had all started so well. It was amazing that Id managed to wangle myself an audition to be a DJ for Radio Luxembourg in the first place, considering that I had no experience apart from talking to the friendly silence of my bedroom while I cued up tapes of the hit parade pirated from the BBC. But the producer Id telephoned didnt know that. After all, it took some front for a young nobody to call an experienced producer like Eggy Lay and ask for a chance to present one of the shows; hed scheduled an audition for me at the London office, telling me to bring four records with me, and three copies of my script. Easy.

This was my great opportunity. Boasting to all my friends and family that I was about to become a famous DJ, Id managed to get the day off from work, dressed myself in my best suit, taken the train to Paddington, stepped into a taxi and given the driver the address. It was my first trip to London and I stared out of the window of the taxi, overwhelmed by the size of the city and the sheer number of people. I was dropped off in a narrow street next to the Park Lane Hilton. The highly polished brass plate on the door proclaimed 36 Hertford Street, home of Europes biggest and most powerful radio station and, for music fans, essential night-time listening.

Now I was seriously scared. Walking into the enormous studio was the most daunting experience of my life so far and I was suddenly aware that I might have taken on a bit more than I could handle. Radio Luxembourg had been broadcasting since 1933 and had reached the peak of its popularity in the fifties, particularly among the young, who were able to listen to the kind of music they craved. Now, in the early sixties, it was still a powerful force, answering a need in the youthful listening public that the BBC had not yet begun to address beyond its once-weekly pop programme. Radio Luxembourg boasted DJs such as David Jacobs, Alan Freeman, Pete Murray and Tony Hall the big names, who fronted the radio shows sponsored by record companies as well as the lesser-known presenters like Barry Aldiss, who lived and worked in Luxembourg. It was a job as one of these minor DJs that I was hoping to get from my audition.

Eggy Lay, the producer, was businesslike, and not at all friendly. He wasnt there to be my chum but to give me the ten minutes necessary to see if I was any use to him.

Wheres your script, then? he asked.

I handed over what I had brought with me, and then glanced nervously around the studio. It wasnt at all as Id imagined it. When Id listened to Radio Luxembourg, Id always pictured the DJ talking to me from somewhere small and intimate, but this was a vast room, big enough to contain an entire orchestra. In the middle was a round table with a huge, black microphone suspended above it, but there was no sign of a turntable for me to play my records on. I clutched them even more tightly.

Ill take those, said Eggy Lay. You sit here, read your script and cue us in when you want the track to begin.

How? I asked.

Like this. He made a gesture with his hand. Well be in there. He indicated a room separated from the studio by a glass wall. Behind it, I could see two other men sitting in front of a desk. Right, lets get going.

He walked off with my scripts and records, leaving me with my own copy and that big black microphone. I sat down, absolutely terrified. Putting my script out on the table in front of me, I tried to concentrate on the words I had spent so long carefully crafting. When Eggy Lay had told me Id need a script, Id been taken aback. My favourite DJs didnt sound like they read from scripts, and Id certainly never used one when broadcasting to my imaginary audience in my bedroom. I reacted spontaneously to the music I heard and tried to convey my own emotions as I felt them. But a script was obviously the required thing, so Id done my best. The first one I wrote was probably the best, but it seemed pretty rubbish to me, so I rewrote it and rewrote it, until I ended up with something that sounded like the kind of thing Id heard on the BBC: careful, prepared and completely unnatural.

Clearing my throat, I glanced at the three intimidating men sitting behind the glass wall, and saw them give me the signal to start. So off I went.

As the large ten-inch metal reels of Radio Luxembourgs professional tape recorders came to a stop, I looked at the three faces behind the glass window in the studio wall. I could see from their expressions that it didnt look good.

I knew in my heart that Id been truly dreadful. I didnt know what I sounded like, but it had felt stilted and forced, and simultaneously under- and overrehearsed. I wasnt going to get another chance, not even a second read-through. My audition had lasted about four minutes and I had failed it spectacularly. Eggy Lay came back into the studio with my records, a look of annoyance on his face, as though I had wasted his valuable time with my pathetic ramblings and utter lack of experience.

I attempted a friendly smile.

Tell me honestly what you thought, I said. Dont try to be kind or spare my feelings.

So he didnt.

Youll never be a DJ as long as you live. You just havent got the personality for it. Ill show you out.

It was devastating to hear. My dreams instantly collapsed and I followed him down a corridor in a daze of disappointment and rejection. He couldnt get me out of the building quickly enough. Instead of the smart front door Id come in by, I was shown out of a fire-escape door and into a mews behind the main building. With a curt goodbye, Eggy Lay slammed the door shut after me.

I stood there, forlorn and lost. I had walked boldly through the front door with such high expectations: my talent was about to be recognized; soon I would have my own radio show. Now I had been shown out of the back door, my hopes destroyed and with no idea of where I was. I wandered about the streets of Mayfair until eventually I found my way back to Park Lane. I decided to walk back to Paddington Station. There was no point now in hailing a taxi and wasting more money on this foolish dream.