The Man Who Sold the World

by Peter Doggett

  [A50] EVEN A FOOL LEARNS TO LOVE

  (François/Thibault/Revaux/Bowie)

  Recorded ca. February 1968; unreleased demo

  * * *

  Bowie’s publisher, Essex Music, offered him several opportunities in 1967–68 to widen his portfolio by providing English-language translations of songs in foreign tongues. There were Israeli folk tunes, Belgian pop,* and a proven hit in the form of Claude François’s melancholy French ballad about romantic separation, “Comme d’Habitude.” Although François’s passionate rendition was released in Britain, Essex boss David Platz rightly considered that the haunting melody required a libretto with international potential. Bowie supplied him with “Even a Fool Learns to Love”—a phrase that fitted the space left by “Comme d’Habitude” very inexpertly. The same lack of feeling for poetic scansion was apparent throughout Bowie’s lyric, which he recorded at home to the accompaniment of the François original. It was left to American singer-songwriter Paul Anka to supply a more evocative lyric, hinged around the simple theme of doing things his way. Bowie took his revenge with “Life on Mars?” [52].

  [A51] ERNIE JOHNSON

  (Bowie)

  Song cycle comprising Tiny Tim, Where’s the Loo, Season Folk, Just One Moment Sir, Various Times of Day (Early Morning, Noon Lunch-Time, Evening), Ernie Boy, A Song of the Morning, Untitled Track (“If your Oxford bags are oh so thin”). Recorded spring 1968; unreleased demo

  * * *

  The Ernie Johnson suite—thirty-five minutes of comic songs and dialogue, interleaved with moments of extreme poignancy—demonstrated the extent of Bowie’s ambitions during his career hiatus of 1968. It also highlighted the difficulties he found in translating his most extravagant concepts into a format appropriate for a mass audience. It was one of the most intriguing and at the same time frustrating projects that he ever conceived, full of imagination but totally lacking in coherence and structure. Only the surviving lyric sheets, which reveal Bowie’s belief that the song cycle was complete (“Voilà, fini,” he wrote at the end), suggest that this wasn’t a venture that he abandoned midway through its creation.

  The scenario—one hesitates to call it a narrative—runs like this. For reasons unexplained, Ernie Johnson is staging a suicide party in his Bayswater flat (this West London location signifying a certain level of poverty in 1968). We meet one of the first arrivals, Tiny Tim; more guests turn up, fire questions at their host, and demand to know where they can spend a penny; Ernie remembers the women he’s loved over the previous year; then he’s mysteriously transported to a park, where he has a conversation with a tramp while pretending to be a TV interviewer; time passes; he wakes up in the morning, ready for the day of his suicide; and finally he visits a Carnaby Street boutique to buy a suitable tie for the occasion, being casually insulted by the oh-so-trendy staff in the process. And there the sequence ends, leaving this drama about a suicide party without a suicide or even much of a party.

  Taken individually, however, the constituent parts of Ernie Johnson were striking. “Tiny Tim” (subsequently considered by Kenneth Pitt as a contender for a second Deram album) was an arch, colloquial* portrait of a gay young man, voiced by a cynical admirer. Set to the rhythm and riff of the Drifters/Searchers hit “Sweets for My Sweet,” it mixed acoustic guitar and foot-stomping percussion, with Bowie adopting the campest of vocal personae.

  “Where’s the Loo” mingled two and sometimes three Bowie voices over acoustic guitar, playing a motif vaguely reminiscent of the one that powered “Queen Bitch” three years later. The narrators were a series of fresh arrivals at the party, who bombarded their host with staccato questions—the overall impression being similar to Peter Cook and Dudley Moore chatting over a Syd Barrett track.

  “Season Folk” marked an abrupt change of mood, as an ultraromantic solo ballad portraying Ernie’s regretful memories of “Ann” (all household chores and comfortable familiarity), “Nearly Jane” (who like so many Bowie heroines of the sixties left him feeling socially and intellectually inferior), and “Jill” (a London dolly-bird with a handbag full of mind-changing pills).

  Ernie met the tramp in “Just One Moment Sir,” a dialogue sequence that found the two Cockney characters bonding over some racist chat about “nig-nogs,” while the tramp repeated a charming refrain about scratching his itches. In his role as television reporter, Ernie ended the conversation by insulting his subject, after which Bowie envisaged the tramp retreating with a barrage of insults and V-signs.

  Next, Bowie evoked “Various Times of Day.” “Early Morning” featured two long lines of poetry, delivered to the accompaniment of eerie, alien, heavily echoed voices. “Noon, Lunch-Time” was a snapshot of London in midsummer, with office workers filling the parks while traffic wardens searched for victims. Finally, “Evening” unfolded as if the Beach Boys had been attempting a merger of their stoned 1967 sound with Bowie’s Low, an unearthly vision of anticipation and expectancy being built out of sonic distortion and mock doo-wop vocals.

  “Ernie Boy” occupied more familiar territory as a character song, which was introduced by some poignant lines of dialogue from the star of the show: “Suicide isn’t something I’ve always wanted to do. . . . I know who I am.” Backing vocals spelled out his name in each refrain, while Bowie delineated the grim details of Ernie’s life: poverty, emotional dislocation, alienation from the world of Swinging London. Perhaps Ernie and Bowie weren’t so different after all.

  “A Song of the Morning” (alias “This Is My Day”) boasted the eerie cheerfulness of the Who at their most macabre, as Ernie welcomed the dawn of his final day on the planet. Reminding himself that he must wear his most flamboyant tie at the evening’s party, Ernie was transported back to the fashionable boutique where he had found it, for the untitled finale—delivered by the salesman in what Bowie specified as “a trendy, gear, freak-out type feel. Cool dad.” This was the moment when several of his themes and infatuations collided: the ruthlessness of advertising, the Kinks’ brand of social satire, Syd Barrett’s whimsicality, the cacophony of Zappa and the Velvet Underground, the barrenness of psychedelia, and a recognition of the fine details of contemporary fashion. The song, and the suite, ended with a melee of voices and noise, before a repeated tape loop—a throwback to the end of the Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper album, and also a preview of the finale of his own Diamond Dogs LP [104]—left the listener, and Ernie, marooned in limbo.

  Bowie committed the song cycle to tape, typed up and signed its lyrics, and then apparently forgot all about Ernie Johnson, aside from an occasional musical motif finding its way onto Hunky Dory and Ziggy Stardust. Even he must have realized that this was not the route to public acceptance. Dark though the scenario of a suicide party might have appeared, however, it was still arguably more commercial than the libretto of Tommy, Pete Townshend’s 1968 rock opera about a deaf, dumb, and blind boy who is abused by his uncle and his cousin.

  [A52] LONDON BYE TA-TA

  (Bowie)

  Recorded March–April 1968; David Bowie Deluxe Edition CD

  * * *

  In the proud tradition of the Beatles’ “If I Needed Someone,” several songs by the Byrds, and the “remedy” section of the Who’s mini-rock opera “A Quick One While He’s Away,” “London Bye Ta-Ta” was written around guitar variations on a D major chord,* the first Bowie tune to betray its instrumental origins so blatantly. The Byrds’ link may not have been accidental: Bowie’s “strange young town” recalled the “rain gray town” in the American group’s “Eight Miles High.” If the dense blend of strings and rhythm section was reminiscent of Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound, and there was a flash of Dylanesque surrealism in the lyrics, the track now seems to resemble nothing more than Bowie’s future self. Certainly the “I love her” section could have fitted into the mouth of a more romantically inclined Ziggy Stardust.

  The conversational chorus, based around a phrase Bowie overheard from a Caribbean woman in South London, was commercial enough to suggest t
he song had potential as a single. Bowie certainly thought so: when he rounded up the best of his Decca recordings for The World of David Bowie LP, he omitted “London Bye Ta-Ta,” which he had just re-recorded [12] as a putative follow-up to “Space Oddity” [1].

  [A53] WHEN I’M FIVE

  (Bowie)

  Recorded May 1968; BBC radio session

  * * *

  Nothing that Bowie wrote in the year after his debut album was released came closer to reproducing the spirit of that album than “When I’m Five.” It was clearly designed for performance, requiring the narrator to take on the persona of an inquisitive four-year-old without—an almost impossible task—slipping into coyness. He effectively sabotaged that hope with what was clearly intended to be the song’s most poignant moment, as the narrator saw a picture of Jesus. Note also the reference to “Grandfather Jones,” Bowie’s only acknowledgment of his true identity on record,* and on the May 1968 BBC rendition to which he mimed in his 1969 TV special, the absolute precision of his vocal.

  Equally assured was the melodic construction, with no hint of the stumbling transitions that had dogged many earlier songs. Opening, like “London Bye Ta-Ta,” with some D major variants, it supported the narrator’s four-year-old determination with major chord transitions, before the strings added a more whimsical tone, pursuing a rising diatonic figure in G and then A, before leading elegantly back into the verse.

  [A54] A SOCIAL KIND OF GIRL

  (Bowie)

  Recorded ca. April 1968; unreleased

  * * *

  As a reflection, perhaps, of his reduced commercial prospects, 1968 was one of the most fallow periods of Bowie’s creative life. “A Summer Kind of Love” [see A45] having failed to attract a buyer, he rewrote the lyrics, taping a multivoiced rendition that sounded as if it had been tailored for the already-waning teen sensations the Monkees (it is certainly easy to imagine Micky Dolenz recording the song). At a moment when the Beatles had abandoned the pure pop of their early fame, “A Social Kind of Girl” leaned heavily on the relationship between lead and backing vocals found on songs such as “I’m a Loser,” “Help!,” and “Another Girl.” There were also hints of the chorus from a more recent hit by the Lovin’ Spoonful, “She Is Still a Mystery.” With the aid of an experienced co-writer or arranger, Bowie might have enjoyed a lucrative 1960s career as a composer of mainstream pop for artists unable to confect their own.

  It’s a sign of his artistic confusion during this period that at the same time he was writing pop tunes for the teenage market, Bowie was contemplating an entirely different approach to his career. Twice in 1968, he and Kenneth Pitt prepared elaborate set lists for a cabaret act, with Pitt even scripting dialogue to link the songs. There was no hint here of Bowie’s previous enthusiasms for rock’n’roll, R&B, Frank Zappa, or the Velvet Underground, beyond the suggestion that he might extend the sonic potential of his performances by using sound effects tapes between songs.

  The first set included two Anthony Newley songs, three from the repertoire of Sammy Davis Jr., jazzy swing tunes popularized in 1963 by Tony Bennett and Oscar Brown Jr. (whose “Dat Dere” would surely have required Bowie to perform in blackface), and a few nods toward the more sophisticated margins of pop, via hits borrowed from Gene Pitney, Dusty Springfield, Dionne Warwick, and Bobby Hebb. Only Bowie’s own “I Dig Everything” (already two years old) hinted at a personal stamp. Six months later, the pair tried again, adding the Beatles’ “All You Need Is Love,” “Yellow Submarine,” and “When I’m Sixty-Four,” Eartha Kitt’s* “The Day That the Circus Left Town” (which demanded to be sung in the guise of a child, like Bowie’s own “When I’m Five”), Bowie’s translation of “Comme d’Habitude,” and several original songs, including “The Laughing Gnome” (for which sound effects would surely have been a prerequisite). He might conceivably have carried off either of these repertoires with a degree of panache, but even the mere attempt would probably have made it impossible for him to pursue a viable career in rock during the seventies.

  [A55] CHING-A-LING

  (Bowie)

  Recorded by Turquoise, October 1968; unreleased. Vocals overdubbed by Feathers, November 1968; Love You Till Tuesday film

  * * *

  The folk/mime/poetry trio Turquoise—rapidly renamed Feathers to avoid confusion with an existing psychedelic-pop group of the same name—dragged Bowie out of seclusion after a long period in which he had effectively been estranged from the music business. The project also allowed Bowie to work with Hermione Farthingale, who had been his girlfriend since their shared cameo in a BBC-TV drama titled The Pistol Shot earlier in the year. They were joined briefly by guitarist Tony Hill, who soon opted for the more visceral landscape of the rock band High Tide. His replacement was John Hutchinson, who would become Bowie’s musical collaborator for the next few months.

  Each incarnation of the group played three gigs with Bowie; the latter also appeared in the TV special showcasing Bowie’s talents that Kenneth Pitt produced in the early weeks of 1969. So did this song, which was every bit as coy and childish (not childlike, as Bowie might have hoped) as its title. Its folksy/folkie feel was perhaps intended to mimic the deliberate naïveté of the Incredible String Band, but instead might have served for an “improving” BBC-TV show aimed at the preschool audience. As a vehicle for Turquoise-cum-Feathers, it was unflattering, placing too much responsibility on Farthingale’s stilted, flimsy voice. Much more significant, in retrospect, were the wordless backing vocals offering a counterpoint to the inane chorus. Their melody reappeared on “Saviour Machine” [24], and their approach (strangely reminiscent of the soldiers’ choruses from Leni Riefenstahl’s Nazi documentary, Triumph of the Will) would find a more sympathetic home on “Time.”

  The main melody of “Ching-A-Ling” was supposedly written when Bowie played an earlier demo tape backward through his home recorder. Its country-rock-flavored introduction was in the same vein as “Darlin’ Companion” by the Lovin’ Spoonful, though the Americans would never have dragged a song through such a clumsy set of key changes as those concocted by Bowie in a desperate bid to grab the listener’s attention.

  In keeping with the trio’s purportedly democratic nature, Hill’s song “Back to Where You’ve Never Been” was taped at the same session.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The idea for this book emerged from conversations with my tireless agent, Rupert Heath, and Will Sulkin, the eminent editorial chief of The Bodley Head in London. For the original UK edition, I owe many thanks to the rest of The Bodley Head team: Jörg Hensgen, who shepherded the book to its completion, and to Kay Peddle and Hannah Ross.

  This revised US edition could not have been achieved without the help and support of my editors in New York, Jennifer Barth and Jason Sack. I would also like to acknowledge the hard work of copy editor Tom Pitoniak, cover designer Archie Ferguson, and interior designer Leah Carlson-Stanisic. Many thanks also to my US agent, Dan Conaway at Writers House.

  Thanks are also due to the continued generosity of Andrew Sclanders (www.beatbooks.com) and Clinton Heylin; the invaluable technical advice of Mick Downs and Jon Astley; and the contributions of Johnny Rogan, Spencer Leigh, Katherine Williams, John Reed, and Mark Paytress. I gained much insight into the life and character of the young David Bowie from my previous interviews with George Underwood, David Hadfield (of the Kon-Rads), Bob Solly (of the Manish Boys), and Dana Gillespie. All opinions and judgments are mine alone, however, as are any factual or musicological errors.

  Once again, my most heartfelt thanks go to my wife, Rachel Baylis, who has supported me throughout the long and sometimes painful gestation of this book, without losing her patience, her remarkable sense of humor, or (even more remarkably, after so much exposure in recent months) her enjoyment of Bowie’s music. Much love, as always, to her, Catrin, Becca, and the elusive Fred.

  NOTES

  The pagination of this electronic edition does not match the edition from which it was created.
To locate a specific passage, please use the search function of your e-book reader.

  INTRODUCTION

  1 “People look to me”: Burroughs, Burroughs Live 1960–1997, p. 229.

  5 “It consisted”: Quoted in Ariel, Kabbalah, p. 2.

  6 “This is a mad planet”: To P. S. Salvo, Sounds, December 1, 1972.

  6 “abandon all nations”: quoted in IT, September 1967.

  6 “Collective nightmares”: Quoted in RS, February 18, 1971.

  9 “Declinism was an established”: Beckett, When the Lights Went Out, p. 177.

  10 “We are passing”: RS, February 18, 1971.

  11 “Next day, all hell”: Almond, Tainted Life, p. 29.

  13 “The new alchemical dream”: Quoted in Kaufman, American Culture in the 1970s, p. 6.

  13 “the narcissistic preoccupation”: Ibid., p. 7.

  13 “Our therapies become”: Quoted in NME, November 1, 1975.

  14 “In the 70s”: To Timothy White, Musician, July 1990.

  15 “I change my mind”: Burroughs, Burroughs Live 1960–1997, p. 229.

  THE MAKING OF DAVID BOWIE: 1947–1968

  17 “The past loads us”: Conrad, Modern Times, Modern Places, p. 712.