Starman

by Paul Trynka

  The song had actually made its TV debut on celebrated kids’ teatime show Lift Off with Ayshea on 15 June – Bowie and his Spiders followed an owl puppet named Ollie Beak – but it was the Top of the Pops performance, broadcast on 6 July, that transfixed the nation’s youth, and horrified their parents. Bowie was clear-eyed and joyous, his come-to-bed eyes inviting both girls and boys. As Ronson approaches the microphone for the chorus, the sight of David ‘casually’ draping his arm around the platinum-haired guitarist Ronson had a visceral impact. This was the Melody Maker cover made flesh.

  Marc Bolan – name-checked in the line ‘the DJ was playing some getit-on rock ‘n’ roll’ – had camped it up on Top of the Pops first, but he was cute, unthreatening; David and The Spiders were dangerous, a warning not only to lock up your daughters, but your sons, too. The moment David put his arm round Mick Ronson, teenagers around the country shared ‘a moment of epiphany’, as ballet’s enfant terrible, Michael Clarke, puts it. ‘It was like “Oh my God, maybe other people are a little bit like I feel inside.”’ In just three minutes, David Bowie laid out his claim as a glam messiah, and propelled his single to number ten, in what would be a twelve-week run in the charts.

  David had turned up late at the glitter rock ball – Marc Bolan had famously sprinkled glitter over his face for his ‘Hot Love’ appearance on Top of the Pops, back in March 1971. Yet Bowie’s intervention was definitive, it was unashamed, committed, thought through in every detail; besides, many contemporaries remembered that, with The Hype, he had helped inspire Bolan’s glitter look in the first place. With their long-running mutual name-checks, Bolan and Bowie were seen as joint creators of what was then known as glitter rock, later renamed glam – in fact, they’d both glittered up at the same time, at the hands of Chelita Secunda, fashion editor of Nova magazine and a much-loved (and wayward) rock ‘n’ roll society hostess. ‘She always had David, Marc and Reg – Elton John – over at her place,’ says Jeff Dexter. ‘She wore glitter herself and one day she put glitter on Marc. David was there and said, “I want some,” and Reg had some, too. So the birth of Glam Rock was definitely at Chelita’s.’

  Just as Judy Garland’s dreams of life beyond the rainbow seduced a world gripped by the Depression and threatened by war in Europe, David’s own blend of space-age futurism and glamour lodged in the consciousness of a generation in sore need of escapism: glitter sparkles best when set against a grey landscape. In January 1973 a stock market crash finally killed off the sixties boom; the collapse in share prices was followed by an oil crisis and full-blown recession, and the landscape became as grey as anyone could remember since the austerity of David’s youth. References to the 1920s Weimar republic, or 1930s Hollywood and Art Deco, and even the threadbare glamour of Edwardian music hall – all images of partying amid the ruins – pervaded David’s music, as it did that of emerging rivals like Roxy Music’s Bryan Ferry; this was their time. Their ruthless competition added to the excitement, just as it had in thirties Hollywood. ‘It was, I’ll do anything, play anything, say anything, wear anything to become a star,’ says David’s friend Scott Richardson. ‘And there’s nothing wrong with that. And there was a tremendous hunger on the part of the audience for that, too. It was that moment in time.’

  Other people who passed within the Bowie orbit underline that sense of mission. Cindy M was a friend of Rodney Bingenheimer, who arranged for her to meet David at Haddon Hall. She was ushered into the most bizarre of environments for a young girl from LA: gothic stained-glass windows, grandiose staircases, Persian rugs, carved elephants, shelves full of art books and a hi-fi playing Roxy Music were some of the kaleidoscope of impressions she retains from that overwhelming afternoon, together with the luminous stars she remembers painted on the ceiling above David and Angie’s bed, where she spent much of her time. ‘Roxy Music are going to be massive, too,’ he told her, but Cindy was already in no doubt that she was in the presence of a hero in the making. When Angie arrived later, says Cindy, she got her face slapped.

  Even as ‘Starman’ ascended into the Top 40, David was setting out a wider agenda, one that marked him as the indisputable curator of all that was hip. As if delivering a ready-made hit to Mott The Hoople was not enough, as well as producing their album – completed in rushed snatches over June and July – Bowie and Defries had by now appointed themselves as saviours of Lou Reed’s career too. On a New York trip back in March, Defries had heard Lou’s solo album was a disaster and arranged for David to produce its follow-up, before announcing MainMan would present live dates by Iggy Pop and Lou Reed in mid-July. The two shows would form an appetizer for David and The Spiders’ most crucial show to date, for which Defries planned to jet over a plane-load of American journalists, ready to preview David’s forthcoming US tour.

  The venue for the 15 July show was Friars Aylesbury: the one place Defries could guarantee a packed house. By now, Ziggy Stardust had hit number five in the UK charts (Hunky Dory would soon follow it, up to number three), and it was at this show that all involved knew that David was no longer on the brink of stardom: he had made it, exactly as he and Defries had predicted. ‘That night, you knew this had become a movement,’ said Dai Davies, ‘when you looked into the audience and could see a hundred Ziggies.’ Many of the US journalists, including Lisa Robinson, Lilian Roxon, Lenny Kaye and Creem’s Dave Marsh, knew Ziggy’s primary influences first-hand. But even Marsh, a veteran of high-energy shows by the MC5 and The Stooges, thought it ‘a good show. The one thing you would be afraid of, that the costumes would outweigh the music, wasn’t happening. This was a real songwriter, with real songs and a real band – and Ronson was fabulous.’

  Marsh was not alone, though, in wondering if there was something ‘vampiric’ about Bowie’s sponsorship of Iggy and Lou. At the next day’s press conference at The Dorchester hotel, Marsh walked in with his old Detroit buddy, ‘and it’s as if somebody has taken the floor and tilted it in Iggy’s direction’, as all the New York journalists scurried over to see their old pal. Marsh saw David watching the mêlée with ‘eyes like darts. But how was I to know? I was just a twenty-three-year-old greeting a friend.’

  Recording on Lou’s album began at north London’s Morgan Sound in August, proceeding at a whirlwind pace, with three backing tracks recorded in a single day. Like his recruitment of Iggy, Bowie’s offer to produce what would become Transformer was outrageously presumptuous; it was also a tougher task than anyone could imagine, for Lou was a mess, addicted to bickering and manipulation. Many onlookers would credit arranger Mick Ronson with doing the bulk of the work. Indeed, ‘He was the one on the shop floor sorting things out,’ says bassist Herbie Flowers, and he worked closely with David to map out the songs. David, however, had the much more difficult task, soothing Lou’s frazzled ego, talking him out of his moods and coping with his mind games. ‘Lou was extremely messed up, like a parody of a drug fiend,’ says Dai Davies, who sat in on the sessions. ‘David was incredible, like a much older, mature producer, and would talk Lou down.’ Ken Scott, who was engineering, points out, ‘It was a team, David, Mick, myself, everyone knew what to do. But David just understood Lou. Which no one else did, in the state he was in.’

  David’s calm in the studio seemed almost supernatural compared to the frenzy around him, which would soon come to a peak with two elaborate shows at the Rainbow Theatre in north London. He had planned a series of innovations: choreography by Lindsay Kemp, a multi-level set and Warhol-style projections. All of the tiny crew were caught up in the manic preparations: screens were improvised from paper and wood, silver paint for the scaffolding bought cheap from a friend, choreography worked out over a single evening at Haddon Hall. David’s focus was unrelenting; he’d selected the venue, the look of the lighting and staging, using techniques he’d seen employed in Cabaret and shows by the Living Theatre and filed away in his mental Rolodex for the right occasion. The look seamlessly incorporated Warhol, Jean Genet and Jailhouse Rock.

  At the centre of it
all, David also planned the transformation of his own look, a further distillation of the essence of Ziggy. In his search for more outrageous clothes, he’d already seen the creations of Japanese designer Kansai Yamamoto, and finally managed to score one leotard – red, with cut-off legs and a ludicrous ‘bunny’ design, that was so outré it was languishing, unsold. The leotard completed the classic later-period Ziggy look, joining an innovation that was just as crucial as David’s musical advances.

  Along with Elvis’s DA and The Beatles’ mop-tops, Ziggy’s carrot-top makes up the founding triumvirate of definitive rock ‘n ‘roll ‘dos. This creation had been sculpted earlier in July, and according to David was inspired by a model with a Yamamoto haircut – ‘It was [in] a slightly girly magazine like Honey, not Vogue.’ Angie called in Beckenham hair-dresser Suzi Fussey, who’d long looked after Peggy’s hair, to construct the elaborate concoction – razor-cut at sides and back, backcombed into a puffy fluffball, like a tropical bird’s mating crest, at the front – and dye his locks an unforgettable flame red. ‘I designed the colour and the haircut, but Angie had a lot to do with it – she was the one who gave David the courage to attempt the most exotic things,’ says Fussey, who joined the crew as David’s personal hairdresser and assistant shortly before the Rainbow concert.

  The transformation was electrifying; just a few weeks before David had looked cute, gamine; now he looked like an alien peacock. Yet at the centre of the hubbub around his most ambitious shows to date he remained focused, relaxed, directing rehearsals with deftness and humour, taking time out to show new pianist Matthew Fisher the opening chords for ‘Starman’, delighted that someone appreciated his songwriting. Behind the alien facade, he remained reassuringly human. Early in the preparations he’d called Fisher’s house and the pianist’s wife, Linda, had rushed to answer the phone, and got the sweetest of tellings-off: ‘You shouldn’t be rushing in your condition,’ he admonished her. ‘When’s the happy day?’ Linda was shocked to realise he’d remembered Matthew’s chance remark of a few weeks back that she was pregnant; soon they were discussing breathing exercises and parenting tips. Few other musicians of that sexist time would have done the same – it was a typical example of how his charm was innate, not purely manipulative.

  Those who’d known David for years, though, noticed a new ‘distancing’ – an exclusion zone opening up around the Bowie persona. When Lindsay Kemp had first met David, the teenager had been convinced of his own talent, ‘but he was not starry, by God, no’. By that August, just a few months of genuine stardom, of seeing fans dressed up in his own image had had a subtle effect. Kemp observed that David ‘fell for it. You know – he believed in his own iconism – it made it difficult to be close to him.’

  This subtle realignment, the sense that David felt himself different, special, was uncomfortable. It didn’t seem the result of innate selfishness. More it was a reaction to the sheer intensity, a hysteria which would affect the most stable psyche. ‘That Rainbow show was a shock – a big shock,’ says Kemp. ‘When I saw how he captured an audience of thousands and knew exactly what to do. It was absolutely electric – I was numb from beginning to end.’

  The two Rainbow shows were a triumph, the high point of the Spiders era; there was the sense that the ideas had been plucked out of the air, without the formulaic overtones that afflicted some later performances. The audience screamed occasionally, but stayed politely in their seats; for all the glitter, the attention to musical detail was stunning. Fisher, the ex-Procol Harum keyboard player, who had been asked to help out for the two Rainbow shows, was placed behind a screen and was therefore free to walk out into the audience when he wasn’t playing the piano. ‘His singing was simply incredible. I’d never realised how his voice is 100 per cent, spot in tune, and that if he sings out of tune on his records, it’s because he wants to.’ The two showcase events, with the presence of two Bowie albums in the charts shortly afterwards, sealed the deal for David. He was no longer a novelty; now he was a phenomenon, just eight weeks since that first sell-out show in Croydon.

  The sense of event was heightened two weeks later, in Manchester. Throughout the tour, both band and crew had stayed in tiny hotels and B&Bs; that evening, for the first time, they were checked into an up-market hotel, the Manchester Excelsior, and told they could sign for whatever they wanted on room service. After a night getting wasted on the band’s signature cocktail (the Spider Special, made up of brandy, advocaat and lemonade) the assembled MainMan staff were bleary and slightly green-faced the next morning, when they were greeted with a speech almost Churchillian in its scope.

  ‘As far as RCA in America are concerned,’ Tony Defries informed his audience, ‘the young man with red hair sitting at the end of this table is the biggest thing to come out of England since The Beatles. And if we get this right there’s every possibility we will be as big as The Beatles, if not bigger. We’re relying on all of you – and you all have to learn to look and act like a million dollars!’

  Like all great generals, Defries was as concerned with logistics as he was with morale, and he briskly went around the table checking on the status of instruments, amplifier backline and PA. It turned out the band didn’t own most of the backline. ‘What do you need for this, William?’ Defries asked Roadie Will Palin. ‘Er, £20,000?’ Within a couple of days, all the gear had been purchased, flight-cased, and was on its way across the Atlantic for The Spiders’ biggest adventure so far.

  10

  Battle Cries and Champagne

  David was like a lost child, looking for Angie. I’m sure he was very vulnerable and nervous. I didn’t think about it at the time – what did I know?

  Tony Zanetta

  The 22 September, 1972 show in Cleveland that launched David’s assault on America felt like a thrilling, surreal, high-cholesterol version of his early British dates. Local radio stations filled the airwaves with Ziggy songs, encouraged by Brian Sands, a friend of John Mendelssohn’s who had set up a local Bowie fan club. There was a decent scattering of Ziggy clones in the six-hundred-strong audience, which gave the high-powered show a riotous reception. As David and the band sat drinking during the after-show party at Hollenden House – a huge, 1960s hotel with bleached-wood interiors and space-age fibre-glass furniture – the room was fizzing with excitement.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry,’ said Defries. ‘You’re coming back to Cleveland at the end of the tour, and we’ll be playing the big venue, with 10,000 people.’

  The band laughed. ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, Tony,’ they all chorused.

  ‘But we did come back,’ says Trevor Bolder. ‘Two nights, sold out.’

  For David, this was the rollercoaster ride of which he’d fantasised; the people, places and the spaces in America would all make their mark on his music. Through the following months, he would be pushed through a schedule more gruelling than that which had brought many tightly-knit bands to grief – and lap it up, devouring the experience. ‘He was just completely on it, the ultimate pro – a machine,’ says Scott Richardson, one of many who remember David’s exuberance and excitement. Yet those heady months would also splinter his relationship with Angie and open up cracks in his own, once sturdy psyche.

  For Tony Defries, too, the challenge of conquering America was at the core of all his fantasies. He’d started with one artist, and now had a stable of them. At the beginning of that year he had measured himself against Colonel Parker; now that ambition seemed too prosaic. By the end of the year, he talked of his company as the new Metro-Goldwyn-Meyer. His business was bigger than rock ‘n’ roll; he traded in stars.

  In order to build this lofty edifice, Defries needed a New York base, so during late 1972, Tony Zanetta found a two-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side, bought furniture and painted it himself. His theatre background meant he was content with the occasional cash handout or gift in lieu of a salary – an important qualification for any prospective MainMan employee. Zanetta was soon joined by Leee Childers – who would become
road manager and later advance guard, checking out venues before the band arrived – and Cyrinda Foxe, a charming Marilyn Monroe lookalike beloved of the Warhol crew. The trio were all ‘dreamers’, with minimal business experience, but Defries loved hanging out with them, absorbing their enthusiasm. Within weeks, they realised Cyrinda’s forté was not administration; instead Kathy Dorritie – Cherry Vanilla – replaced Cyrinda and proved to be the only one with any idea of how to run an office. Zanetta was handed day-to-day management of the forthcoming tour, initially accompanied by the sage figure of Gustl Breuer. An elegant fifty-seven-year-old opera expert from the RCA classics department, he had been delegated by the company to oversee spending on the tour, which they had been persuaded to underwrite by the silver-tongued Defries. Gustl joined a cavalcade of exotic characters which included hairdresser Suzi Fussey, photographer Mick Rock, the roadies – including Peter Hunsley and Robin Mayhew – David’s friends George and Birgit Underwood, plus a team of three bodyguards led by Stuey George, an old Hull mate of Ronno’s with a noticeable limp.