National Disc Jockey Day.

 National Disc Jockey Day.

To quote the late and great Alan Freeman, today is national disc jockey day pop pickers. Not 'alf? Now for those of a certain generation, Alan Freeman was the epitome of cool, professionalism, impeccable factual accuracy and a general bon viveur. Freeman was the ultimate gentleman, a man of supreme wit and humour, jokey joviality and a complete dedication to the world of music, rock music and an enduring passion for all genres of popular, mainstream and classical music. 

Now this neatly leads you into what today is. Yes folks, it's National Disc Jockey Day, undoubtedly so. For most of us the disc jockey is that invisible, anonymous figure who either wakes us up to the breakfast show or sends us off to sleep with a late night phone in. In between those waking hours, the disc jockey serves up an enticing cocktail of the latest hits in the charts, the nostalgic goodies, country and western, soul, disco from the 1970s, or just incessant often controversial talk where the presenter either gets hot and bothered about nothing in particular or thinks that the political climate in Britain is far too inflammatory, somehow defying comment at times.

Then there are the explosive moments on radio where disc jockeys play those catchy jingles we'll always remember before reverting to an often tedious monologue about themselves depending entirely on your point of view. Some disc jockeys would rather avoid any kind of recognition because it might be embarrassing if they didn't meet up to the public perception of them. Then there are the colourful characters who just dump the rule book unceremoniously and just have some good old fashioned fun in the studio. 

Your mind immediately turns to the one and only but, sadly, late Kenny Everett. Kenny Everett was, by his own admission, crazy and bonkers but in a nice way. Everett was anarchic, obviously non conformist, permanently rebellious, railing against authority, always pushing the boundaries until they were almost broken but, most of all and perhaps most importantly, hilarious. Everett enjoyed a relationship with his listening audience that spanned the late 1960s and only came to an end with his tragic death to Aids.

Everett's story is one now fondly recalled and that's how we would choose to remember him as an outspoken, cheeky, extrovert, impudent but wonderfully clever disc jockey. He began his career on the illegal pirate ships during the 1960s and just kept going. When he arrived at London's brand new commercial radio station called Capital Radio, all of those sceptical and stuffy radio executives and owners of stations roundly took exception to Everett and thought he represented some outrageous expression of modern culture and society. Everett was their spokesman and didn't hold back. 

But when things settled down and after Radio 1 had seen the back of Everett, commercial radio provided him with the perfect platform to go wild with that gloriously imaginative style of presenting that must have left the BBC Director General simmering over with anger. Everett introduced pop music in a way that was sometimes unconventional but always with his finger on the pulse of London and Great Britain.

In 1975, Kenny Everett discovered on his Capital Radio turntables one of the greatest pieces of music he'd ever heard. The group was Queen, fronted by that spectacular showman Freddie Mercury. We were approaching Christmas and the charts would be shortly be announced to an expectant audience. Nobody saw what would come next. Slipping the single out of its sleeve, Everett dropped the stylus on the record player and the rest is well documented history. It was a rock opera masterpiece.

Queen's latest album was Night at the Opera and a track called Bohemian Rhapsody was discreetly hidden from view. Freddie Mercury, himself, couldn't believe that this one single from an album would become rock music dynamite, a song which would achieve the kind of phenomenal popularity that other contemporary bands could only dream of. Overnight, the name of Queen would become hot property, a worldwide famous pop group who had, unknowingly, released a monster hit that would dramatically change their fortunes. 

And so it was that Kenny Everett's name would become synonymous with Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody because once played on the air, Everett would play it over and over again, enthralled and mesmerised by its artistic beauty. Bohemian Rhapsody would remain at number one for what seemed an eternity and the influence of the music playing DJ would become enshrined in the annals of history. 

Then there was BBC Radio 1, the one station who broke the pirate radio's monopoly on daytime pop music. In 1967, Tony Blackburn, another fresh faced and angelic figure from the pirate boats, introduced Flowers in the Rain by the Move as the very first 45 single ever to be played on the radio. Blackburn, of course, a national treasure and still spinning the discs all those years later.

For the next decade and a half, Britain would wake up to the the sound of the top 40s, Blackburn was a pioneering character who loved to entertain with cheesy but lovable jokes and a fierce supporter of the Beatles, Rolling Stones, the Animals, Manfred Mann, Procol Harum, Cliff Richard, Cilla Black plus the Motown might of Diana Ross and the Supremes, the Temptations, the Detroit Spinners, Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye. 

With Radio 2 still faithful to its policy of easy listening music and household crooners who weren't quite as funky and jazzy as Radio 1, Radio 1 gave us a whole conveyor belt of unknown DJs such as Dave Lee Travis, Simon Bates, Paul Burnett, the Emperor Rosko, Noel Edmonds and then more latterly Simon Mayo and then there was John Peel late at night with his very distinctive taste in punk music from the 1970s. Peel was a revolutionary because he found all of that pop music distinctly boring and lacking in originality so he went against the grain and did his thing rather than follow the script. 

Meanwhile Radio 2 could still boast the likes of the late and  much missed Terry Wogan and former 1950s singer Jimmy Young. Wogan was the immensely smooth and likeable Irish charmer, amiable to all and sundry, the very personification of reliability and a natural story teller with a wit, humour and a warm, engaging personality. Wogan became a renowned chat show host, a man with a gentle, delightful sarcasm at times and nothing but good to say about the world. And that, in essence, is how disc jockeys would like to be known for.

But then disc jockeys ventured into the clubs and nightclubs, the late night gigs that would go on until the small hours of the morning if the establishment allowed it. Disc jockeys now became idolised and worshipped, screamed at by hysterical teenagers, smiling constantly while wearing a vast assortment of technicoloured beach shirts, a medallion on their chests and huge racks of initially 45 singles from the charts and then 12 inch singles, EPs, green, yellow, blue and red vinyl with a striking record label.

And so find ourselves in the time where the weekly helping of BBC Top of the Pops first aired. In 1964, Top of the Pops appeared on our screens for the first time live from a Manchester town hall. Sadly, the programme was scrapped a number of years ago but leaves as its lasting legacy an archive of the sublime and the ridiculous. We'd always remember the presenters such as Tony Blackburn, Dave Lee Travis, Ed Stewart, David Hamilton, Noel Edmonds, John Peel, grudgingly it seemed at the time but so wonderfully. Peel loved music but he drew the line at the Top of the Pops. 

Increasingly disc jockeys are stereotypically portrayed as that friendly voice on the radio, the man or woman who dutifully obliges with special requests for members of your family. They'll promise you a substantial amount of money if you can correctly the name of the first ever single ever released in Britain or which famous group once reached the top of the charts with a song about a combine harvester. DJs keep you entertained and informed with constant traffic updates, interviews with eminent rock stars and then the kind of small talk, humorous witticisms and bubbly bonhomie that becomes their trademark. 

Most of us take our disc jockeys for granted but still recall with some affection where we were on the morning that Radio 1 made their first ever broadcast. It was September 30th 1967 and the world was experiencing all the joys of flower power, garish fashions in Kings Road shop windows, and England were still bathing in the eureka euphoria of their only World Cup trophy so far. That Was the Week That Was the progamme  that dared to challenge the Establishment with its political and satirical digs at prominent figures in Westminster. 

But disc jockeys are reassuring when the going gets tough. They take us back into a pleasantly nostalgic land where your back doors were always open and the price of butter would have set you back a couple of shillings. They were always cheerful and never despondent because they were there for us, chirpy, kind and thoughtful people who always looked on the bright side. Disc jockeys sympathise with us when we fail important school exams and then celebrate weddings, anniversaries, the happy gatherings of our lives that disc jockeys want you to enjoy. So never fear the DJ is about to play your favourite song that means so much and the world to you. We'd be lost without a DJ because music reminds us of our favourite memory and there can be nothing wrong with that.