Starman

by Paul Trynka

  Angie, maybe more than anyone, had helped David get to America. But now they were here, her antics made for one prima donna too many. In reaction, Zanetta sacked Anton Jones, while from now on Defries would try and separate Angie from the touring party. According to Dai Davies, who witnessed Angie and Anton’s banishment, Defries’ response, however cruel, was the only practical one. ‘It’s a simple question of management, with thirty-four people and the trucks and everything else, with a tour that wasn’t that successful. You can fall in behind one temperamental person. You can’t fall in behind two. It becomes a nightmare.’

  Angie and David had exchanged wedding wrist-bands rather than the customary rings for their marriage in Bromley; it was during the last days of this tour that David’s were snatched by a fan. ‘It was highly symbolic, I thought,’ said David recently. ‘Our marriage was pretty much over in all but name. We were to see less and less of each other as the next year rolled around.’

  One can only assume that it was Scott Richardson who unwittingly contributed to the breakdown. The singer – an old friend of Iggy’s from the Detroit rock scene – had met Angie when she’d stopped over in Ann Arbor with The Stooges. He joined her for her reunion with David in Cleveland, and soon became her ‘official’ lover and – he thought – David’s friend. Caught in the centre of this unconventional ménage, he regards their open marriage as optimistic, naive: a loving arrangement that also represented a Faustian pact. ‘They had this open relationship that the fans and all the world knew about. They utilised all that to seduce the world – and it was incredibly effective. But what they were trying to do with each other ultimately backfired. And my little part, if it did end up causing distress, I apologise.’

  If David felt sexual jealousy of Angie he concealed it well. When David took up with Cyrinda Foxe, Angie indulged in a classic defence mechanism, becoming chums with Cyrinda, and copying her haircut. David took on a similar role with Richardson, becoming his rock ‘n’ roll buddy. Richardson observed that ‘David was pulling everybody left and right – and she was doing the same thing. And fantastic as that was for the publicity of the Ziggy Stardust era it was also incredibly destructive.’ David relied on Angie for support – she was the one who encouraged him when his nerve failed: when he worried about wearing the outrageous Kansai Yamamoto ‘jockstrap’ outfit in Japan, for instance. Yet by the end of the US trip, David seemed to have bowed to Defries’ restriction, and demanded Angie obey the old, sexist musicians’ rule of ‘no wives on tour’.

  ‘David would just get in a furious mood [when Angie was around] because maybe she was too outrageous – or maybe she took over too much of the limelight,’ says Suzi Fussey, who now worked as David’s PA. ‘I honestly don’t know.’

  Watching David at close hand, and working together with him later, Richardson developed bottomless respect for his abilities. As for Angie, he says, ‘I admired her so much as a human being.’ Yet he looked on as ‘the things that David counted on her for got diminished by the fact that there was so much sex going on. I lived in Haddon Hall and I used to wake under a pile of bodies. I thought having been on the road in America I knew what the rock ‘n’ roll life was. I didn’t have a clue until I went to England.’

  By the time David and The Spiders had returned to New York on 3 December, Defries was already planning a Japanese tour, and persuading RCA to co-promote David’s return to the States. During the stay, David recorded his own version of ‘All the Young Dudes’ and a new song, ‘Drive In Saturday’. When he met Ian Hunter a few days later, on 10 December, he played him the songs, offering the latter for release; Hunter told him it was ‘too complicated’ for Mott. By now, Hunter was worried about being regarded as Bowie’s creature, but he listened attentively to David’s advice, which was incisive, including the observation that it was impossible to run a band as a democracy. Despite his respect for David, Hunter was growing suspicious of the MainMan cavalcade, and kept his MainMan contract in his suitcase; he would never sign it, despite several reminders.

  In spite of his concerns, Hunter remained full of admiration for Bowie, who was eight years younger than him, but more worldly and analytical. The Mott singer concluded that David was ‘holding up well’ under the pressure – which was about to be ratcheted up a few more notches with an imminent short UK tour followed by a return to the US and then a short run of dates in Japan. A few hours after his chat with Hunter, Bowie set sail for London, the boat-trip a welcome relief before the onslaught was renewed.

  *

  The British press had closely reported the triumphs of the US tour – for all the problems, it was obvious that David had made much more of an impact than Marc Bolan, who’d also toured America than autumn. Two homecoming shows at the Rainbow before Christmas had a celebratory air, with David appealing for donations and, on the 24th, collecting a truckful of cuddly toys to be delivered to children in the Barnardo’s homes across London, to which Haywood had devoted so much of his life.

  David, Angie and Zowie spent their Christmas together at Haddon Hall, a brief respite before work started again, their family gathering augmented by dozens of fans singing in the street and, according to press reports, camping in the garden. Then it was back to work on the 28th, with a string of shows, starting in Manchester, interrupted by sessions back at Trident.

  Completed over December and January, Aladdin Sane – its title announced to the camply vague interviewer Russell Harty on 17 January 1973 – bore all the marks of its rushed genesis. Yet this was as much a blessing as a curse, for while songs were at a premium – with a re-recording of ‘The Prettiest Star’ and a cover of the Stones’ ‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’ making up the numbers – there was a freshness and grandeur to the recording, even if the internal logic was not as well developed as Ziggy’s. Mike Garson’s piano in particular added an anarchic, decadent edge, most obviously on the title track, in a solo which to this day he counts as an amazing moment in his life. ‘I played a blues solo and David said, “No, that’s not what I’m looking for.” Then I played a little Latin solo. “No, that’s not what I’m looking for.”’ David was relaxed, chatting easily to Garson, remembering their conversations on the tour bus. ‘Then he said to me, “Well, you told me about playing on the avant-garde scene in New York. Why don’t you try something like that?” I said, “Are you serious?” He said, “Absolutely.” That whole solo was one shot, one take – boom, that was it. But it came about because he got it out of me.’

  Garson was one of many musicians struck by David’s growing ability to inspire musicians to reach inside themselves and come up with ideas buried deep within their consciousness. Matthew Fisher, who dropped in on the Trident sessions, was also struck by the way Bowie would communicate ideas. ‘He issues very strange instructions to people – not in the prosaic way I would do it. He was talking to the brass players using terms like “renaissance” and “impressionist” – it was very esoteric, but people seemed to understand.’

  For Garson, asked to sprinkle his piano, like magic fairy dust, over the album’s best songs, David’s approach was liberating; soon Mike realised he was expected to bring something new to every track, contributing, for instance, a warped stride piano part to ‘Time’ that was brilliantly counterpointed by Ronson’s perfectly judged guitar. ‘That was a great piece; it was a chance for me to play in a whole other way,’ says Garson. ‘You’ve got to understand, if the inspiration is given to you – and it was given me – how can you go wrong?’

  Garson’s bravery in the studio, his willingness to take musical risks on the first or second take, was ‘so perfect’, says Ken Scott. ‘You could see it was pushing the envelope.’ However, not every musician was proving so obliging, for reasons not unconnected with Garson – or, rather, his religion.

  Drummer Woody Woodmansey had always had ‘strong opinions’, says Trevor Bolder, but as he fell more deeply under the influence of Scientology he became even more opinionated. Woody had already clashed with Bowie ove
r such trivial matters as the jacket he’d wear on The Russell Harty Show; now, his attitude affected the music, too. As they were laying down the backing track for ‘Panic in Detroit’, David asked Woody to play a Bo Diddley rhythm. ‘No way, it’s too obvious,’ Woodmansey retorted. Ronson had a word; Woody was immovable. ‘He wouldn’t have any of it,’ according to Trevor Bolder. In the end, Woody recorded his drum part much as he wanted – David and Mick asked Geoff MacCormack to overdub congas and other percussion to get the rhythm they’d had in mind.

  ‘Panic in Detroit’ was among the last songs recorded for Aladdin Sane, the final overdubs laid down as Ronson and Bowie rounded up musicians for a return to America, just a couple of days later. John Hutchinson was sitting in his Scarborough bedsit, when he got a call from Ronson, who asked if he was still playing guitar, then handed the phone to David. ‘Are you up for it?’ David asked, and he was in. Sax players Ken Fordham and Brian Wishaw were session regulars. Geoff MacCormack, David’s old Bromley schoolmate, got the call to join up for backing vocals – and to keep David company on the tour, now that Angie was banished. MacCormack duly packed in his job at Construction News and boarded the SS Canberra with David, where they settled into the routine of long dinners and nights at the bar, exchanging Oscar Wilde and Bosie witticisms.

  Soon after their arrival in New York, David took Geoff down to Max’s to see Biff Rose, whose ‘Fill Your Heart’ he’d covered on Hunky Dory; they were more impressed, though, by a new act, Bruce Springsteen, who was sharing the bill. During rehearsals, David was vibed-up, almost ecstatic as he chatted with his old mate John Hutchinson. There was no hint of reproach that Hutch had left David, back in 1969; instead, David shared his excitement. ‘Who’d’ve thought we’d all get here?’ Then back at the Gramercy Hotel, it was straight into one of David’s customary bonding sessions, as he gave Hutch a run-through of his latest musical discoveries – ‘This is Roxy Music – the singer’s a guy from Newcastle, he studied with [the pop artist] Richard Hamilton.’

  After rehearsals with the new, bigger band at the RCA soundstage (Harry Belafonte dropped by and politely asked them to turn down the volume) David took Hutch, Geoff and Stuey to see the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall, where they’d be playing a few days later. Absorbed by their ludicrously camp high-kicking act, David confided to Hutch that he intended to descend from the gods, just like the cabaret they were watching, as part of their act. For a man who now refused to stay in rooms above the hotel’s fourth floor, claiming vertigo, this was true devotion to his art.

  On the opening night of their second US tour on 14 February, 1973, the show was more grandiose than ever, with five costume changes for David alone; the news that Salvador Dali was in the house generated a special buzz, in a hectic night which culminated in David succumbing to a theatrical fainting fit. Whether this was a Lindsay Kemp-style act of drama, or genuine exhaustion, witnesses like MacCormack are ‘still not sure’ – but it generated headlines worldwide.

  David’s recovery was evidently rapid, for by the next night he hit the town again, ending up at a reception for Stevie Wonder at the club Genesis, which was packed with the city’s soul talent. Aretha Franklin and Gladys Knight were hanging out, and broke into song, accompanied by Ava Cherry, a striking black model with bleached blonde hair. David walked straight up to Ava and asked, ‘Are you a singer?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Ava assured him, stretching the truth a little, before a bystander introduced them. ‘I’ve been listening to your albums for a month,’ she told him. ‘I think they’re incredible.’ This was not a total exaggeration; Cherry’s manager had helped engineer the meeting, hoping it would advance her career. But Ava was fascinated by this outlandish figure: a model of English charm and good manners, buzzing with energy, but content to go with the flow, even when she declined his invitation back to the Gramercy. Within the next couple of days, though – which were packed with a trip to see Charles Mingus, hours spent listening to records and sharing opinions, attendance at rehearsals, and then an informal audition where Defries assessed her singing – they became lovers. ‘Then the very next day we’re up and getting breakfast,’ says Cherry, ‘and all of a sudden the door knocks and it’s Angie. “Darling! How are you?” So I’m standing there and you can picture the look on my face!’

  Once she’d been briefed by David about his open marriage, Ava was shocked, simultaneously intimidated and impressed by Angie, and ‘really depressed. I said to David, “Why didn’t you tell me?”’ Still, she found herself ‘a little bit in love with David’, as well as entranced by the intriguing cast of characters around him. Just before David left town, he told her he’d like her to join the tour as backing singer. Soon Cherry left her job and apartment, to wait in Chicago where, instead of confirmation, she would receive a telegram saying, ‘Sorry, tour has been cancelled.’ Informed that David would catch up with her later, Ava concluded, ‘Thanks very much. That’s completely messed up my life.’

  For Cherry, the realisation that she could be taken up then discarded like a child’s toy was an unwanted insight into the behaviour of stars and their retinue. It was a lesson that many who passed into the orbit of David Bowie in the forthcoming months would share.

  Ray Stevenson

  The debut of The Hype, with Tony Visconti, left, and new guitarist Mick Ronson, out of view, 22 February, 1970; the antecedents both of The Spiders from Mars and glam rock.

  Pictorial Press

  ‘They tried to have a new kind of marriage, an open marriage, and it was absolutely brilliant what that represented.’ Bromley Registry Office, 20 March, 1970, David with new wife Angie and mother Peggy – who told friends she had turned up uninvited.

  Ron Burton/Mirrorpix

  Oh! You Pretty Things: David, Angie and new-born Zowie, summer 1971, in the midst of the sessions for Hunky Dory. Stranded on a dysfunctional label, dismissed as a one-hit wonder, labelled ‘a pervert’ by BBC producers, David Bowie had changed not only his look and lifestyle, but the way he wrote and made music. ‘He cited where he was going to be. And then he did it,’ says one of his musicians.

  Barrie Wentzell

  ‘I’m gay and I always have been.’ David’s Melody Maker interview, Regent Street, London, January, 1972. ‘There was no doubt that this would work,’ says photographer Barrie Wentzell. Writer Michael Watts adds, ‘He knew exactly what he was doing.’

  Ray Stevenson

  ‘This was serious.’ The Spiders make mayhem, Imperial College London, 12 February, 1972. David fell into the crowd once, but would ‘just get up and carry on’ for the tour that marked his ascension to stardom.

  ITV/Rex Features

  He came, not just for your daughters, but for your sons, too. ‘Starman’, Top of the Pops, 6 July, 1972, was a moment of ‘epiphany’ for a generation of teenagers.

  © Mick Rock 1973, 2010

  David and Mick Ronson share a roast and two veg on the train to Aberdeen, 15 May, 1973. Over recent weeks, manager Tony Defries had quashed the revolt of The Spiders and arranged to groom Ronson as MainMan’s next star.

  Mirrorpix

  ‘I really did want it to come to an end.’ Tired, uncommunicative, David arrives for his Hammersmith ‘retirement’, 3 July, 1973. ‘To break up a band like that is astonishing,’ says one friend, Scott Richardson. ‘I have to credit Bowie with having a lot of courage – to say, “I’m not coming back”.’

  Harry Myers/Rex Features

  ‘Once they could enjoy the fruits of success, the cracks started to appear.’ Smiles for the camera at the premiere of Live and Let Die, 5 July – a rare photo which shows manager Tony Defries (right) stepping into the limelight. David and Angie’s marriage was already damaged; soon his relationship with Defries would splinter, too.

  Kate Simon

  ‘Cold. Calculated.’ Recording ‘Big Brother’ at Olympic Studios, with pianist Mike Garson, October, 1974. Bowie now planned to out-do the Stones by adopting their loose guitar rock – and their glorification of cocai
ne.

  Bob Gruen

  David with his new ‘official’ mistress, Ava Cherry, soon after his move to New York in April, 1974; wife Angie, who had in turn recruited her own official companion, Scott Richardson, would henceforth be kept at a distance.

  Terry O’Neill/Getty Images

  David dons gouster gear and declares, ‘I’m going to record a session’. Making Young Americans, Sigma Sound, Philadelphia, accompanied by fellow Bromley cub-scout and lifetime friend, Geoff MacCormack.

  Dagmar/TopFoto

  Cracked: July, 1974, on the Diamond Dogs tour – which was characterised by an abundance of cocaine. ‘The drugs were apparent in so many ways,’ recalls one witness. ‘They actually seemed to add to the overall vibe – there was a darkness to it.’

  PART TWO

  Where Things Are Hollow

  11

  Star

  David acted as if everything was completely normal. I don’t know if he was delusional and thought no one knew.

  Suzi Fussey

  To break up a band like that is astonishing. I have to credit Bowie with having a lot of courage: to say, ‘I’m not coming back.’

  Scott Richardson

  David Bowie’s three- or four-day idyll with Ava Cherry in New York marked a new phase his life – an era when he would be surrounded by people using him to advance their careers, when subordinates would overlook every aspect of his working day and when the world’s media would pry into every aspect of his life.