Sunday 30 March 2014

Fans Jump in Boats to Visit the New Sensation


Radio Caroline, soon after it dropped anchor
FIFTY years ago today a small and rather rickety armada of boats carrying excited teenagers headed out into the North Sea from various points on the Suffolk and Essex coast.

They went bearing record requests, letters of encouragement and other small items which they planned to throw on board a ship that was out there broadcasting continuous pop music into millions of British homes. It was a brand new, unique and apparently illegal service that had caused untold shock and excitement on the mainland.

Nine miles off Felixstowe was anchored this pirate ship, its occupants unsure how popular their venture would prove, and never expecting the incredible show of support that was about to engulf them in the coming days.

The venture represented one in the eye for the staid BBC and its broadcasting monopoly, and for the UK government, with its strict, out-of-date rules and regulations. It would prove the biggest cultural breakthrough since TW3 (That Was The Week That Was) hit TV screens with its fearless satire.

The press loved the fuss that was being created. The Daily Mail asked the authorities about the ship’s legality and was told: “They are positioned beyond territorial waters. To stop them we would have to fire torpedoes. But that’s a bit drastic isn’t it?”

The former 700-ton passenger ferry Fredericia, with its massive 160-foot mast, was not hard to locate and the little boats full of fans drew alongside, screaming and waving at the men on board and throwing bits and pieces on board with messages and record requests attached.

Back on land, the impact of the first two days of broadcasting had been huge. The signal on 199 metres was strong and the unprecedented format of continuous pop records was clearly a big hit with the public.

But why was this new phenomenon called ‘Caroline’?  The answer lie with the station’s Irish founder Ronan O’Rahilly, who chose the name while on a recent flight to Texas to buy the transmitters. Flicking through a copy of Life magazine, he came across pictures of President Kennedy at work in the White House. In one of them, the President’s tiny daughter Caroline was playing on the floor under her daddy’s desk, while the important men around her held high-level discussions. The headline above the item stated ‘Caroline disrupts the Western World’. On reading that sentence, O’Rahilly said, “Bang! That was it, the station had to be called Caroline!”

Another popular question concerned the mystery men on board the pirate ship. One paper reported there were four disc jockeys, the American Chris Moore, a Swede, and two Brits, one of whom liked to be known as Simon Dee. This quartet expected to stay on board for three weeks before being taken off by a supply tender which would bring out temporary replacements while they had two weeks’ rest.

The crew was mainly Dutch, led by Captain Mackay, a 50-year-old Lancastrian who revealed that in nearly 40 years of sea-faring experience he’d never been able to call himself a ‘pirate’ before.

By the time the station had been on air for 48 hours it was estimated that it had garnered an incredible 20 million listeners, and word was still spreading fast . . . .



Friday 28 March 2014

History is Made - Pass the Sick Bucket!

Simon Dee on board the ship 
FIFTY years ago today and the waiting was over: "Good morning ladies and gentlemen - this is Radio Caroline, broadcasting on 199, your all-day music station."

It was noon on Easter Saturday 28th March 1964, and the voice from the North Sea was that of Cyril Henty-Dodd, a 28-year-old former public schoolboy, failed actor and estate agent, soon to find fame under his showbiz name Simon Dee

Against all the odds, the new Radio Caroline had jumped through several legal loopholes and was on air, broadcasting loud and clear to large swathes of southern and eastern England from a ship anchored a few miles off the coast from Felixstowe and Harwich.

Simon Dee's announcement preceded DJ Chris Moore, who kicked things off by spinning the Rolling Stones’ hit Not Fade Away, followed by The Beatles and Can’t Buy Me Love.

The handful of nervous and excited people flapping around on board the ship and in its little studio had no idea how many listeners might be tuning in, or indeed if they could be heard at all. They certainly had no inkling of the incredible fuss they were creating at that moment.

Down in Kent a member of the Caroline team called Carl Conway had jumped into his car and was driving around like a maniac, tuning and re-tuning his car radio, testing how far and wide and how strongly the signal from the ship could be heard. He was ecstatic to hear the music loud and clear all over the place, including Thanet, Margate and Canterbury.  

In London's West End, the Caroline founder, softly-spoken Irishman Ronan O’Rahilly, and a group of friends were clustered around a restaurant table wrestling with the dial of a transistor radio. Someone had the bright idea of going outside and here they suddenly picked up the signal, their shrieks of delight bringing the busy pavement to a near standstill. Pop history was being made.  

Simon Dee was one of the few DJs actually on board over the Easter weekend, most of the others having auditioned for O’Rahilly in London and then taped shows which were sent out to the ship. Among these recruits was actor John Junkin, about to appear in the Beatles film A Hard Day’s Night.

It was a rag-bag team, many struggling to make their way in the entertainment industry and desperate for work. Chris Moore, for example, was a typical Chelsea bohemian figure, while Ed Moreno (real name Norman Cole) had diabetes and would defy doctors’ orders to join the ship later.

On land it was all excitement and celebration, but on the ship itself life was already getting tough. Simon Dee’s recollection of that first broadcast was of being “scared stiff.”  He said his stomach was heaving in time to the heavy swell of the boat. “Talk about false gaiety – most of the time I was keeping close company with a bucket!”
But he was quick to add that the feeling of being a real pioneer helped him through and made it worth the suffering . . .

Thursday 27 March 2014

27 March 1964: Something Wicked This Way Comes!

Radio Caroline, launched in the North Sea 50 years ago today

Fifty years ago today the lives of millions of British teenagers were about to change forever.

Under a veil of secrecy, a vessel set sail from Greenore in Ireland, organised by a group of mystery men who had an incredible dream - to start a revolution that would turn pop music, youth culture and radio in the UK completely on its head.

The motor vessel 'Caroline', formerly a 700-ton passenger ferry called the Fredericia, was under the command of Captain Baeker and heading round the coast towards East Anglia. It had a remarkable 160-foot tall aerial, which needed 300 tons of concrete ballast below to keep it from toppling over. The ship had been rented from a Swiss company and taken from Rotterdam to Ireland to be secretly fitted out. After months of work it was now ready for its new job.

At 7pm on the evening of Good Friday, 27th March 1964, the vessel took up a position just off the Essex coast near Harwich, a spot carefully calculated to be in international waters, and not in the path of the frequent merchant ships using the busy port. Caroline dropped her two-ton anchor chain and work immediately began on getting a broadcasting signal set up. The waters off Harwich had been chosen as suitable for their equipment to be able to reach most of London and SE England via 199 metres on the medium wave, according to the man who set it up, a former BBC technician called Arthur Carrington.
 
On board during that evening, shorts tests were carried out. At five minutes to midnight the silence was suddenly broken on 1495 kHz (201 metres) by intermittent crackling and then the song 'Round Midnight' - recorded by Hammond organ wizard Jimmy McGriff - could be clearly heard.

The BBC, with its radio monopoly and upper-crust managers with no time for pop music, did not know what was about to hit them. Pirate radio from the North Sea was about to be born.

Trying desperately to fend off seasickness as the ship gently rolled, a young American called Chris Moore nervously began making plans for the following day. He had been chosen as the disc jockey to kick off the revolution . . .