Showing posts with label bbc radiophonic workshop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bbc radiophonic workshop. Show all posts

The Larks Ascending


The Larks Ascending is a complete guide to comedy, humour and downright oddness on BBC Radio 3, from Kenneth Williams’ archival documentaries about strolling players who never existed, through Rowan Atkinson’s academic profiles of public figures who never existed, right up to Armando Iannucci’s interval talks about composers who did exist, but they’re fitting around him and his using his ears whether they like it or not. There’s Chris Morris interviewing Peter Cook (and getting in trouble), BBC Radiophonic Workshop hi-jinks, the first ever proper staging of Joe Orton’s unused film script for The Beatles, some sitcoms that definitely wouldn’t appeal to viewers waiting for Coronation Street, satire, silliness, and a couple of plays about cricket. And if that’s just not highbrow enough for you, then you could always enrol at The Half-Open University…

Featuring in-depth looks at little-known and little-heard works by Peter Cook, Sue Townsend, Ivor Cutler, Kenneth Williams, N.F. Simpson, Peter Tinniswood, Chris Morris, Armando Iannucci, Malcolm Bradbury, John Sessions, Joe Orton, David Renwick And Andrew Marshall, Rowan Atkinson, Toby Hadoke, The National Theatre Of Brent, The BBC Radiophonic Workshop and more, The Larks Ascending is the full history of silliness and satire on the channel that Dr. Hans Keller called a 'daytime music station'. Priced at just a few pence*!


(*Please direct all complaints about actual price to Peter Weevil and John Throgmorton, Polyphonica Neasdeniensis)

Paperback - Kindle




You can hear me talking about the book and some of the shows featured in it here:



Wake Up And Look At This Thing That I Bring...


A look through Emily's shop window at a couple of things you might have missed if you haven't been following my main site (which you can find here)...


And You And I Would Call Them Dragonflies


The story of my long search for the original recordings of the music from Bagpuss, with all manner of diversions about 'Acid Folk' and making tapes from off-air VHS recordings of Cable TV repeats, and a look at the new Bagpuss soundtrack CD. Which is handy. You can read it here.


Shindig! Issue #85


I've got a feature in the latest issue of Shindig! about the hidden beat, psych and folk highlights in the BBC Records And Tapes catalogue, featuring everyone from the BBC Radiophonic Workshop to the Play Away team, and even TV 'Girl' and 'Clown' (Test Card). Find out more about it here.


I've Heard Of Politics, But This Is Ridiculous


Now that charity shops are better organised and make more money for charity with sensible prices, it's a lot less fun rooting through them. Although they do smell slightly less of damp cardboard.
Back in the days when everything was stacked together in haphazard piles without any thought for genre, media or even size, though, you could chance upon something that literally changed the way you thought about everything. Well, that or fifteen copies of that The Adriatic Formula book.
This is the story of how I found an early sixties book based on a then long-forgotten television satire show, and how that changed everything for me. Read all about it here.




You can find more tales of record collecting in dingy charity shops and hunting for obscure television soundtrack music in my book Can’t Help Thinking About Me, available in paperback here or from the Kindle Store here.

Tim Worthington Presents... Some Stuff About Jazz, Folk, The BBC Radiophonic Workshop And Play Away

Here's a collection of recent highlights from my new website; because if you're reading this, you're probably not reading that. And missing out on the likes of...



All Its Wonder To Know - a look at where the original version of I Was Made To Love Magic by Nick Drake has disappeared to, and why it deserves to come back.



Opening Theme, Two Bands Of Incidental Music And Closing Theme - the history of the soundtrack to mid-seventies Children's BBC near-future thriller The Changes. You can also hear me chatting to Samira Ahmed about The Changes here.



If You're Feeling Happy, Tap Your Feet - there are tons of officially released versions of the theme from Play Away, and none of them quite match up to what you would have heard on screen. This is a ridiculously comprehensive guide to all of them. And don't forget that Top Of The Box, my book about every single released by BBC Records And Tapes (which also looks at The Changes) is still available from here.



Listen Here - Martin Freeman and Eddie Piller's compilation Jazz On The Corner is one of the best compilations I've heard in a long time and is full of exciting stuff from all genres and definitions of 'jazz'. I have a go at explaning why.


And don't forget to have a look around at the rest of the site while you're there - there's plenty of other new articles you might have missed, and more editions of Looks Unfamiliar. And more coming soon! Including lots of extraneous uses of the word 'and'!



Top Of The Box - The Story Behind Every BBC Records And Tapes Single is available in paperback here or from the Kindle Store here. And there's several other books to choose from here...

BWAMmM it’s ZOKKO!


It Started With Swap Shop was the name of a light-hearted retrospective broadcast by BBC2 in 2006, ostensibly celebrating thirty years of Saturday morning television but concentrating on one particular key example of the genre; Noel Edmonds’ Multicoloured Swap Shop. Like so many other light-hearted histories of the timeslot, this made the mistake of implicitly crediting Edmonds and company with the invention of the show format and pretty much the first ever use of the timeslot full stop. There were in fact a handful of now pretty much forgotten antecedents of Swap Shop, although the reasons for their being left out of such an overview are quite understandable. Saturday Scene, dating from 1973 and effectively the first use of the now-familiar Saturday morning format, was an ITV show, while the BBC’s own previous attempts at finding something suitable for this awkward timeslot were, to be blunt, just too downright weird to revisit.

Prior to 1968, neither the BBC nor ITV had really paid much attention to Saturday mornings. Although attendances were already dwindling, there still remained a strong and long-established tradition of Saturday morning cinema clubs, which provided young audiences with several hours’ worth of cartoons, serials and onstage games and entertainment. With broadcast technology still in its infancy, there seemed little point in starting up transmission for the benefit of an audience that would mostly be otherwise engaged. Usual practice – as far as the BBC was concerned – was simply to run an old film serial or an imported cartoon series after their transmission tests early in the morning, then possibly another before Grandstand started at midday, and leave screens blank for the remainder of the morning. Early in 1968, as part of a general overhaul of their output instigated by incoming departmental head Monica Sims, the BBC Children’s Department began to look into the idea of introducing structured programming to Saturday mornings.


Between 30th March and 22nd June 1968, an experimental – in both senses – magazine show called Whoosh! was added to the Saturday morning schedules. Devised by former Play School production team Cynthia Felgate and Peter Ridsdale-Scott, Whoosh! featured Play School presenter Rick Jones, ballet dancer turned comedienne Dawn Macdonald - who got the job after sending Felgate a photo of herself pulling a ridiculous face - and former child actor Jonathan Collins in what Radio Times described as ‘a place where anything can happen’ – in other words a surreal, psychedelically-decorated studio set full of eccentric prop machinery, where they tried to solve riddles and puzzles with the occasional filmed insert cued in to show them venturing ‘outdoors’. While this was some way away from the later style of Saturday morning shows, it nonetheless anticipated their energy and interplay, and predilection for offbeat storyline-driven formats.

While Whoosh! was certainly successful, and viewers enjoyed the heavy element of write-in interactivity, Sims felt that a more loose and fast-moving format akin to a televised comic was more appropriate for Saturday mornings, and was inclined to dispense with human presenters altogether. Eventually an experimental thirteen-week slot was decided on, and Children’s Department veteran Molly Cox, who had partly devised Jackanory and acted as its first director, was asked to come up with a suitable format in collaboration with newcomer Paul Ciani. Cox and Ciani shared Sims’ feelings about the kind of material appropriate for the timeslot; Saturday cinema had been a rowdy, colourful affair with plenty of action and comedy, and as such they took advantage of the perceived lack of need for a human presenter as an opportunity to pack as much action, comedy and pop music as possible into the available timeframe. The result of this meeting of minds was Zokko!, an 'electronic comic' that would zip between short features at high speed, and sought to replicate the effect of a reader flicking through an actual comic in search of their favourite strips and features. The show would contain a combination of in-house animation, stock footage, pop music, and a small amount of specially shot light entertainment material, all cut together using ‘pop art’ editing effects and graphical design that might more normally have been found on shows like Top Of The Pops or Spike Milligan’s Q5. The overall effect of this was, needless to say, disorientating and deeply strange. Introduced by a lengthy Radio Times piece urging viewers to 'Place a regular order with your television set NOW!', accompanied by an eye-catching Roy Lichtenstein-like pop-art illustration proclaiming 'BWAMmM it’s ZOKKO!', Zokko! began its first thirteen-week run on 2nd November 1968.

‘Perplexing’ is not too strong a word to use about Zokko!, and it virtually defies description even today. In place of the rejected human presenter, the production team opted instead for a talking pinball machine. Built by BBC Visual Effects designer Mike Ellis (father of later Blue Peter presenter Janet), this was a fully functioning prop, with its electronic voice provided by Brian Hodgson of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop. This would link the entire programme by autoplaying games, with each score corresponding to a different item, which would appear ‘through’ the holes in the pinball table as the robotic voice intoned the appropriate announcement (“Zokko … Score 15 … Serial”). Some of these items were made up of handy filler material that happened to be available, such as stock footage of racing car speed tests and bulk-bought Disney extracts, but unusually for a programme of this nature the vast majority were specially made in-house. As well as basic animations telling corny jokes (many of them penned by moonlighting novelist Ted Lewis) and short silent films of surreal slapstick gags, each edition of Zokko! included a running serial, pop records, and a live variety act.


Spanning the entire run, the sci-fi adventure yarn Skayn – concerning the theft of a gravity-wave-hologram capable of causing the Earth and the Moon to collide – was told through huge blow-ups of comic strip-style panels drawn by Leslie Caswell, with a pre-recorded dialogue track provided by prolific character actors Gordon Clyde, Sheelagh McGrath and Anthony Jackson. Unconventionally presented and drenched in bleeping Radiophonics, the serial segments came across as strangely tranquil and hypnotic, contrasting effectively with the loud and frenetic style of the rest of the programme. Leaning strongly towards jazzy ‘beat’ outfits like The Alan Price Set, Georgie Fame And The Blue Flames and The New Vaudeville Band, the pop tracks were accompanied by extremely well directed shorts reflecting the lyrical themes of the chosen numbers, some of which were also used in editions of Top Of The Pops.

Meanwhile, the variety acts simply turned up and did their stage performance within the very cramped confines of the Zokko! studio, doubtless causing severe logistical problems for the numerous jugglers. Even the basic list of artistes who appeared on the show makes for fascinating reading, featuring such evocative and long-forgotten names as The Tumblairs, The Skating Meteors, and The Breathtaking Eddy Limbo and ‘Pat’. A handful of more established acts would also show up including conjuring legend Ali Bongo; veteran brother and sister acrobatic duo Johnny and Suma Lamonte; visiting American Phil Enos and his Amazing Comedy Car; and popular illusionist and judo expert Geoff Ray, who though now retired still proudly includes Zokko! on his CV. Most notorious however were Arthur Scott and his Performing Seals, who left the tiny studio reeking so strongly of fish that recording was disrupted for days afterwards.

If this all sounds like a rather mindbending assembly of entertainment, its disorientating nature was amplified to nightmarish and jaw-dropping proportions by the adoption of a deeply psychedelic ‘Swinging London’ visual style, complete with flashing designs that looked garish even in black and white, captions written in lettering that would not have appeared out of place in an advert for a Carnaby Street boutique, and crash zooms on a modishly redesigned poster of Lord Kitchener. Even by the standards of the day this was a visually arresting approach, but the target audience seem to have taken it in their stride and Zokko! proved highly popular, with so many viewers writing in about the programme that the production team eventually had to start sending out postcards ‘from’ the talking pinball machine. Indeed, Zokko! was promptly repeated in full in the regular Wednesday afternoon children’s’ schedules from 6th August 1969, and Brian Fahey’s catchy theme music was released as a single, with the Band Parade music that also featured in the show on the b-side.


While the BBC had reverted to their regular Saturday morning pattern of a lone edition of Deputy Dawg once the first run had finished, a second series of Zokko! had been planned from very early on, and indeed would follow virtually straight on from the repeat run. With the Radio Times proudly proclaiming 'All For Fun! Fun For All! Tar-rah!', Zokko! returned for another thirteen week residency on Saturday mornings, starting from 6th December 1969. Although the new series retained the same production team, some significant changes were made; the sometimes excessively psychedelic design elements were toned down slightly in favour of a stark ‘two tone’ approach, and the pinball machine device was dropped altogether. The reasons for this decision have never been disclosed, although it is rumoured the expensive prop was damaged in storage and the cost of repairs would have been beyond the means of the meagre budget allocated for the second run. Despite this, Radio Times’ introduction to the new series promised the return of 'the old favourites and some new ones', alongside 'a brand new music machine, the like of which has never been seen before'. Said device was essentially a scaled-down Top Of The Pops set with a revolving stage, festooned with flashing lights and surrounded by gigantic bubbling test tubes, and resembling an antique pipe organ rebuilt to the specifications of the set designer of Willy Wonka And The Chocolate Factory. Filmed with camera angles better suited to a raucous pop music show - and more than likely the inspiration for the remarkably similar ‘Jackie Charlton and the Tonettes’ sketch in the second series of Monty Python’s Flying Circus, recorded shortly after the second series of Zokko! had aired - the indefinable contraption would pump out excerpts from stage musicals and instrumental pop hits while punningly appropriate inanimate objects revolved in the centre.

While this occupied the linking role formerly occupied by the pinball machine, the actual contents of the show remained much the same and just as mind-frazzling as ever. The animations, pop films, awful jokes, Disney extracts, stock footage, jarring bursts of exclamation marks and electronically treated voices were all back on board. Skayn returned for a new eight-part adventure, this time sent to investigate saboteurs at large on a moon colony, and the final five shows of the run were given over to the big top crime thriller Susan Starr Of The Circus, with voices provided by Jennifer Hill, Alan Devereux and Stanley Page,. The variety acts, meanwhile, remained as deliriously esoteric as before, top acts this time including The Skating Fontaines ('Thrills at Speed'), Ronny Cool ('Fantasy in Flames'), The Tricky Terriers ('Dog-gone Fun!'), Paul Fox ('The Act That’s Full of Bounce') who amusingly shared his name with the then-controller of BBC1, and Annalou and Maria, who promised 'A Feather and Fur Fantasy' that was doubtless far more innocent than it sounds.

Zokko! was last sighted on television screens on 28th February 1970, but its brief burst of ragged psychedelic lunacy had certainly left an impression on viewers, and would prove to have a more enduring legacy. Clearly undeterred by the sheer oddness of the results, the BBC would continue to allow Ciani to carry out equally unhinged experiments at finding a suitable format for Saturday morning television. Ed And Zed, which enjoyed a brief run later in 1970, paired Radio 1 DJ Ed Stewart with a robot assistant named Zed (voiced by Anthony Jackson) for a similar menu of low-key serials and Disney excerpts, although they were allowed to have proper bands in the studio this time. That said, given said musical acts included former Bonzo Dog Doo-Dah Band ‘mad scientist’ Roger Ruskin-Spear and his performing robots, this may not have been as much of a concession to sensibility as it might appear. This was followed in 1973 by Outa Space!, a show ‘presented’ by a pair of disembodied alien hands at the controls of a spaceship, in which the ever-present Disney footage rubbed shoulders with a familiar diet of pop-soundtracked films, semi-educational inserts on dinosaurs, and the gripping storyboard serial Vidar And The Ice Monster.


Although it may seem something of a massive jump from these insane early efforts to the more familiar format that has pretty much defined Saturday morning television from the arrival of Saturday Scene and Multicoloured Swap Shop onwards, the truth of the matter is Zokko! and company are essentially a rough pencil sketch of the final format. This is particularly pertinent when Zokko! is compared directly to early editions of Swap Shop; the obvious difference of an avuncular unscripted presenter and live interaction with viewers aside, they have much in common, with the musical inserts simply replaced by proper bands and the Hanna Barbera and Gordon Murray animations standing in for bulk-bought Disney. Even the whimsy and corny jokes are essentially similar; all that Swap Shop really did was to give them more structure and bring in John Craven as a comedy straightman. Although Molly Cox would soon return to the relative normality of factual programming, her subsequent credits including Take Hart, Roy Castle Beats Time and Why Don’t You?, Paul Ciani would later put the lunacy he had learned on Zokko! and its follow-ons to good use. Most prominently he would serve as the longtime director and producer of Rentaghost (again featuring Anthony Jackson), The Basil Brush Show and Crackerjack!, but also helmed a number of long-forgotten yet fondly-remembered offbeat children’s comedy shows such as Hope And Keen’s Crazy House, Bonny! and Great Big Groovy Horse, as well working on many top-rated light entertainment series including The Kenny Everett Television Show, The Paul Daniels Magic Show and Top Of The Pops, where he somehow resisted the temptation to fill the stage with bubbling test tubes.

Sadly, but not entirely unpredictably, very little of Zokko! now survives in the archives. The original master tape of the final second series edition escaped wiping by pure chance, and more recently a telerecording of a compilation edition of highlights from that run was recovered from a private collector. On the plus side this does mean that both Skayn and Susan Starr have had their adventures - or at least a fragment thereof - preserved for posterity, but unfortunately, bar a couple of photographs, nothing remains of the talking pinball machine that seems to have burnt itself indelibly onto so many memories. It’s a fair bet that even the slightest thought of It Started With Zokko! would be enough to give documentary and clip show producers weeks of psychedelically-flashing radiophonically-doused nightmares, but in all fairness Zokko! really was where it all began. Well, unless you count Whoosh!.




If you're interested in the obscure and now largely lost corners of sixties television, then you might also enjoy this feature on The Newcomers.



This piece is adapted from Noise! Adventure! Glitter!, an article featured in my book Well At Least It's Free. You can get Well At Least It's Free in paperback here or from the Kindle Store here.

A Ghost Story For Christmas (For Children)

Ghost In The Water (BBC1, 1980).

Between 1971 and 1978, it was something of a tradition for BBC1 to scare festive viewers out of their wits with A Ghost Story For Christmas. Inspired by Jonathan Miller's superlative 1968 adaptation of Whistle And I'll Come To You, these were chillingly atmospheric and painstakingly realised short films, primarily directed by Lawrence Gordon Clark and mostly drawn from the works of writer M.R. James. They continue to be held in high regard and their influence has been obvious everywhere from Doctor Who to The League Of Gentlemen. And they were very definitely not intended for younger viewers, or for those of a nervous disposition.

What is less well remembered, however, is that in the early eighties, the Children's Department had a go at producing their own Ghost Stories For Christmas, which in all honesty were only slightly less disturbing than their adult counterparts. Masterminded by producer Anna Home, who was responsible for a number of well-regarded science fiction and fantasy serials for children's television in the late seventies and early eighties, the putative strand ultimately only ran to two one-off specials; although it seems to have been restructuring of their output, rather than any concerns about their suitability, that led to this short duration.

On 23rd December 1980 - six days after the final episode of an adaptation of L.T. Meade's A Little Silver Trumpet - BBC1 broadcast The Bells Of Astercote. Based on Penelope Lively's 1970 children's novel Astercote, this concerned a village that, according to legend, had lost its entire population to the plague. This becomes something of a pressing concern to the modern day residents of nearby Charlton Underwood when a man claiming to be six hundred years old and the guardian of The Chalice Of Astercote turns up displaying some disconcertingly familiar symptoms. Needless to say, the village is gripped by paranoia and apocalyptic visions, and it is only when some sceptical local bikers elect to involve themselves that the bizarre truth finally comes out. Directed by Home's regular collaborator Marilyn Fox, The Bells Of Astercote was broadcast from 16:40pm and was very nearly the last children's programme shown that day; doubtless a fair few viewers were relieved to see Paddington straight afterwards.

Ghost In The Water (BBC1, 1980).
Ghost In The Water (BBC1, 1980).
Ghost In The Water (BBC1, 1980).

There was no repeat of the experiment in 1981 - the equivalent slot in the schedule was filled instead by a repeat of Rentasanta, which you can read more about here - but New Year's Eve 1982 brought an adaptation of Edward Chitham’s 1973 novel Ghost In The Water. The 'ghost' in question is that of Abigail Parkes, a young Black Country girl who had drowned in the late nineteenth century; although officially recorded as a suicide, Abigail was in fact trying to retrieve a ring given to her by her true love, who had died in a mining accident. A series of coded messages point two youngsters studying local history towards the truth, though whether they have simply discovered this or have been guided towards it by Abigail's restless spirit is another question, and one that needless to say comes to dominate the story. Not exactly traditional New Year's entertainment, Ghost In The Water - transmitted in more or less the exact same timeslot as The Bells Of Astercote - was produced by Paul Stone and directed by Renny Rye; two years later, the same pair were responsible for BBC1's acclaimed adaptation of John Masefield's The Box Of Delights.

Sadly, although The Bells Of Astercote was repeated over Easter 1982 and Ghost In The Water in March 1983, neither have ever been commercially released; collectors might however wish to keep an eye out for the tie-in reprint of the original novel of Ghost In The Water, and for the BBC Radiophonic Workshop album The Soundhouse, which included Roger Limb's soundtrack for the play. Both however are strong efforts that deserve to be more widely seen, so perhaps it might be worth repeating them instead of the next inevitable attempt at reviving A Ghost Story For Christmas.

Ghost In The Water (BBC1, 1980).



If you're interested in spooky BBC children's dramas with a Radiophonic Workshop soundtrack, you might also enjoy this piece on the music from The Changes.



Well At Least It's Free by Tim Worthington
This is adapted from Winter's Tales, a longer piece looking at all of the BBC's supernatural/sci-fi children's serials of the seventies and eighties, in my book Well At Least It's Free. You can get Well At Least It's Free in paperback here or from the Kindle Store here.

Can We Hear It Back Now?


Carnival Of Light is probably the most obscure track The Beatles ever recorded. Specifically created for a live art installation, it was heard twice in public and has never resurfaced. Not even on the newly-released Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band 'Sessions' box set, despite that being precisely where and when it was put down on tape. You could be forgiven for assuming that it's just an unimportant studio offcut and that if it was of any point or value whatsoever we'd have heard it by now. You'd be wrong, though, as it's also the subject of one of the most interesting stories in the Beatles' entire history. If you're interested in the mid-sixties counterculture and its associated artistic innovations rather than sex, drugs and indeed literally rock'n'roll, that is.

Carnival Of Light was The Beatles' contribution to an event called The Million Volt Light And Sound Rave, held at The Roundhouse in Chalk Farm on 28th January and 4th February 1967, and it's the chain of events behind that hazardously-named 'happening' that explain just why it is a little-explored corner of their work that deserves more exploration. It's depressingly common for articles about The Beatles to discuss them as if they were acting in complete isolation from anything else that was going on in 'the sixties', rather than the fulcrum around which hundreds of musical and artistic endeavours pivoted and vice versa, and that their mid-sixties experimentalism had absolutely no connection to their earlier cleaner-cut incarnation. How many reviews of the new box set, for example, will talk of the album as though it appeared as if by magic and not even touch on such fascinating details as the fact that "it's getting better all the time" was the catchphrase of short-stay Beatle Jimmie Nicol, who replaced an incapacitated Ringo on one of the Australian tours and who also later performed similar deputising duties for The Dave Clark 5 - it's a wonder they didn't keep him frankly; or that George Martin very deliberately lifted the audience sounds for the album from his hit recording of the Peter Cook/Dudley Moore/Alan Bennett/Jonathan Miller satirical stage revue Beyond The Fringe as he wanted to have a specific 'kind' of audience reacting; or the stray chortle that appears partway through the title track, which McCartney asked for because he remembered always being fascinated by radio comedy audiences laughing at things that listeners at home couldn't see; or the band specifically getting their old Hamburg mates Sounds Incorporated - a now largely forgotten instrumental outfit with a full brass section who had minor success throughout the sixties with alarming takes on the likes of the William Tell Overture and Hall Of The Mountain King - in to do suitably vulgar and blaring brass on Good Morning Good Morning rather than reaching for the nearest in-house session musicians? Probably about as many as will comment on the absence of Carnival Of Light, if we're being honest about it. It came about as the direct result of their association with a wider artistic scene, though, and there's a strong case for arguing that it had an important and immediate effect on the album that they were about to make.

Throughout 1966, London's experimental art community - the word 'psychedelic' would not come to be commonly used until late in the year - had started to converge on a number of venues; firstly the Spontaneous Underground events held at The Marquee on Sunday afternoons, closely followed by the UFO club on Tottenham Court Road, and The Roundhouse in Chalk Farm. A number of bands quickly found favour on this circuit, including the likes of Pink Floyd, Soft Machine, The Move, The Jimi Hendrix Experience and The Crazy World Of Arthur Brown, alongside the less well known likes of The Smoke, The Purple Gang, The Flies, The Riot Squad, Tomorrow and any given combination of Liverpool Poets Adrian Henri, Brian Patten, Roger McGough and their guitar-playing associate Andy Roberts. Many of these bands were given to indulging in extended free-form instrumentals, often with electronic effects, while the lab-coated free-jazz outfit AMM went even further and dispensed with any notions of actual song structure, concentrating on creating soundscapes with a combination of amplified instruments and transistor radios. However, these were never simply musical events, and usually involved elements of multimedia, stage theatrics and performance art, the latter often provided by a certain Yoko Ono. With his then-significant other Jane Asher, Paul McCartney was a regular at such venues and events, particularly Spontaneous Underground, and was no doubt left feeling sufficiently inspired to want to join in. That opportunity would come about through the unlikely route of buying a piano.


The main driving force behind The Million Volt Light And Sound Rave was David Vaughan, who with Doug Binder and Dudley Edwards made up BEV, a Swinging London-based design group who specialised in psychedelic murals with a pronounced and distinctive pop-art influence. Amongst those who employed BEV's services were The Kinks, Carnaby Street boutique Lord John, and infamous socialite Tara Browne, who would later provide the unfortunate inspiration for the opening verse of A Day In The Life. Late in 1966, Paul McCartney engaged BEV to decorate a piano for him, and when they delivered the alarmingly-hued finished article, Vaughan took the chance to ask if he or The Beatles would be interested in contributing something towards an electronic light and sound showcase they were planning. To his surprise, McCartney agreed enthusiastically, and on 5th January 1967, at the end of a session dedicated to overdubbing vocals onto the forthcoming single Penny Lane, The Beatles set to work in Abbey Road Studio 2.

Cobbled together from descriptions given by various individuals who have actually heard it - notably Beatles historian Mark Lewisohn and McCartney's friend and biographer (and, at the time, owner of focal point of the 'Underground' scene The Indica Gallery and Bookshop, and organiser of several similar events himself) Barry Miles - it appears that Carnival Of Light runs more or less along the following lines. Over a backing of organ and drums, recorded at a high speed to give an unnatural lower pitch and time distortion effect when played back, and overdubbed with church organ, frenetic tambourine and distorted electric guitar, McCartney and Lennon engage in seemingly random outbursts of echo-drenched proclamations, while various taped sound effects are cued in with equal spontaneity. The latter reportedly included gurgling water, pub piano, cinema organ and feedback, while the former include such meaningful interjections as "are you alright?" and "Barcelona!", in amongst a cacophony of whistling, chanting and random fragments of studio chatter, including at least one quite understandable coughing fit, and ending with an echo-saturated McCartney asking "can we hear it back now?". According to Miles, who was very much in tune with this style of making music, there is no conventional structure, and it simply moves between different tempos and hints of melody on a whim; it's clear that he actually considers this to be a good thing, incidentally. Some sources including Dudley Edwards have also claimed that it included a brief performance of Fixing A Hole; while it seems odd that Lewisohn would not have noted this detail, it is also entirely possible that McCartney may have appended a home demo of the song to the tape that was actually used at the event (recording of Fixing A Hole itself did not actually begin until 9th February). Incidentally, it's worth pondering on whether Berserk, a truly alarming early Blur b-side, might have been at least partially based on the description of Carnival Of Light given in Lewisohn's The Complete Beatles Recording Sessions.

Recorded in one take and running to thirteen minutes and forty eight seconds, the resultant mono mixdown (though Miles maintains there was also a stereo mix) reportedly failed to impress George Martin. It also, more surprisingly, proved underwhelming to David Vaughan, who had apparently been hoping for something more in line with Tomorrow Never Knows and which would have inspired a more spectacular light effect sequence. Nonetheless, Carnival Of Light was duly played in full as part of The Million Volt Light And Sound Rave, alongside a performance by Unit Delta Plus.


Formed in very late 1965, Unit Delta Plus was a collective composed primarily of Peter Zinovieff, developer of the prog rock-favoured VCS3 synthesiser, and Delia Derbyshire and Brian Hodgson of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop, with the stated aim of introducing a live performance element into electronic and taped music. Given how the Workshop are often depicted - not least in Doctor Who folklore - as eccentric tech-minded squares, many may be surprised to see Derbyshire and Hodgson's names mentioned in this context, but the fact of the matter is that they were young cutting-edge musicians very much involved in London's arts scene, and took part in a number of similar 'happenings' around this time. Indeed, there were numerous multimedia events staged by Unit Delta Plus themselves, after one of which they were introduced to musician David Vorhaus, with whom they would later form the influential electronic rock band White Noise.

Sadly, there is no available indication of what Unit Delta Plus may have performed at the event, nor even who was actually involved; the only clue is that Derbyshire retained a clipping from the Daily Mail about the event in her files, hinting that she may have participated in it. Incidentally, the paper was running their comic strip serialisation of the recently-released Thunderbirds Are Go! on the same page, which has nothing to do with Unit Delta Plus or The Beatles but does at least show what a remarkable time the mid-sixties was for boundary-pushing creative artists. However, other Unit Delta Plus events around the same time are known to have involved Derbyshire's religiously-themed 1964 sound collage for the BBC Third Programme Amor Dei, Zinovieff's montage of rhythmic loops Tarantella, an untitled Hodgson piece based around recordings of street sounds and passing conversations, Derbyshire's celebrated (and at that point unreleased) collaboration with Anthony Newley Moogies Bloogies, which uncannily anticipated the sleazy synth-pop duos of almost twenty years later, and Random Together, in which all three took part in a live unrehearsed mixing of sounds, so it presumably involved some or all of the above in some terrifyingly manipulated capacity.

That's basically as much as we know about the million volt sounds, but what about the lights? It is known that the event involved four sixty foot-high screens and a bank of sixteen projectors, which changed their output in response to changes in sonic signals, while a further five projectors, hand-operated by Binder, Edwards and Vaughan, provided a series of contrasting and interlocking patterns, but beyond that details are frustratingly elusive. So far it's proved impossible to locate a decent review of or feature on either performance (and I really have looked), and there appears to be no available photographic evidence, let alone film footage. However, it's also true to say that there are plenty of photographs - and indeed a small amount of film footage - of similar events held at The Roundhouse, many of them involving giant screens and punters with weird patterns being projected onto them, so it's possible to make an educated guess at what it might have looked like. Anyway, from the sound of it, you'd have been hard pushed to get a decent sense of what it looked, sounded or felt like without actually having been there.


Nobody seems to know what happened to the fully mixed tape used at the event itself, although McCartney has indicated that he has his own copy, and in any case the multi-track master of Carnival Of Light still exists at Abbey Road. So, why hasn't it been more widely heard then? Well, nobody really seems to have an answer to that either. Carnival Of Light apparently came very close to appearing on Anthology 2 in 1996, but was vetoed by someone within the Beatles' inner circle. For once, we can't just point the finger straight at Yoko Ono - who to be honest probably wouldn't have had much of an issue with it on musical terms - as by all accounts the main dissenter was George Harrison, who reputedly 'quipped' "avant garde a clue" in true Principal Skinner You've Been Called The 'Funny One' fashion. Given that his two oft-overlooked late sixties solo albums - not to mention his later contributions to The Beatles - were packed to the rafters with avant-garde sounds, this is putting it mildly a little surprising; additionally, you also could argue that the man who inflicted Ding Dong on the world had a bit of a nerve.

Some of those who have heard it have made comments along the lines of everyone getting excited about something that's not really that exciting, though you do have to wonder just how familiar or comfortable they may or may not be with that form of off-script music making in the first place. It's worth noting that the few insiders who had heard Syd Barrett's long-lost twenty minute free-form instrumental Rhamadan recalled it as somewhat on the tedious side and certainly nothing worth getting worked up about, and fans used to his less inspired studio offcuts didn't really expect that they were missing out on much either; until it was finally released and everyone realised that it was actually rather good after all. Meanwhile, Paul McCartney continues to enthuse about Carnival Of Light and mention how much he'd love to give it a proper release approximately every three minutes, and on balance he is usually worth listening to about his own music.

What is more mysterious, however, is the fact that Carnival Of Light has consistently failed to appear on bootleg. This could normally be explained away as being due to it only existing as a multitrack tape and that there is nothing to surreptitiously copy, but this is The Beatles we're talking about, of whom every single other last extant recorded moment from 'closely guarded' early rehearsal tapes to head-maddeningly fuzzy microphone-to-TV-speaker recordings of them larking about with now discredited celebrities to outtakes from their Christmas fan club records, has not just escaped but been unofficially copied and 'released' millions upon millions of times over. Somebody somewhere at some point must have made a copy of it, so is it possible that Beatle 'superfans' are carefully controlling its distribution amongst a small elite to make sure that they remain 100% Officially Best At Liking Beatles? You're talking to a Doctor Who fan here. Of course that's bloody happened.


Apparently the reason that Carnival Of Light has been left off the new box set is that producer Giles Martin feels that it "wasn't part" of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, to which we could add a snarky comment about it having been recorded in the same session as a song that wasn't part of Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band either but has somehow found its way onto it now. That said, we could also add a more balanced and pertinent comment about how, regardless of its actual musical worth, it quite possibly had some bearing on Being For The Benefit Of Mr Kite!, Lovely Rita, Good Morning Good Morning and A Day In The Life. Whether or not Carnival Of Light really is 'part' of the album is a matter of conjecture. What it is part of, though, is a much bigger and more fascinating era of open-mindedness and experimentalism in the popular arts that stretched all the way from jazz and radio drama to comedy and supermarket own-brand food packaging. It deserves much better than to be left gathering dust in a tape archive. So, please... can we hear it back now?




If you've enjoyed this, you can find more articles about psychedelia and pop music in my book The Camberwick Green Procrastination Society, available in paperback here, from the Kindle Store here, and as a full-colour eBook here.

Sweeps, Swoops, Cloud, Windbubble And 'Spangles'


If anyone ever did actually watch Doctor Who from behind the 'sofa', then it's a fair bet that the second track of Music From BBC Children's Programmes would have sent them scurrying right back there. As the upbeat sound of the Play Away cast getting down home and funky about opening umbrellas indoors fades out, in comes that electronic sting familiar to an entire generation for following countless instances of Tom Baker doing his 'alarmed' face while a booming voice announced that there was nothing he could do to stop their plans now.

Yes, it's the original version of the Doctor Who theme music, although not quite the original. Over the course of the Doctor Who's up-to-then ten year history, The BBC Radiophonic Workshop's original arrangement had been regularly rejigged as and when successive production teams elected to wield the time-honoured 'new broom'. It had been bolstered by the addition of new-fangled electronic 'spangles' as the fans insist on calling them - which is especially confusing when you're in the middle of an already all-over-the-place narrative that has already made several mentions of the sweets of the same name - and indeed that aforementioned cliffhanger-enhancing sting. It had been remixed into something approaching a rough approximation of stereo, and the full-length Tardis take-off effect had been pasted into the background halfway through. And even that's just the obvious rememberable-off-the-top-of-your-head stuff. In short, although the same basic original recording was still there somewhere underneath it all, in many ways it was actually a different version to the simpler, sparser one that had bookended episodes in the black and white era.


By the time that I got hold of Music From BBC Children's Programmes, of course, this version of the theme had been completely replaced three times, and Doctor Who itself had been cancelled. This slightly older arrangement positively reeked of slit-scan title sequences, seemingly endless multicoloured scarves, dodgy CSO sequences, Target Books, The Giant Robot, and hazy ancestral memories of Jon Pertwee and The Brigadier. This was, basically, the sound of Doctor Who How It Used To Be. Yet, for all that certain 'fans' might like to grumble about how it was better in their day when it was all photographic blow-ups of fields around here and you could get to the Blackpool Exhibition and back and still have change from half a shilling, even then there was a sense that Doctor Who How It Used To Be had never really gone away. Yes, so there were only about three old stories out on video and you needed to take out a second mortgage to buy any of them, but outside of that there was a whole industry founded on exploiting Doctor Who's archival adventures, from books and magazines to scale model Ice Warriors and the iconically purposeless Build The Tardis ("Your own time machine... without scissors or glue!"), and if you threw a Dapol Tetrap hard enough chances are it would have hit an album that had this theme arrangement somewhere on it. Though not the original original, which got a single release back in 1964 but had since all but vanished... but that's another story. This one, of course, had also been released as a single, with an oddly-named and oddly-chosen b-side that we'll be coming back to to boot, but you'll find the story behind all of that in Top Of The Box.

Music From BBC Children's Programmes wouldn't live up to its title without it, but in a sense the original-but-not-the-original version of the Doctor Who theme is something of an interruption to proceedings. Or at least the kind of proceedings we were hoping for here. There's plenty that it does evoke, regardless of whether a you are a fan or not, but rather fittingly that's something for another time and indeed another place. Like here, for example. Anyway this isn't quite the whole story, as the Doctor Who theme segues straight into its markedly more nostalgia-nirvana satisfying companion piece The World Of Doctor Who, but we've already covered that in some detail in the first instalment so it's probably best to just move straight on. To another similarly long-running show, which has enjoyed something of a close relationship with Doctor Who. And an even closer relationship with those two frightfully well-spoken youngsters on the cover of Music From BBC Children's Programmes...




Top Of The Box, The Complete Guide To BBC Records And Tapes Singles, is available as a paperback here or an eBook here; a sequel covering the albums is coming soon!

Christmas With BBC Records And Tapes

RESL124 Orville's Song/I Didn't - Keith Harris And Orville (December 1982)


Although a TV regular since the mid-sixties, ventriloquist Keith Harris’ career didn’t really take off – ironically – until he introduced bashful luminous green duck who couldn’t fly Orville into his act in the late seventies. By 1982 he, or rather they, had landed a prominent variety slot on BBC1 with The Keith Harris Show, although he remained a popular and enthusiastic stage performer, which gave rise to this single written by pianist and former talent show winner – and old friend of the ‘duo’ – Bobby Crush. Taking the form of a dialogue between Harris and his puppet charting the latter’s inability to take to the skies, Orville’s Song is certainly cloying, sentimental and delivered by a gratingly-voiced character that not all of the target audience found quite so loveable, but is in its own way an effective and endearing composition that in no way deserves the deluge of ‘Worst Record Ever’ accolades that have been heaped upon it since. Certainly record-buyers at the time didn’t seem to agree, sending the single to Number Four over Christmas 1982.


RESL138 Come To My Party – Keith Harris, Orville And Dippy/Thank You For Telling Me ‘Bout Christmas – Keith Harris And Orville (December 1983)


A seasonal outing for Keith Harris and his many puppets, with the a-side again written by Bobby Crush. Although the single did enjoy some minor chart action, climbing to number forty four over the festive season, it surprisingly failed to corner the lucrative Christmas market and ultimately caused few worries to Paul McCartney and David Essex.


RESL162 The Box Of Delights/The Carol Symphony - The Pro Arte Orchestra (December 1984) 


Marked out by top-drawer acting and pioneering video effects, BBC1’s 1984 adaptation of John Masefield’s 1935 festive children’s novel The Box Of Delights – something of a favourite with the BBC, having been adapted seven times across several media – was rightly fanfared as a landmark production and remains held in high regard by audiences and critics alike to this day. For theme music, the production team elected to use an extract from the third movement of Victor Hely-Hutchinson’s 1927 Carol Symphony, an extended piece based on orchestral arrangements of themes and motifs from numerous traditional Christmas Carols which had in fact originally been written as a contribution to an early BBC radio broadcast. The extract featured a variation on The First Nowell, and was taken from a 1966 recording of The Carol Symphony for EMI by The Pro Arte Orchestra; it was, however, subjected to minor manipulation by Roger Limb of the BBC Radiophonic Workshop to make it more in keeping with the mood and style of the serial. Limb’s modifications were frustratingly absent from the direct edit featured on this single, which featured another excerpt from the movement, this time based on a segment of the Coventry Carol, on the b-side. Selling in small quantities at the time, and one of only a handful of pieces of official The Box Of Delights-related merchandise, this is now one of the most eagerly sought-after BBC Records And Tapes releases.


RESL179 The Ballad Of Sandra Claus/The Goulash Break – Bryan Joan Elliott and The Elf Service (December 1985) 


American comedian Bryan Joan Elliott was something of a minor star in the UK in the mid-eighties, largely thanks to her regular appearances on the ITV game show Punchlines. This unusual attempt at cornering the Christmas market for 1985 came about as a result of some recent well-received appearances on high profile BBC chat shows, notably BBC2’s The Bob Monkhouse Show.


RESL234 Christmas Is Here Again/Awake Zion Awake - Bryn Coch Primary School (December 1989)


The first release after a gap of almost a year – suggesting that all was not well at BBC Records And Tapes in the new John Birt-led regime – was a Yuletide-themed offering from the pupils of a Welsh primary school accompanied by harpist Glenys Lightfoot, recruited by the label following popularity with local radio listeners, in an attempt to create yet another school-sourced singing phenomenon and indeed to secure a hit in the lucrative Christmas market. Sadly, this single fell short of expectations on both counts.


RESL236 Christmas Past And Christmas Present/Christmas Past And Christmas Present (Festive Fun Mix) – Euphoria (December 1989)


Seemingly determined to corner the Christmas market for 1989, BBC Records And Tapes put out a staggering third Yuletide-themed single in the form of this choral effort based on Kings College Cambridge’s traditional Festival Of Nine Lessons And Carols service. Unsurprisingly, this one didn’t sell very many copies either. The ‘Festive Fun Mix’ fails to live up to its title. RESL237 was set aside for yet another Festive-friendly single – Glory Be To God On High, a re-recording of the EastEnders theme with yet more new lyrics by Simon May, performed with a choir of children and premiered on BBC1’s Songs Of Praise. Contractual difficulties saw to it that this was instead released by Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Really Useful label; however – perhaps mercifully – it still failed to make the charts. This all took place, however, late in 1988, suggesting that some or all of the preceding singles may have been in the works since the previous Festive Season – a sure sign that the writing was on the wall for BBC Records And Tapes...




This is an extract from Top Of The Box - The Complete Guide To BBC Records And Tapes Singles, which is available as a paperback here, or from the Kindle Store here.

Stay Alert!

Cover of the Captain Zep - Space Detective theme single on BBC Records And Tapes.

You’d probably need some sort of Space Detective to work out exactly what started off the early eighties trend for ‘intelligent sci-fi’. But whatever it was, even the most amateur of Space Detectives could prove beyond all reasonable doubt that it made for something of a renaissance of the genre and some top notch books, films, television and radio shows. On the BBC alone you got, amongst others, The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, The Day Of The Triffids, Peter Davison-era Doctor Who, Blake’s 7, Radio 4’s Earthsearch, and even a couple of children’s game shows, both of which which are remembered far better than any children’s game show of the time has any right to be. And neither of which was Cheggers Plays Pop.

The Adventure Game, a Hitch-Hiker's-inspired series of logic puzzles designed to fox the combined intellect of Stilgoe’n’Craven-heavy teams of Children’s BBC-friendly celebrity contestants, is rightly and roundly celebrated anywhere you might care to look. But not so the equally fondly-recalled Captain Zep – Space Detective. But who was this Captain Zep? How did he come to attain the coveted rank of ‘Space Detective’? And what does all this have to do with Ernie Wise, cash-strapped punk rockers and a semi-naked Glynis Barber? Well, to find out, we’ll have to go to another time, another place, where the clues are indeed there for you to trace…

Paul Greenwood as Captain Zep - Space Detective

Captain Zep – Space Detective ran for two series and twelve episodes on BBC1 between 1983 and 1984, featuring quizzes based on crimes from the casebook of  the crew of Zep One, the flagship of the 21st Century’s Space Office of Law Verification and Enquiry – or S.O.L.V.E. for short. Each episode would see Captain Zep and his two assistants relate one of their past cases to an audience of youngsters sporting slicked-back hair and cumbersome orange jumpsuits; said youngsters were invited to pick up clues from the action and, following a couple of leading questions from the Captain (“So… who was the saboteur? Why was Grazarax in the Munitions Bay?"), offer their own conclusions on who the intergalactic culprits were, scribbling their answers down on a neon pink ‘magic slate’. Once the successful had been congratulated and the unsuccessful commiserated, the Captain addressed the audience at home with an additional poser about the case, inviting them to write in with their answer and, just possibly, win a S.O.L.V.E. badge of their very own.

All very ordinary sounding and indeed semi-educational sounding, but what really made Captain Zep – Space Detective stand out was that it looked like a 2000 AD strip come to life. Literally, in fact, as the archived cases of the Captain and company were achieved by superimposing the actors into a series of crudely animated futuristic watercolours of aliens, spaceships and landscapes; many of these were the work of Trevor Goring, a rising star of the comics world who would later become better known for his work on the official Torchwood strip and the feature film version of Watchmen. For such a simple idea, the effect was surprisingly well-rendered, and it’s probably no coincidence that this same technique had very recently been used for Jane, BBC2’s Glynis Barber-starring adaptation of the exploits of the thirties comic strip heroine with a penchant for losing her clothes. As coincidence would have it, one of the artists working on Jane was Paul Birkbeck, who also contributed to Captain Zep - Space Detective and - in an apparent bid to dominate the mid-eighties BBC by sheer will of pencil alone - was also responsible for the sketches seen in the titles of Miss Marple.

Captain Zep - Space Detective meets some aliens.

Perhaps surprisingly, Captain Zep - Space Detective was created by veteran gagsmith Dick Hills. With his writing partner Sid Green, American-born Hills had been a highly sought-after writer for post-war comedians, with their engagements including a long stint providing sketches for Eric Morecambe and Ernie Wise (which also saw them script the duo's three sixties feature films), and contributing to Anthony Newley's notorious absurdist sitcom The Strange World Of Gurney Slade. He would later spend part of the seventies in America, working with the likes of George Carlin, Richard Pryor and Flip Wilson, and by the time of Captain Zep - Space Detective he was busy churning out topical one-liners for the likes of Rory Bremner and Jasper Carrott. Hills would write all six episodes of the first series, which saw the Captain recall his investigations into Death On Delos, The Lodestone Of Synope, The Plague Of Santos, The G&R 147 Factor, The Tinmen Of Coza and The Warlords Of Armagiddea.

Captain Zep was portrayed by Paul Greenwood, already well-known to viewers as the long-suffering PC 'Rosie' Penrose in a series of sitcoms penned by Roy Clarke, with Ben Ellison as disconcertingly naïve second-in-command Jason Brown, and Harriet Keevil as the more forensically-minded Professor Spiro. Unusually for a series of this nature, the three had a clearly-defined and often antagonistic relationship with each other, and also a fair amount of comic dialogue. They also had three of the bulkiest costumes ever seen on television, which were doubtless very uncomfortable under hot studio lights, with Keevil’s gaining unwitting iconic status amongst adolescent males of a certain generation due to its elaborate stylised bust-adornments.

Paul Greenwood, Tracey Childs and Ben Ellison in Captain Zep - Space Detective

Not everything about Captain Zep - Space Detective was quite so futuristic. Firmly rooted in the here and now - though, it has to be said, light years ahead of much of the BBC's children's output of the time - was the synth-heavy New Wave-styled theme song, complete with suitably clumsy rhymes like “help me help me if you can/Space Investigator Man/across the stars he’s on his way/it’s Captain Zep to save the day!”, which were delivered in a suspiciously proto-Blur vocal style. If you're thinking this sounds like the work of a long-forgotten second-wave New Wave outfit of the sort that used to crop up on Cheggers Plays Pop all the time, that's because it was the work of a long-forgotten secong-wave New Wave outfit of the sort that used to crop up on Cheggers Plays Pop all the time. A rare punk signing to EMI's predominantly prog-rock imprint Harvest, The Banned had enjoyed a couple of hits at the turn of the eighties with covers of relatively obscure sixties psych-punk numbers like Little Girl and Him Or Me. After the hits had dried up, various members had taken to recording music for use in films and TV shows, which including the BBC's long-running children's art magazine show Take Hart.

It was this association that led to them being commissioned to record the Captain Zep - Space Detective theme song, which sufficiently popular to be released as a single by BBC Records And Tapes during the first series. Credited to 'The Spacewalkers' and backed by the unrelated instrumental groover A Race Against Time, this was, along with a little-seen puzzle book, the only official (and, let's face it, basically the only) item of merchandise related to the series. However, obsessive Captain Zep collectors should note that the theme also appeared on the album BBC Children's TV Themes in 1984 (also home to the Peter Howell arrangement of Doctor Who and the full-length theme song from legendarily outlandish Japanese import Monkey, as well as numerous other delights from shows aimed at a younger audience, which is why it fetches a fair amount second hand now), while Dick Mills' effects from the 'Armagidden War Games' appeared as a track on the BBC Radiophonic Workshop album The Soundhouse, while an earlier self-titled Radiophonic Workshop collection included Mills' Adagio, which was used as backing atmospherics in the S.O.L.V.E. Academy sequences.

Students of the S.O.L.V.E. Academy in Captain Zep - Space Detective.

Broadcast early in 1983, Captain Zep – Space Detective was a hit with its intended audience and with sci-fi fans desperate for something to fill the long gap between series of Doctor Who, and a second run was commissioned for early the following year. Paul Greenwood, however, was unavailable, due to commitments for Thames TV's upcoming adaptation of The Secret Diary Of Adrian Mole Aged 13 3/4, so he was replaced as Captain Zep – now revealed to be a title bestowed on the captain of Zep One – by Richard Morant. This was an unusual departure for an actor who was almost exclusively known for heavyweight costume dramas, though in fairness the role did require him to tackle heavyweight costumes of an altogether different kind. Harriet Keevil was also replaced by Tracey Childs as Professor Vana, while Dick Hills handed the writing duties over to Colin Bennett. One of the more eccentric figures in the dramatic arts, classically-trained Bennett was well-known to younger viewers of the BBC for playing a comedy janitor of the same name in the long-running Tony Hart-fronted art show Take Hart, and while working on Captain Zep – Space Detective he was also hard at work scripting the equally futuristic juvenile sitcom Luna for ITV. Subsequent career moves have seen him do everything from direct stage musicals to presenting the legendary off-the-cuff ITV nighttime documentary series Night Shift, placing him in the unusual position of having writing the scripts for Death Under The Sea, The Missing Agent Of Ceres, The Small Planet Of Secrets, The Sands Of Sauria, The Tree Of Life and Death By Design appear as one of the more conventional entries on his CV.

Paul Greenwood in Captain Zep - Space Detective.

Sadly, this was to be the final outing for Captain Zep – Space Detective. Although popular, it was also one of the most expensive series produced by the Children’s Department at that time, and when they were forced to make cuts to help accommodate the forthcoming launch of a BBC daytime service, it was unsurprisingly one of the first to be axed. Hapless viewers could only turn to Starstrider, ITV’s attempt to fill the void with a rather aimless sci-fi quiz fronted by Sylvester McCoy. While Ben Ellison was rarely seen on TV afterwards, Paul Greenwood, Richard Morant and Harriet Keevil still often show up in guest roles, usually in Midsomer Murders, while Tracey Childs went on to spend several years as one of the stars of the BBC's yacht-boardroom drama Howard's Way.

As for Captain Zep – Space Detective itself, as fondly remembered as it might be, there’s no sign of even a DVD release, let alone any kind of revival. We can only hope that, somewhere, the punkily-heralded ‘Man of Steel, Man of Nerve’ is looking for clues to his own mysterious cancellation in front of a giant comic strip rendering of Michael Grade’s face.

Doctor Who meets Captain Zep - Space Detective.

An earlier version of this feature originally appeared in in This Way Up magazine. You can find more about the single release of the Captain Zep - Space Detective theme in Top Of The Box, my book about BBC Records And Tapes, and more about weird, wonderful and mundane forgotten TV shows in Well At Least It's Free, Not On Your Telly and The Camberwick Green Procrastination Society.