David Essex on the perils of 1970s pop stardom

I was determined that my first tour should be in my homeland, where it had all happened for me: Britain.

When my manager delivered the itinerary, the opening date jumped off the page at me: East Ham Odeon, not three miles from Plaistow, where I had been born and enjoyed such a wonderful childhood.

I knew the omens were good. It was 1974. My film Stardust had been released to a similar fanfare to that which had greeted That’ll Be The Day.

The David Essex album was to reach No 2 in the chart, while Gonna Make You A Star became my first No 1 single. Yes, movies and albums I was well versed in. Playing live was a new experience.

I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more nervy and psyched-up than as I sat backstage before the first show and heard the excited crowd streaming into the venue.

Eventually our road manager tapped our secret-coded knock on the door and told me: ‘They’re ready when you are.’

So this was it. Show time. I slipped on my jacket and made my way to the wings.

I could hardly believe the volume of the noise as the band went on and the lights went up. But even this caco-phony seemed like nothing compared with the frenzy that erupted when I joined them on stage. It sounded as if 20 Concordes were lifting off all around us. How could anything be this loud?

The noise was so relentless that my mind seemed to be shutting down. Everything felt like it was in slow motion. I walked as if through quicksand towards the microphone, certain that nobody would be able to hear a word I sang.

David delights his fans in concert in 1975. He says that fame did not destroy his ‘basic shyness’

Somehow, I became aware of a shadow looming over me. As I twitched in shock, a girl who had jumped from one of the side boxes 10ft or so above the stage landed at my feet in a crumpled heap, yelling as she bounced on the boards.

What should I do? Retreat? Pick her up? I moved to the other side of the stage, hoping security would sort it out.

I had fondly imagined that I was prepared for being the object of mass worship and adoration. I could not have been more wrong. They were screaming just for, and at, me. I felt grotesquely uncomfortable. What was so special about me?

I also felt a slight, strange resentment. We had worked for weeks on songs and arrangements, rehearsed and honed them until they were perfect, and now nobody could hear a thing through the shrill, piercing wall of screams. We might as well have been playing anvils and didgeridoos.

The show went well. But the bouncers needed sharp reflexes to intercept the countless girls launching themselves towards me.

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