When I was a young, naïve lad – still at school & just discovering what I liked in the world, a friend introduced me to an alternative music choice and a secret club of radio listeners that had found a way to hear this music on the airwaves. Back then it was all Radio One. Unlike today, there wasn’t really much choice in the matter – you either listened to ‘poptastic’ chart numbness or you didn’t listen at all.
But lurking in the dead of the night, from 10 till 12 Monday to Thursday was a one man crusade. His name was John Peel.
John Peel changed music, it’s no small achievement, but it was done without noise and self proclamation or even corporate publicity. It was achieved through a simple, very pure love of music. The day John Peel died on this day, October 25th, seven years ago in 2004, a vast sea of bands lost their one big hope. The man who had genuinely listened to all (that’s right, all) of the demo tapes that he was sent, was no more.
I remember secretly listening to his shows on a transistor radio under the bed sheets – it was always a school night and I was supposed to be asleep – somehow, believing – no, knowing – that other like-minded souls were doing exactly the same thing was exciting. It was only after his death, that I read that Jarvis Cocker used to do the same thing too.
The music he played opened my wide eyes. Fed on a diet of ELO and Bee Gees and whatever else was in the charts, Peel gave us alternative or indie music to excite the soul 4 times a week. It was religious. The Peel Sessions are still played on Radio 6 Music and talked about even now, and still occasionally released in eagerly awaited trickles. Anyone that John liked, was invited to BBC Maida Vale studios to record a four-track session. In total, some 4,000 sessions were recorded by around 2,000 artists over time and these produced some legendary and fine results, from Hendrix through Nirvana to The Smiths and Pulp – and of course The Fall. I used to record some on tape, Peel never interrupted a song like other DJs – he knew that we all recorded them.
I fondly remember the excitement of The Cure’s reworked songs especially for the show during the Faith album period, or The Jesus & Mary Chain removing the ear-splitting white noise and feedback to allow us to hear just how good they were at actually writing tunes – Just Like Honey (now once again able to be heard on the newly released Psychocandy box set).
I even grew to like dub reggae through Peel, while a friend described the likes of Steel Pulse entering his bedroom through the airwaves as “time to go make a cup of tea”, I found myself drawn into the widescreen, lazy landscapes that so suited the quiet last few hours of the day. But ultimately it was the excitement of hearing great bands that were unplayed anywhere else – like The Chameleons. A band that could top the indie charts (back in the days when charts mattered, these were a separate chart dedicated to bands not signed to the corporate majors) and sell out the likes of the 1250 capacity Electric Ballroom without any airplay apart from The John Peel Show.
I remember one night a few years later. I had left school and was now at Loughton College with the likes of Alan Davies (the er, ‘comedian’) and Rob Allum (from Turin Brakes), myself and a friend were deciding whether to go to The Venue in London to see Howard Devoto (who had just gone solo after the demise of the wonderful Magazine). We decided that all would depend on the tiny unsigned Manchester band that was third on the bill who were in session the night before the gig.
So we listened, all four songs spread out evenly over 2 hours, no doubt both with fingers poised over the record buttons on our cassette players. It was one lyric in the first song that swung it for both of us. And so “let me get my hands on your mammary glands” was the catalyst that ignited my love affair with The Smiths. For a brief few gigs, The Smiths were unknown, with nothing released and we could go see them in small venues across London – and we had John Peel to thank for that.
On October 26th 2004 I received an email from a friend simply entitled “a sad day” it read:
“Its just been announced on the radio that John Peel has died suddenly. I know you are a fellow fan so I thought I’d let you know. Its really sad, I’ve been listening to him on Radio 4 for years and he was never less than brilliant.”
We immediately started to make plans to attend the open funeral. His wife, Sheila, had announced that the family would be happy to have his fans come along and pay their respects, as they knew how loved he was and thought it wouldn’t be fair to deny people this opportunity. So on 12th November 2004, myself and the friend that had informed me made our way to Bury St Edmunds. The service was piped to the 2,000 or so that couldn’t fit into the church. I remember being in the queue to try to get in with Michael Eavis a few places in front, until someone delicately collected him from the queue to get him straight in. It was a nice moment though, Eavis was willing to queue in the cold with everyone else, not for one moment considering he would have a place set aside.
The two of us were interviewed by the local county paper, and they used my words to sum up their piece. Something I’m very proud of. A fitting closure to a long, long time spent listening to John Peel late at night. Seven years have passed since then and radio has long given up the hunt for his successor, probably now realising that he was unique; Peel was once asked what his favourite record was, he fumbled about on his desk for a moment and lifted up an unopened package containing a record, saying it was “this one” for it might contain “something wonderful” he had not yet heard.
So what do I take with me from all this? Well, great great memories of course. But also the funny moments, for Peel was also rather endearingly not a “very good” DJ, often playing records at the wrong speed, sometimes hauling them off the record deck with a chuckle and a “..I do apologise, listeners..” and once saying: “”I’m sure I’m not alone in thinking that sounded better when I played it the other night, at the wrong speed.”
There was the time I thought my radio had gone wrong as the room was bathed in eerie silence after a song had finished, to eventually liven up again with some rustling as another apology greeted us – seems the length of the record was misjudged and didn’t coincide with the toilet break. And there was the moment he defied the BBC ban and played The Sex Pistol’s God Save The Queen right before midnight, suggesting to the listeners that it was so late that no-one at the BBC would notice anyway. For that was the man and his show; obscure, hidden away in a quiet part of the night, completely misunderstood by the BBC, but warm, friendly and loved by us.
