It wouldn’t be a surprise if there are days when Tim Davie wakes up and, for a fraction of a second, wonders if he is still the Marketing Manager for PepsiCo.
hen as the alarm continues its call, and the reassuring warmth of the duvet is pushed aside, we couldn’t blame him if he uttered a low moan as he realises he is in fact the Director of Audio and Music at the BBC.
Now, if he were here, Davie would dispute any notion of regret. He’s a ‘get-up-and-go’ sort of fellow, running marathons hither and thither, and in rather breathtaking times to boot. It’s hard though, not to feel some sort of sympathy for the man. He’s been in post for just over two years, and has already had to deal with a multiplicity of woes, all beginning with the letter ‘S’. Sachs, Six Music, Salford, Sarah K, and Moyles... (yes, I know).
Those last three have emerged (or re-emerged in the Salford case) this week as significant issues in the Davie in-box. But can we hold this former marketing man to account? Is he a loose cannon like Pete Campbell, or a reassuring Bert Cooper?
Sachsgate is history, and we assessed the sorrows and strife of Salford a couple of months ago.
So let’s deal with the herd of elephants in the studio. BBC 6 Music. Tim Davie and Mark Thompson wanted to be shot of it. The BBC Trust listened to the few dozen high profile protestors and enforced a re-think. This subject has been discussed until its entrails have been restored to life and then discussed all over again. It is arguable that a manager needs to manage and a reasoned decision was made. If 6 Music had shut down three months ago, would there still be weeping outside Broadcasting House? (The answer is almost certainly ‘no’).
At an initial glance, there may not appear to be much in common between the former head girl of Radio Two, and the blustering Yorkshire lad from Radio One. Yet under the radio microscope that I employ on such occasions, we can find a very clear link that takes us to the heart of the challenge that has faced almost every manager or controller of a radio station since Lord Reith first began hiring the talent.
In her valedictory address to the nation, via the unquestioning pages of the Mail and Telegraph, Sarah Kennedy (once she had established the conspiracy plot), laid the blame, firmly, with her producer, for not telling her she was “slurring.”
“What’s the point of a producer if he allows you to do a bad show and go home thinking it was OK?” she told the Telegraph.
On Tuesday, Chris Moyles used the first thirty minutes of his show on Radio One to ramble (it wasn’t really a ‘rant’ as most reports have indicated), rather unconvincingly, about the reliability of the BBC pay and accounting team. It may be a much fairer question to ask of this situation, where the hell was his producer? Why didn’t ‘someone’ tell him to shut up, go home, or get on with it?
When presenters or disc jockeys begin their careers, they are compliant. They want the gig so badly, that they will follow the rules, listen to the guidance and advice offered by the producer, and do anything not to rock the boat so that their (often three monthly) contract is renewed.
Time passes, and for the few, success follows success. Listeners email, text, and phone in. They tell you that you’re great. You make their day special. The station controller takes you out to lunch, but you still take the offer of the breakfast show at a bigger station.
More people tell you how fantastic you are; there are more lunches; there’s more money and then the BBC in London comes a-calling.
You’re network news! You’re featured in Heat Magazine. ITV want you to appear on the Xtra Factor. Everyone laughs along with you, including your million Twitter followers.
By this time, the tipping point has been well and truly passed, and you didn’t notice it tip. It’s like that waving listener you barely acknowledge from the back seat of the Addison Lee chauffeured car taking you to the studio. You’re bigger than any producer. They have become a junior (very junior) part of YOUR show. They laugh at your jokes because they are now dependent on you. They know you have the power. Management will dump them at your say-so. Management no longer listen to the producer, and neither do you. You’re the star.
We can’t blame the producers. If the BBC had concerns about Sarah Kennedy, they hid them
well despite a number of, shall we say, unfortunate incidents. The ‘slurring’ programme was
simply another one to chalk up on the rather large board.
It may have been a very difficult decision to take on the day. A presenter taken off air midway through her programme would have been front page news. Would Ms Kennedy have handed a bouquet to the producer in grateful thanks? It is not an easy picture to frame.
Moyles is a hundred times more powerful than any of his large cohort of junior zookeepers. They know their place. A producer dashing in to the studio and firing up a Lady Gaga track? It’s not going to happen.
The role of producer on the Moyles show is a nominal one. One could even argue that the role of producer does not exist, as the show is not produced. Chris Moyles arrives, and does as he wishes, ill advised or otherwise.
This situation is not unique to radio. Actors, musicians, performers of many kinds, sportsmen and sportswomen, start their journey on a similar, submissive, path. They become bigger than the paymasters, the producers, the directors, the managers; they buy some ‘yes men’ and it often unravels just as it has with Chris Moyles and Sarah Kennedy.
We’re all to blame, or rather, we’re all responsible. We join in with the myth of specialness, because we want to be entertained. We need to believe that the actor, singer, or disc jockey is an outlier, a rarity, unique.
When we notice the feet of clay, we gain nothing by contriving a shocked pose and tapping out an indignant comment on a Guardian blog page.
Looking for an answer? There isn’t one. It’s human nature. It may not be very reassuring, but it will happen again. And then again.
Is Tim Davie responsible for all of this? No, of course not; but he may start wishing his luck would change at the temple of the arts and muses. It must have been a lot easier at Pepsi.
Terence Dackombe, September 2010
