Starman - David Bowie - The Definitive Biography

8/9/2019 Starman - David Bowie - The Definitive Biography

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Also by Paul Trynka

IGGY POP: OPEN UP AND BLEED

PORTRAIT OF THE BLUES

DENIM


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COPYRIGHT

Published by Hachette Digital

ISBN: 978-0-74812-991-1

Copyright © Paul Trynka 2011

All rights reserved. No part of this publication ma be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or

transmitted, in any form or by any means, withoutthe prior permission in writing of the publisher.

Hachette DigitalLittle, Brown Book Group100 Victoria Embankment

London, EC4Y 0DY

www.hachette.co.uk

http://www.hachette.co.uk/


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To Kazimierz and Maureen: Heroes


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CONTENTS

Also by Paul Trynka

Copyright

ntroduction: Genius Steals

Part One: I Hope I Make It On My Own

When I’m Five2 Numero Uno, Mate!’

3 Thinking About Me4

Laughing Gnome


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5 Wish Something Would Happen

6 Check Ignition

7 All the Madmen8 Kooks

9 Over the Rainbow0

Battle Cries and Champagne

Part Two: Where Things Are Hollow1

Star 2

The Changing isn’t Free3

Make Me Break Down and Cry4

White Stains


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5 Ghosts in the Echo Chambers

6 Helden

7 Am Not a Freak 8

Snapshot of a Brain

9 On the Other Side20 t’s My Life – So Fuck Off

21

The Heart’s Filthy Lesson22 The Houdini Mechanism

Discography

otes and Sources

Acknowledgements


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ndex


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INTRODUCTION

Genius Steals

Thursday evening, seven o’clock: decadence iabout to arrive in five million front rooms. Neatluited dads are leaning back in the comfiest chai

mums in their pinnies are clearing away the dishewhile the kids – still in school shirts and trousers are clustered around the small television for themost sacred weekly ritual.

The tiny studio audience, milling around in tanops and dresses, clap politely as the artist anumber forty-one in the charts strums out twminor chords on his blue twelve-string guitar. Thcamera cuts from his hands to his face, catching thbarest hint of a smirk – like a child hoping to geaway with something naughty. But then as hifriends – Trevor, Woody and Mick Ronson –clatter into action with a rollicking drum roll an

hroaty guitar, the camera pulls back and Davi


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Bowie meets its gaze, unflinchingly. His look iascivious, amused. As an audience of exciteeens and outraged parents struggle to take in th

multicoloured quilted jumpsuit, the luxurian

carrot-top hairdo, spiky teeth and those sparklingmascaraed come-to-bed eyes, he sings us througan arresting succession of images: radios, alienget-it-on rock ‘n’ roll’. The audience is sti

grappling with this confusing, over-the-topectacle when a staccato guitar rings out a Morscode warning, and then, all too suddenly, we’rnto the chorus.

From the disturbingly new, we shift to th

eassuringly familiar: as he croons out ‘There’s tar —man …’ Bowie’s voice leaps up an octavet’s an ancient Tin Pan Alley songwriter’s trickignalling a release, a climax. And as we hear o

he friendly alien waiting in the sky, the audiencuddenly recognises a tune, and a message, lifteopenly, outrageously, from ‘Over the Rainbowudy Garland’s escapist, Technicolor wartim

anthem. It’s simple, singalong, comforting territory

and it lasts just four bars, before David Bowi


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makes his bid for immortality. Less than onminute after his face first appeared on Top of th

ops – the BBC’s family-friendly musiprogramme – Bowie lifts his slim, graceful hand t

he side of his face and his platinum-hairebandmate Mick Ronson joins him at thmicrophone. Then, casually, coolly, Bowie placehis arm around the guitarist’s neck, and pull

Ronson lovingly towards him. There’s the samoctave leap as he sings ‘star—man’ again, but thiime it doesn’t suggest escaping the bounds o

earth; it symbolises escaping the bounds oexuality.

The fifteen-million-strong audience struggles tabsorb this exotic, pan-sexual creature: icountless households, the kids are entranced – iheir hundreds, in thousands – as parents snee

hout or walk out of the room. But even as thewonder how to react, there’s another stylistiwerve; with the words ‘let the children boogie

David Bowie and The Spiders break into aunashamed T. Rex boogie rhythm. For a generatio

of teenagers, there was no hesitation; those ninet


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econds, on a sunny evening in July 1972, woulchange the course of their lives. Up to this poinpop music had been mainly about belonging, aboudentification with your peers. This music

carefully choreographed in a dank basement undea south London escort agency, was a spectacle onot-belonging. For scattered, isolated kids arounhe UK, and soon the East Coast of America, an

hen the West Coast, this was their day. The day ohe outsider.

n the weeks that followed, it became obvious thahese three minutes had put a rocket under th

career of a man all-too recently dismissed as one-hit wonder. Most people who knew him werdelighted, but there were hints of suspicion. ‘HiVera Lynn,’ one cynical friend called it, in pointed reference to ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ he huge wartime hit that had also ripped off Jud

Garland’s best-known song; this homage was toknowing. A few weeks later, to emphasise thpoint, David started singing ‘somewhere over th

ainbow’ over the chorus of ‘Starman’ – as if t


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prove Pablo Picasso’s maxim that ‘talent borrowsgenius steals’.

And steal he had, with a clear-eyed effrontery ahocking as the lifted melodies themselves. Th

way he collaged several old tunes into a new sonwas a musical tradition as old as the hills, one stimaintained by David’s old-school showbiz friendike Lionel Bart, the writer of Oliver!. Yet to boas

of this homage, to show the joins, brazenly, likhe lift shafts of the Pompidou centre, was a newrick – a post-modernism that was just as unsettlin

as the post-sexuality he’d shown off with that ar ovingly curled over Mick Ronson’s shoulder. Thi

appropriation’ might have been a hot notion in thart scene, thanks to Andy Warhol, but for a rock ‘noller to declare ‘I’m a tasteful thief’ defied acred convention – that rock ‘n’ roll was a

authentic, visceral medium. Rock ‘n’ roll was reaborn out of joy and anguish in the turmoil of poswar America, and sculpted into the first electriblues. But David flaunted his lack of authenticitwith brazen abandon. ‘The only art I’ll ever stud

s stuff I can steal from. I do think that m


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plagiarism is effective,’ he told an interviewerThe open lifting of iconic sounds was a disturbinnew form of genius. But was rock ‘n’ roll now jusan art game? Was the flame-haired Ziggy Stardus

– potent symbol of otherness – just an intellectuapose?

When David Bowie made his mark so elegantlyo extravagantly, that night on Top of the Pops, in

hrilling performance that marked out the seventieas a decade distinct from the sixties, every one ohose contradictions was obvious; in fact, the

added a delicious tension. In the following monthand years – as he dumped the band who ha

haped his music; when his much-touted influenceike Iggy Pop, the man who’d inspired Ziggy

dismissed him as a ‘fuckin’ carrot-top’ who haexploited and then sabotaged him; when Davi

himself publicly moaned that his gay persona hadamaged his career in the US – thoscontradictions became more obvious still.

So was David Bowie truly an outsider? Or wahe a showbiz pro, exploiting outsiders like

psychic vampire? Was he really a starman, or wa


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t all cheap music-hall tinsel and glitter? Was hgay or was it all a mask? There was evidencaplenty for both. And that evidence multiplied ihe following months and years as fans witnessed

wide-mouthed – astonishing moments like hiwired, fractured appearance on The Dick CaveShow, or his twitchy but charming approachabiliton Soul Train. Was this bizarre behaviour also

mask? A carefully choreographed routine?In the following years David Bowie, and thosaround him, would struggle to answer thiquestion. He’d emerged from a showbiz traditiopropelled chiefly by youthful ambition, his mai

alent that of ‘repositioning the brand’, as onfriend puts it. That calculation, that ‘executivability’, as Iggy Pop describes it, marked him ouas the very antithesis of instinctive rock ‘n’ ro

heroes like Elvis Presley. Yet the actions thaapparently signalled the death of rock ‘n’ roannounced a rebirth, too. Maybe this wasn’t rocn’ roll like Elvis had made it, but it led the wa

for where rock ‘n’ roll would go. Successors lik

Prince or Madonna, Bono or Lady Gaga, eac


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eized on Bowie’s ‘repositioning the brand’ as et-piece example of how to avoid artistic culs-deac like the one that imprisoned Elvis. For Bowi

himself, though, each brand renewal, eac

metamorphosis, would come at a cost.Inevitably, as David Bowie’s career move

ever onwards, generations of fans wondered whaay behind those masks. In subsequent years ther

have been many accounts, either of a flint-hearteip-off merchant, or a natural-born genius witome minor character flaws. Yet as the hundreds o

friends, lovers and fellow musicians who speawithin the following pages attest, the truth is fa

more intriguing.For the truth is, David Bowie – behind th

glitter and showmanship – didn’t just changhimself on the outside; he changed himself on th

nside. Since Doctor Faustus sold his soul, oRobert Johnson found himself at the crossroadartists and musicians have struggled to transcenhe talents they were born with. David Bowie, outh with ambition and more charm than talen

eemed to have achieved that magical alchemy, th


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achievement we all dream of: he transformehimself, and his destiny.


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PART ONE

I Hope I Make It On My Own


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1

When I’m Five

Everything seemed grey. We wore shorgrey flannel trousers of a thick and rougmaterial, grey socks and grey shirts. Throads were grey, the prefabs were gre

and the bomb sites also seemed to bmade of grey rubble.

Peter Pricke

t was a cold, wet November in 1991, like thcold, wet Novembers of his childhood, whe

David Bowie asked his driver to take the scenioute to the Brixton Academy. The smoke-fille

coach pulled slowly down Stansfield Road, just few hundred yards from the venue, and pause

outside a large, anonymous three-storey Victoria


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house, before moving on.Bowie had been chatty, open, almos

urprisingly vulnerable in the last twelve weekbut remained silent for a few minutes as he gaze

out of the window. Then he turned around, anguitarist Eric Schermerhorn, sitting next to himcould see tears trickling down his employercheeks. ‘It’s a miracle,’ Bowie murmured. He wa

unashamed of his vulnerability. ‘I probably shoulhave been an accountant. I don’t know how this ahappened.’

For Schermerhorn, who’d seen Bowie’howmanship and poise from close-up, the menta

mage of David Robert Jones inspecting a companpreadsheet seemed ludicrous. As had the doubt

he’d expressed to Schermerhorn a few daybefore: he didn’t even know if he could sing. Fo

Schermerhorn, who had seen the man’s almomystical ability to hold a show together andominate a crowd, this apparent self-doubt wabizarre. Over the coming months, Schermerhorwould learn from Bowie’s friends, and his ow

observations, about the man’s organisation, hi


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executive abilities’, his talent for working thystem. Yet here was the man himself, surveyinhe scene of his childhood, convinced this waome kind of accident. The idea seemed ludicrou

Hadn’t someone so eminently glamorous alwaybeen fated to be a star?

David Bowie has described himself as a ‘Brixto

boy’ more than once. Although his stay was briet’s an apt term. Brixton in January 1947 was unique location: the cultural focus of south Londonblessed with its own racy glamour, battered buunbowed by the Luftwaffe and Hitler’s terro

weapons, whose destruction was visible whereveou walked.

It was natural that David’s father, HaywooStenton Jones, should gravitate towards Brixtonfor its music-hall traditions matched his owfantasies. Born in Doncaster on 21 Novembe912, and brought up in the picturesque Yorkshir

brewery town of Tadcaster, he had a tougchildhood: his father died in the First World War

and his mother soon afterwards. Raised by th


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ocal council and an aunt, Haywood Jones camnto an inheritance from the family footwea

business when he was eighteen. ‘So he bought heatre troupe. What a wise idea!’ David recounte

ears later. The enterprise lost Haywood much ohis fortune, and he invested what was left in nightclub in London’s West End that catered tboxers and other exotic characters. It was durin

his short-lived venture that he also acquired wife, pianist Hilda Sullivan. When the nightcluburned up most of his remaining cash, Haywoocame down with a stomach ulcer. The idea oworking for a children’s charity came to him in

dream; both an exit route from his own troubleand a way of helping kids who’d suffered fracturechildhoods like his own. In September 1935 htarted work at Dr Barnardo’s at Stepne

Causeway, an imposing, sooty complex obuildings in the heart of the East End, which haprovided a refuge for homeless children since th

870s.When the Second World War broke out

Haywood was among the first to enlist, servin


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with the Royal Fusiliers, who fought in Franceorth Africa and Europe. When he returned to

battered but victorious London in October 1945Haywood immediately rejoined Barnardo’s a

General Superintendent to the Chief of Staff. Likmany wartime marriages, Haywood’s didn’t last t was doubtless damaged by an affair with a nurs

which produced a child, Annette, born in 1941.

Hayward met Margaret Burns, known as Pegg– a waitress at the Ritz Cinema – on a visit to Barnardo’s home at Tunbridge Wells soon after hieturn, and his divorce from Hilda only camhrough in time for him to marry Peggy eigh

months after the arrival of his second child, DaviRobert Jones, who was born at the family’s newhome at 40 Stansfield Road, Brixton, on 8 January

947.

In that immediate post-war period, Brixton wacold, damp and soot-blackened and battered bvengeance weapons. Its pre-war raciness anmusic-hall glamour was only enhanced by itecent history, and in 1947 Brixton looked – to us

one of David’s favourite words – especiall


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dystopian. This part of south London had beeudged ‘expendable’ in the Second World War

Churchill’s spymasters had manipulated the preseports of where Hitler’s futuristic V1 flyin

bombs were landing, to ensure they fell short anhit south London, rather than the wealthy West EndOver forty of the pioneering cruise missilemashed into Brixton and Lambeth – entire street

both behind and in front of the Jones’ family homwere flattened. Most of the rubble had beecleared away by 1947, but the area retained itforeboding gap-toothed look for decades.

David’s first winter was grim. Britain in lat

947 was grim. The Second World War hadnvigorated American capitalism, but had le

Britain tired, battered and near broke. There werno street lights, no coal, gas supplies were low an

ation cards were still needed to buy linen, fueeconomy’ suits, eggs and the scraggy bits oArgentinean beef that were only occasionallavailable. Christopher Isherwood, the writer whwould one day advise David to move to Berlin

visited London that year and was shocked at it


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habbiness. ‘London is a dying city,’ one local tolhim, advising him not to return.

For parents, life was hard. Yet for the childrewho scampered around this urban wilderness,

was a wonderland; the abandoned, bomb-damagehouses were playgrounds and museums, full ontriguing treasures abandoned by long-vanisheenants.

In later years, many of Peggy Burns’ friendwould notice her contempt for the Labour Partywho had swept into power in the first post-waelection on a platform of radical social reform. Yegiven life that winter, her attitude wa

understandable. The British had been exhausted bhe war, but peace had brought no improvement iiving standards. In Brixton it was impossible t

find soap, the local Woolworth’s was lit b

candles, Peggy had to constantly scour the locahops to find terry towelling for nappies, and at thend of February the Labour government introducepower rationing, with homes limited to five hourselectricity a day. In the meantime, Haywood Jone

and the Barnardo’s organisation wrestled with th


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problem of thousands of children displaced by thwar.

David loved his father – to this day he wears gold cross given to him by Haywood when he wa

n his teens – but when asked about his relationshiwith his mother in 2002, he quoted Philip Larkin’famously bleak ‘This Be The Verse’ – the poemhat starts, ‘They fuck you up, your mum and dad

The occasion was an informal live chat witnterviewer Michael Parkinson; the lines drewaughter, as had many of David’s quips. As Davi

went on to recite the remaining lines of misery, thitters gave way to uncomfortable silence.

The ‘madness’ of Peggy Burns’ family woulone day become part of the Bowie legend, but afar as the young David Jones was concerned, was remoteness – a simple lack of emotion – tha

characterised his relationship with his mumPeggy’s sister Pat said of their mother, MargareMary Burns, née Heaton, that, ‘she was a colwoman. There was not a lot of love around.’ Peggeems to have inherited that coldness. Ye

according to family lore, Peggy was good wit


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children in her youth, working as a nanny beforfalling in love with the handsome Jack IsaaRosenberg, son of a wealthy Jewish furrieRosenberg promised to marry Peggy, bu

disappeared before the birth of their son, anDavid’s half-brother, Terence Guy Adair Burnson 5 November, 1937.

There were darker shadows in Peggy’s pas

oo. In 1986 her sister Pat – ‘the frightful aunt’ aBowie later termed her – went on the record tdetail the troubled history of the Burns familyPeggy and Pat’s siblings included three sisters

ora, Una and Vivienne – who, according to Pa

uffered from degrees of mental instability; whaone writer termed the Burns’ ‘family afflictionThis history later inspired the theory that Daviones was forced to construct alter-egos t

distance himself from the madness within. Ken PitDavid’s future manager, knew David, Peggy anPat as well as anyone, and describes this theory aunconvincing’. Although David would late

gleefully celebrate his family, announcing, ‘most o

hem are nutty – in, just out of, or going into a


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nstitution’, most people who knew theconsidered Haywood friendly and sincere anfound Peggy talkative once you got to know hewith many traces of her former vivaciousness.

Peggy had a third child, Myra Ann, born iAugust 1941, before she met Haywood – the resuof another wartime romance. The child was giveup for adoption and by the time she met Haywood

Peggy was ready to settle down to a conventionaife and agreed to marry the Yorkshireman on thcondition that he accept Terence as his son. So fohe first nine years of his life, David had an elde

brother to look up to; and when Terry left home i

956 to join the Royal Air Force, he remained thobject of David’s hero-worship. The messyconfused nature of the Jones household was hardlunusual – illegitimate births had soared in wartim

Britain; some historians blame a shortage of rubbeand hence a fall in condom production. David’roubled relationship with his mother echoed tha

of contemporaries like John Lennon and EriClapton, both of whom were raised in household

hat today would have a social worker knocking o


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he door.As David grew into a toddler, austerit

continued to keep a tight grip, but glimmers of hoptarted to appear. 1953, a year treasured by man

kids, marked an end to sweet rationing and thadvent of television. Haywood Jones was one ohousands who bought a new set so the famil

could watch the coronation of the glamorous youn

Queen Elizabeth. Just a few weeks later, the sixear-old David snuck downstairs for another Tandmark – The Quatermass Experiment ,

pioneering BBC science-fiction series that had aof Britain glued to the screen. This ‘tremendou

eries’ would leave its mark on David, whemembers how he’d watch each Saturday nighfrom behind the sofa when my parents had thoughhad gone to bed. After each episode I woul

iptoe back to my bedroom rigid with fear, spowerful did the action seem.’ The programmparked a lifelong fascination with science fictio

and – through its theme tune: the dark, sinistears, The Bringer of War from Holst’s ‘Plane

Suite’ – the emotional effect of music.


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hared, during most of their eight years in Brixtonwith two other families. In later years, witconventional rock-star spin, David Bowidescribed his Brixton youth like a walk on the wil

ide, with gangs roaming the street. The local kiddid indeed wander around the area freely, but theiprey was butterflies, tadpoles and other urbawildlife. ‘It was unbelievable,’ says David’

neighbour and schoolmate Sue Larner, ‘there werhese huge spaces from the bomb sites, and ruinehouses, which seemed like mountains to ucovered in buddleia: they were our playgroundsDerelict buildings at the bottom of Stansfield Roa

were sinister, yet fragrant – kids scampered arounhe sweet-smelling blooms with nets, for ther

were more butterflies around than before or sincewhile the many pools and ponds in south London’

abandoned bomb sites were packed with tadpoleand newts. Rats also meandered casually throughe abandoned buildings, and local kids stiemember the sound of mice scurrying around th

draughty, un-carpeted Victorian houses at night, a

hey clutched a hot water bottle for warmth an


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ived with Miss Justin, who taught in the JunioSchool. Only later did Sue and her friendconclude ‘they were obviously a sweet lesbiacouple’. If any parents suspected a relationship

hey were unconcerned, for as Larner points ouLots of women had lost their beaus in the war

They took the conventional British attitude: exotiexuality was fine, as long as it was kept behin

closed doors. Don’t frighten the horses, as thaying went.Most of the families around Stansfield Roa

were large, with kids invariably accompanied oheir adventures by brothers and sisters. Maybe it

for that reason that few of them remember DavidSue Larner was one of the only children who dinotice him; now a sculptor, she recalls noticing thnice-looking, well-scrubbed boy’s skill at ar

None of us had much to do with boys, but I demember showing him a few tricks on the drawinboard – and he showed me even more. He showeme how to draw a woman’s bonnet, with the neckwithout having to draw a face first. He was good.

At weekends, or after school, the five-year-ol


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David’s universe was bounded by the bomb siteon Chantrey Road and the far side of StockweRoad, where all kids played: turning left oStockwell Road, he’d immediately reach th

chool playground; turning right, he’d walk pawo sweet shops, the nearest overseen by a kindly

camp gentleman. Further down Stockwell Roawas the Astoria: later a famed rock venue – th

Academy – whose attractions would include DaviBowie, in the fifties it was still a thriving locacinema, with morning matinees featuring cowbomovies, Zorro or Laurel and Hardy. On the way the cinema, a book-shop sprawled out onto th

pavement, filled with comics and kids’ booksThere was a large dairy, with horse-drawn cartsbut the main feature that dominated StockweRoad was Pride and Clarke’s, a celebrate

motorbike and car showroom that sprawled acrosa row of maroon-painted buildings, latemmortalised in Antonioni’s Blowup. This wa

where David, the future petrol-head, could oglBSAs, Rileys and other legendary British bike

and cars.


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As for another intrinsic part of Brixton’s appeahe sound of calypso and the smell of curried goahese were things David would only have got

whiff of. For in 1954, Haywood Jones and famil

packed up for suburbia.

t was John Betjeman, the beloved poet laureatewho described the suburbs as the home of ‘a new

kind of citizen’. As fitting proof of its futurismDavid’s new home, Bromley, was also thbirthplace of H. G. Wells. From the 1950onwards, the suburbs were an object of both horroand aspiration – the upper classes despised th

prim, mock-Tudor houses, while the middlclasses flocked to such neatly manicured streetToday, like many English market towns, Bromles bland and overrun by chain stores: Wells

birthplace is now a Primark clothing outlet. But ihe fifties it was a place in flux – a short train rid

from London, but smaller and friendlier. ‘It waactually quite charming,’ says David’s boyhoofriend, Geoff MacCormack, ‘even soulful.’

The move to Bromley marked Haywood’


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promotion from board secretary to PubliRelations Officer. Haywood’s colleagues regardehim as ‘unassuming but cheerful – good companyThe Jones’ new home, a small but neat Edwardia

erraced house in Plaistow Grove – a cul-desanear the railway line – was perfectly in keepinwith the family’s modestly respectable status.

Parts of Bromley were middle-class enclaves

930s fake Tudor with leaded windows tproclaim their superior status – but poverty wanever far away. Children and their parents werencouraged to save 6d a week in the Burnt AsSchool Boot Club – to help them buy adequat

footwear – and there was no shortage oDickensian sights. A costermonger, or rag-andbone man, walked the streets, uttering the ‘Any olron’ cry familiar from Victorian times. Severa

treets still boasted gas lighting, and in most partof Bromley there was hardly a car to be seeparked at the curbside. United Dairies, which haa yard behind Burnt Ash School, still used horseo deliver milk, which was deposited o

everybody’s doorstep each morning. Even in th


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950s, electrical supplies were erratic; radios oecord players were usually plugged into the lighocket in the ceiling, while electric clocks oftelowed down in the afternoon, at the time of heav

demand, then would speed up again at night. Fewpeople owned telephones – the Joneses were aexception.

David joined Burnt Ash School a couple o

ears after most of his classmates and didnparticularly stand out during the first few termWithin a year or so, however, David was part of mall gang, including Dudley Chapman and Joh

Barrance, who lived nearby and were invited t

David’s eighth birthday party. Even at this agemany kids noted the cramped interior of the Jonesmodest two-up, two-down house. John Barranchought the family seemed restrained, quiet. ‘The

were perfectly pleasant, but I think they had “don’t touch this, don’t touch that” attitudeDavid’s friend Max Batten shared more easygoinimes with him, enjoying lollipops, chatting wit

Mrs Jones and, one memorable afternoon, sneakin

upstairs and unwrapping Haywood’s servic


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evolver. The two boys played with it furtivelybefore carefully replacing it in the drawer where had been concealed.

Though few of his contemporaries remember

as being anything out of the ordinary, in later yearDavid’s background would be portrayed adysfunctional – mostly by David himself. In thmid-seventies, when he was in his mo

flamboyantly deranged phase, he loved tproclaim, ‘everyone finds empathy in a nuttfamily’. Peggy, in particular, was singled out as thperfect exemplar of repression and eccentricitybut the most damning recollection of others is tha

he was a snob. In general, it was only the mormiddle-class children were treated to a welcomand a cup of tea at Plaistow Grove, and Davieemed to learn which of his friends should b

ushered in the front door and which ones werworthy only to wait at the garden gate. In fairnest’s possible Peggy simply preferred boys whoike David, were trained to say ‘please’ and ‘thanou’. John Hutchinson, a well-brought-u

Yorkshire lad who enjoyed sitting in the back roo


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with its cosy fireplace and photos on thmantelpiece, maintains that, ‘she was niceemembering how in future years she would kn

outfits for his young son, Christian. Some of th

ensions between Peggy and David were simpldue, says Hutchinson, to the generational shift thawould soon grip the country, the advent of theenager and the fact that, as he puts it, ‘it becam

cool to put down your parents’. In future yearPeggy’s sister Pat bore witness to other tensionwithin the family. In their first year in BromleyTerry was apparently left behind in Brixton, whicwas thought to be more convenient for his job as

clerk in Southwark. Later he rejoined DavidPeggy and Haywood at Plaistow Grove, but hipresence – before he left to prepare for NationaService in 1955 – was brief; not one of David’

friends remember seeing him at the Jones’ house. Iparents ‘fuck you up’, as David put it, theundoubtedly Terry suffered more than his brother.

Peggy’s own friends, such as AubreGoodchild, maintain David’s mum was ‘goo

company. Forthright, though. And conservative i


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her politics.’ And David wasn’t the only one whfelt frustrated or hemmed in by his familyCompared to America, with its consumer boommovies and comic-book heroes, Britain was stai

and its kids felt suffocated. ‘We were shabby,ays Bromley schoolgirl Dorothy BasEverything seemed grey,’ remembers anothe

contemporary, Peter Prickett. ‘We wore short gre

flannel trousers of a thick and rough material, greocks and grey shirts. The roads were grey, thprefabs were grey and there were still quite a fewbomb sites around in 1956 – these also seemed tbe made of grey rubble.’ Life was predictable

defined by rituals. Some of them were oddlcomforting, like the tiny glass bottles of free milhanded out at school every morning at 11 o’clockhe National Anthem that was played on BBC radi

and TV before they closed down for the night, oDavid’s volunteer job at school – putting up thclimbing ropes in the playground each morning.

For its time, Burnt Ash was a modern schoowith an emphasis on art – particularly in the for

of Music and Movement classes, during which th


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pupils were encouraged to express themselvedancing around in their underwear. No one ownea PE kit. In other respects it followed fiftienorms: a strict uniform policy, formal assemblie

with hymns and the cane for misbehaving boys.Headmaster George Lloyd was, in the words o

one pupil, ‘interesting’. Slightly portly, and jollyhe took classes in music and reading, individuall

utoring his pupils one-on-one. He was ‘gentleaffectionate with the children, and often saalongside boys as they read, putting his arm arounhe favoured pupil. There were a few boys fo

whom he seemed to have real affection, ‘and on

of them,’ says a schoolmate, ‘was David. Hdefinitely did like David.’

At ten or eleven, David had delicate, almoelfin features, hair cut in bangs, was average i

height and slightly skinny. But there was an energand enthusiasm about him that seemed to win oveGeorge Lloyd and others, the beginnings of a knacof charming people. He was a good-looking boy a fact his female classmates noticed later – an

even by his teens he was developing a talent fo


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using charm ‘as a weapon’, says a later confidantewriter Charles Shaar Murray. ‘Even if you’d falleout, when you met David again you’d be convincewithin five minutes that he had barely been able t

function in the years he hadn’t seen you. I know foa time, I developed a kind of platonic man-love fohim.’

It was this charm, this ability to be whoever hi

confidante wanted him to be, that would be thmaking of David Bowie; it’s what brought him hibreaks, the opportunities his ever-active minworked out how to exploit. In these early days, thacharm was not deployed so intensely, or s

uthlessly. Still, ‘he was just, somehow, one of thkids you noticed,’ says schoolmate Jan Powlingbright, quite funny, with oodles of personality

He was invariably neatly dressed, more so than hi

classmates: ‘always well scrubbed, with cleafingernails,’ says Powling. ‘In short, the kind oboy that if you were his mum, you would have beeeally proud of him.’

Well scrubbed, polite, every suburban mother’

dream son, the ten-year-old David Jones also stuc


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o middle-class conventions by enrolling in thocal Scout Pack and Church of England choiWe were slung in,’ says fellow cub scout Geof

MacCormack, ‘because that’s what parents di

with kids then. We didn’t kick up a fuss, we jusgot on with it.’ Like Keith Richards, one of BadenPowell’s unlikeliest champions, the kids lapped uhe outdoors adventures. The weekly pack meet

and services became a crucial part of David’s lifebecause it was there that he met MacCormack anGeorge Underwood, who would prove the moenduring friends of his life. Together, the thredonned cassocks, surplices and ruffles for churc

ervices, as well as the frequent weddings thawould become the future David Bowie’s firpaying gigs as a singer. ‘Not only were you paifive shillings – a princely sum in those days,’ say

MacCormack, ‘but if the ceremony took place ihe week you got a day off school.’George Underwood’s family lived on the othe

ide of Bromley, so he was enrolled at a differenprimary school. Tall for his age, good-lookin

with an easy, relaxed but passionate air about him


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he would become the closest friend of David’outh. Their relationship would go through somocky patches, but would be a formative one iheir lives. For the glue that held their friendshi

ogether was rock ‘n’ roll.

For most of David and George’s generation therwas a ‘Eureka!’ moment, the instant when rock ‘n

oll exploded into their consciousness: an escapoute from their grey world. For both boys, thamoment hit in 1955. Towards the end of that yearhe movie Blackboard Jungle caused a sensation the UK, generating widespread outrage a

politicians denounced the baleful influence of thock ‘n’ rollers, like Bill Haley, that it celebrated

Around the same time, Haywood arrived homfrom Stepney Causeway one evening with a bafull of singles which he’d been given. That nighDavid played each of the records: Fats DominoChuck Berry and Frankie Lymon and ThTeenagers. ‘Then,’ he says, ‘I hit gold: “TuttFrutti” by Little Richard – my heart nearly bur

with excitement. I’d never heard anything eve


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esembling this. It filled the room with energy ancolour and outrageous defiance. I had heard GodMore than anyone else, Little Richard would be ouchstone, an embodiment of sex, glamour an

cranked-up music, of the future David Bowie’career: ‘I always wanted to be Little Richard – hwas my idol.’

Born Richard Penniman, the most controversia

genre-busting early rock ‘n’ roller would make potent touchstone. Many of David’contemporaries, like The Rolling Stones’ KeitRichards, would cite Muddy Waters and ChucBerry as their heroes; they represented authenti

blues, forged deep in the Mississippi Delta. LittlRichard was a city boy: he had made his name i

ew Orleans, studying outrageous performers likGuitar Slim and Esquerita, hanging out in a camp

cross-dressing scene where fur-coated queencompeted to deliver the best impressions of DinaWashington or Sarah Vaughan. His records were far cry from Muddy’s deep, soulful songs oearning or sexual bravado: they were min

explosions of sound, cranked up using the city’


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best session men and designed to pack in thmaximum thrills possible within the two minuteand thirty seconds allowed by the South’s jukebooperators. Richard Penniman didn’t only rely o

his innate musicianship, or thrilling voice: hpackaged his music in outrageous showmanshiand brightly coloured suits. Later he would comout as gay; eventually he would find God; muc

ater, David Bowie’s wife would buy one oRichard’s suits for her husband. Throughout ahose years, David Jones would treasure the fir

Little Richard records he bought, on Bromley HigStreet. Elvis Presley would be another idol – a

he more so when David discovered he shared birthday with the ultimate white rock ‘n’ roll ico– but Little Richard would be the cornerstone oDavid’s musical identity.

Little Richard’s primacy was confirmed whehe became the first American rock ‘n’ roll star tbe beamed into the homes of British televisioviewers, on 16 February, 1957, when the BBCunveiled its momentous Six-Five Special , a T

how aimed at teenagers which included segment


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of classical music, dance competitions and a shoextract from the movie Don’t Knock the Rockwith Richard performing ‘Tutti Frutti’. Over thnext few weeks the programme would feature mor

Little Richard, British rockers Tommy Steele anAdam Faith plus, tellingly, Lonnie Donegan.

Like many British teenagers, David Jones anGeorge Underwood idolised Little Richard, bu

copied Lonnie Donegan. Today Donegan’s musis comparatively neglected, but the influence of hiDIY ethos lives on in British music from ThBeatles to the Sex Pistols. Donegan’s take oAmerican performers like Lead Belly wa

gloriously naive – his music was made on thimplest of instruments and his technica

deficiencies were part of his charm. It could take choolboy years of practice to emulate Littl

Richard or Chuck Berry, but you could attempLonnie’s brand of skiffle after a few afternoonsDonegan’s home-grown skiffle signalled the end ohe UK’s outdated dance culture and inspired

generation of British rock ‘n’ rollers, among them

he eleven-year-old Jones and Underwood. For a


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he kids raised in post-war austerity, this was moment they’d somehow anticipated, for yearWe’d waited and waited for something fabulouo happen,’ says George Underwood. ‘And it di

happen. That was the catalyst. And from then onmusic was the one thing we talked abouconstantly.’

At Burnt Ash, there were a couple of kids who’

become known as rock ‘n’ roll fans – Ian Carfraeater of the New Vaudeville Band, waadmonished by the headmaster for bringing ‘RocAround the Clock’ into 1955’s Christmastimgramophone-listening’ sessions. But while Davi

eventually became the better-known, it was GeorgUnderwood who got his rock ‘n’ roll act togethebefore everyone else. He’d already bought a hugHofner acoustic guitar and formed a duo with

family friend by the time he met David, whowned a ukulele and had a burning desire to be ia band. Roughly a year after they’d first met, thwo travelled down to the 18th Cub Scout

Summer Camp on the Isle of Wight, in the summe

of 1958. ‘We put a washboard bass in the back o


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he van, and David’s ukulele, and between us wmanaged to conjure up a couple of songs arounhe camp fire. And that was our first publi

performance. Neither of us had any claim t

virtuosity – but we wanted to sing.’That tentative first show, with David strummin

and George singing, was not the only rite opassage that year. The previous autumn David ha

at his 11-plus, the crucial exam that wouldetermine his future school. The Burnt Ash pupilwere well prepared, and under the gimlet eye oDavid’s respected and feared teacher, Mrs BaldryDavid and most of his friends passed. The rigi

pecking order of schools in the area started witBeckenham and Bromley Grammar at the topfollowed by Bromley Technical School – whichad opened in 1959 and was aimed at futur

commercial artists and engineers – witQuernmore Secondary Modern languishing in thear. Later in life, David would advise one of hi

closest friends to ‘do the contrary action’ and hfirst did that himself at the age of eleven. Thoug

David’s results were good enough for the gramma


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chool, against all expectations, he opted foBromley Tech, and talked his parents intupporting his decision.

Some of the inspiration for this precociousl

unconventional move undoubtedly came froGeorge Underwood, who was also heading foBromley Tech. The Tech’s links with the nearbBromley College of Art also meant that he woul

oin a wider community, of the art school kids whwould ultimately come to define post-war BritainContemporaries and near neighbours, like thStones’ Keith Richards and The Pretty ThingsDick Taylor – ‘the war babies’, as Richards woul

describe them – were already embarked on thame course. The notion that a generation of kid

could make a living via art was novel, born of thadical reworking of the British educational syste

n 1944. The art college system provided thfoundation of Britain’s future influence on aradvertising, publishing, movies and fashion. Acountless former pupils point out, art college taughhem that, rather than working in an office o

factory, youths could make a living with merel


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ideas’. This freedom was all the more powerfufor being combined with an unrelenting post-wawork ethic. ‘We understood then,’ says David’friend, Dorothy Bass, ‘that after your two years a

art college, you would have to pay your dues.’Bromley Tech had moved to a new sit

alongside Bromley College of Art just one yeaearlier, and with its airy concrete-and-glas

building, it seemed modern and forward lookingYet its structure aped the English public schoowith pupils organised into houses, and someachers dressed in capes and mortar boards fo

formal assemblies, to which Catholic or Jewis

pupils were not invited. Every morning, David anhis friends sang Victorian-era hymns like ‘OnwarChristian Soldiers’ and murmured ‘amen’ iesponse to prayers for the Royal Family and othe

pillars of the establishment.For all the formality of Bromley Tech, thquality of teaching was variable – with thexception of the art department, which was housen a custom-designed building with north-facin

windows to give better natural light for painting


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Owen Frampton, the head of the department, waundoubtedly the school’s best-liked teacher. Hwas enthusiastic – David describes him as ‘aexcellent art teacher and an inspiration’ – but n

pushover. Owen, or ‘Ossy’, not only had a supereye for art, but could also unerringly spot mischieays John Edmonds, a student who recalls he onchrew a snowball at a teacher, unobserved, only t

earn later, when pulled out of class, that thbeady-eyed Head of Art had seen the incident. did gain a respect both for his eyesight, and hkills with the slipper,’ he recalls, ruefully.

Frampton was a man of eclectic background an

astes: he had served in the Royal Artillery iwartime; designed wallpaper for the Sandersocompany; could explain, in inspiring terms, botclassical and modern art (David would mentio

him as the source of his interest in the painter EgoSchiele) and also played guitar, as did his soPeter, who enrolled at Bromley Tech in 1961Peter, David and George soon became well knowaround the school. George and David found a spo

n the stairwell which had a natural echo and use


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t as an informal practice space: ‘My big hero waBuddy Holly and although David wasn’t a big fawe used to do Buddy Holly numbers,’ sayGeorge. ‘David was a great harmoniser, so w

used to work on a lot of that material together, bhe stairs.’ Peter used to sit on the school step

with a guitar, showing kids how to play Shadowor Ventures riffs, and started calling himself Pau

Raven.David paid rapt attention during Owen’s aclasses, sketching with charcoals or simplhanging out in the art department, but year-by-yeahis interest in other subjects declined, to the poin

hat, in his third year, his school report describehim as ‘a pleasant idler’. At fourteen, he hauccumbed to the obsessions that would define thears to come: music and girls. He would fee

both these addictions after school, in quintessentially suburban location on BromleHigh Street: Medhurst’s department store, a hugVictorian building that sold furniture and othehousehold goods and also boasted one of sout

London’s best gramophone departments. Housed i


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a long, narrow corridor, the gramophone sectiowas overseen by a discreetly gay couple nameCharles and Jim. Although they stocked thcustomary chart hits and sheet music, they wer

also aficionados of modern jazz music anpecialised in American imports. David soourned up most afternoons after school to check ou

new releases at their listening booth. His intere

n music had become an obsession, and as timwent on, his tastes would become more and moreclectic – encouraged by Terry, his recorcollection expanded to include jazz releases bCharlie Parker and Charles Mingus. Soon h

gained the status of a regular and Jim, the youngeof the two partners, would let him have records aa discount, as would Jane Green, the assistant. Shoon ‘took a liking’ to David. ‘Whenever I woul

pop in, which was most afternoons after schoohe’d let me play records in the “sound booth” tmy heart’s content till they closed at 5.30. Janwould often join me and we would smooch bigime to the sounds of Ray Charles or Eddi

Cochran. This was very exciting as I was thirtee


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or fourteen, and she would be a womanleventeen at that time. My first older woman.’

The Medhurst’s gramophone booth became prime hangout for many teenagers seeking glamou

on Bromley High Street. In this small world, tharrival of an Indian curry house in the early sixtiewas an event of seismic importance, as was thopening of two Wimpy coffee bars shortl

afterwards, one in north and one in south BromleyThe teenagers would hang out in the librargardens, south of the market square, trying to loocool in their mostly shabby clothes: the girls worblack pullovers from Marks and Spencer – th

nearest they could get to a Parisian beat look while David would take trips into town in searcof ‘Italian trousers’. These rebels with a causncluded David, George Underwood and Geo

MacCormack and they were also occasionalloined by a merchant seaman named RicharDendy, who brought back obscure records from

ew York, and Dorothy Bass, who went oubriefly with George – their relationship mainl

nspired by their shared love of music. George wa


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charming and good-looking remembers Dorothyand well known around Bromley, ‘but not pushynot “look-at-me”. Neither was David … reallyhe continues, ‘but he was really driven. Davi

hows the difference between someone who’good and someone who devotes their life to whahey believe in.’ Nearly all the Bromley Tech pupils from thi

ime seem to recall George and David as a paiand of the two, George is the better rememberedHe was ebullient, lovable, expansive; David wacool – people noticed his clothes, his hair, hipossessions, mostly, rather than his personality. I

ater years, when his first band became knowaround school, he was kind to younger kids, bueveral of his contemporaries share the impressio

of Len Routledge, who remembers, ‘I think

envied him, or resented him, as kids do. Becaushe had a better lifestyle than us, and a father who’bring him things some of us could never expect: full American football kit, the saxophone etc. genuinely admired what he achieved … but th

comfortable circumstances of his life contraste


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harply with me, and many of the other boys.’The contrast with the Jones’ previously mode

ifestyle was stark. As Haywood progressed in hicareer at Barnardo’s, the one area where he wa

generous – profligate, even – with money waDavid. A few friends remember David’acquisition of his American football gear, but evemore of them noticed David conspicuousl

brandishing a saxophone around the TechOriginally he’d wanted a baritone sax, but he hao settle for a Grafton alto, a cheaper, bu

nonetheless glamorous, cream plastic Art-Decconcoction, which Haywood bought him aroun

960. For a short time, David managed to ‘blagessons with baritone player Ronnie Ross, who’

played with the bandleader Ted Heath and othebig bands, and lived nearby. Although the musica

value of the eight or so lessons was probablnegligible, Ronnie’s value for name-droppinpurposes was incalculable, and probably helpeDavid score a Saturday morning job at Furlong’she record and instrument store in Bromley South

This little music shop, run by a pipe-smoking


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rumpet-playing trad jazz fan, was a Mecca iBromley’s tiny musical landscape, its noticeboarproviding a hotline to news of local bandsformation and dissolution, while David’s new rol

– of turning customers on to ‘new sounds’ – helpefuel a new credibility in the music community andust as crucially, with local girls.

Even though peers like George Underwoo

overshadowed David as a musician, hiconfidence got him noticed. The most celebrateexample was when the Tech pupils embarked owhat was, for almost everyone, their first foraoutside England – a school trip to Spain over th

Easter holidays in 1960. Many families couldnafford the trip, but David was one of the first, anhe youngest, to sign up. The small troupe took th

ferry to Dieppe, then a coach all the way to Spain

There, they watched a bullfight, goggled aFranco’s armed militia and moaned about the spicforeign food. The other kids exchanged smiles, oplayed football with the Spanish kids; Jones spenmuch of the day with the local talent, ‘off chattin

o the girls,’ classmate Richard Combe


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emembers. David’s prowess was commemoraten the school magazine’s reference to ‘Don Joneshe lover, last seen pursued by thirteen senoritas’.

David describes his behaviour once he’

discovered girls as ‘terrible’, a quintessentiamooth operator. But as far as Bromley’s femal

population were concerned, he was anything buays Jan Powling: ‘He was nice, charming – not a

all any kind of show-off.’ She knew David fromBurnt Ash Junior and, around their third year aecondary school, David asked her out on a date

As was traditional, he phoned Mr Powling to asfor his permission a day or two before the outing

which at some point became a double date. So was a group of four teenagers who took the 94 buo the Bromley Odeon cinema: David’s moraupport was Nick, a Bromley Tech acquaintance

while Jan was accompanied by Deirdre, her frienfrom Burnt Ash Secondary girls school. It waunfortunate, reflects Jan, that Deirdre was one ohe most popular girls in her year, with a blond

bob and trendy clothes. By the end of the evening

David departed arm-in-arm with Deirdre, whil


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an had been paired off with Nicholas. ‘But I donblame David,’ she adds, generously, ‘she was onof the prettiest girls we knew.’

Not everyone was as forgiving of David’

emerging jack-the-lad behaviour. One example oDavid’s duplicity would become famous iBromley Tech folklore, and subsequently in rocn’ roll history, for it would leave David marke

out: an outward sign of what was later taken to bhis alien nature.George Underwood was involved in th

celebrated fracas, which is somewhat surprisingiven that he is the most likeable and mild

mannered of characters. But he was incited tviolence by an act of outright skulduggery by hifriend in the spring of 1962, when both boys werfifteen. George had arranged a date with a Bromle

chool girl, Carol Goldsmith, only for David to tehim she had changed her mind and wasn’t comingSoon George discovered that David, who fancieCarol himself, had lied – Carol had waited in vaifor George before going home after an hour or so

distraught that she’d been stood up. David’s pla


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was to swoop in on the abandoned girl, but wheUnderwood discovered the dastardly scheme therwas an altercation. Underwood, enragedmpulsively punched his friend in the eye, and b

ome mishap scratched his eyeball. ‘It was juunfortunate. I didn’t have a compass or a battery ovarious things I was meant to have – I didn’t evewear a ring, although something must have caught.

ust don’t know how it managed to hurt his eybadly … I didn’t mean it to be like that at all.’The damage was serious. David was taken t

hospital and his school-mates were told he was idanger of losing the sight in his left eye

Underwood, mortified, heard that Haywood anPeggy Jones were considering charging him witassault. With David absent from school for severaweeks, George eventually plucked up enoug

courage to go and see Haywood. ‘I wanted to tehim it wasn’t intentional at all. I didn’t want tmaim him, for God’s sake!’ The injury to David’eye resulted in paralysis of the muscles thacontract the iris, leaving the pupil permanentl

dilated and giving it the appearance of being


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different colour from his other eye. His deptperception was also damaged. ‘It left me with wonky sense of perspective,’ David explaineater. ‘When I’m driving for instance, cars don

come towards me, they just get bigger.’ It waweeks before David returned to Bromley Techand at least a month before he talked to GeorgHaywood, too, would eventually forgive him, bu

t took some time). The rift meant that Davimissed out on a momentous event: the arrival oock ‘n’ roll at Bromley Tech, in April 1962

Owen Frampton was one of the key figures in thalent show, overseeing the lights and the PA

ystem. His son’s band, The Little Ravens, playehe first half, sandwiched between a magician an

a dance duo. Underwood’s band, George and thDragons, came on after the interval, a louder, mor

aucous show than Frampton junior’s outfit: ‘veravant-garde for the time,’ recalls Pete Goodchildwho was in the audience.

Underwood wonders to this day how the giwould have sounded if his friend had appeared o

tage with him. By the summer term, the


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friendship was repaired, although Underwoouffered pangs of guilt for years afterwards. ‘I wa

always looking at him, thinking, Oh God, I dihat.’ Eventually, David would thank George fo

he notorious eye injury – ‘he told me it gave him kind of mystique’ – although for decadeafterwards George would get irritated when Daviaid he had no idea why his friend had punche

him. ‘He gave the impression he doesn’t know whdid it. And he should have known.’Underwood’s disappointment that his best frien

missed George and the Dragons’ Easter show waas short-lived as the band. George went on to pla

n both The Hillsiders and The Spitfires over thiperiod, and soon after Easter teamed up with thKon-Rads, a rather old-fashioned dance-baseband formed a few months earlier by drumme

Dave Crook and guitarist Neville Wills. OncGeorge was in, he invited David along, too, askinhim to join the band on saxophone, with thproviso, ‘I’m the singer, but you can do a couple onumbers.’ David brought his Grafton down t

ehearsals. ‘He looked a bit like Joe Brown at th


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ime, so we said you can do “A Picture of You”and “A Night at Daddy G’s”.’

David Bowie’s first public performance tooplace just a few weeks later, on 12 June, 1962, a

he Bromley Tech PTA School Fête. This was thTech’s biggest ever summertime event – the PTAbought a new PA system for the show, and fouhousand parents and locals attended. No one got t

hear David’s Joe Brown impression that afternoonhough – the Kon-Rads set consisted strictly onstrumentals.

David, his hair arranged in a blonde quiff, stoowith his cream sax slung to one side, next t

George Underwood, who picked out Shadowsiffs on his Hofner guitar. David looked ‘coo

well dressed’ according to schoolmate NicBrookes. It was a pretty impressive debut, bu

here was a clear consensus among most of thaudience about who would go on to stardomDavid’s taller, better-looking, more populafriend. ‘It was George who was the singer, whdid a great Elvis impression,’ says Tech pupi

Roger Bevan, who remembers, like many othe


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pupils, Underwood’s dark, glossy hair and Elvineer. ‘Everyone reckoned he was going to b

big.’


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2

‘Numero Uno, Mate!’

I was ambitious. But not like he was.

George Underwoo

n late 1962, reputations were fast being made iouth-east London, as a new wave of rock ‘n’ ro

oung bucks set out to kill off England’s staiduffocating music scene. Kent schoolboys Micagger and Keith Richards were bonding ove

Chess Records albums and renewing thechildhood friendship at Alexis Korner shows, an

he future Pretty Things were emerging from thame Kent scene. This was matched by similaetups in west London, Surrey or Newcastle a

dozens of musicians, from Eric Clapton to Eri

Burdon, Paul Jones to Keith Relf embarked on


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fast-lane to fame.So, what was an under-age kid with a sax to do

David Jones, just a couple of years younger thamost of those figures, was marooned, destined t

miss the wave that everyone else was catchingWhile Clapton was becoming God, David wamerely the cool kid in class: well liked, noted fohis skinny trousers and blond hair, cheerful an

ndulgent with the younger students who’d followhim around the playground, asking about music obaseball. The damaged eye added a dangeroudisconcerting glamour to his otherwisconventional pretty-boy looks, but as far as nativ

alent goes, David seemed like a supporting act this friend George Underwood – more relaxedmore masculine – who remained the centre oattention at Bromley Tech.

Most of the kids who saw the Kon-Rademember few details of their first couple ohows, but that wasn’t the point; they were ouhere, living out the new DIY ethos. Today, thei

Conway Twitty and Joe Brown covers woul

ound gauche and naive, but to their peers, the


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were sweeping away England’s suffocatinconformity, its smug dance bands and crooners.

Yet before their career had even got going, urned out that the Kon-Rads were not unifie

fighters for the cause. Late in 1962, when drummeDave Crook left their always fluid line-up, putsch in the ranks saw George Underwood booteout. To this day, the central characters disput

what happened in their schoolboy band. As far aGeorge Underwood is concerned, the newdrummer was the villain of the story: ‘He judidn’t like me for some reason. He was trying tget me out of the band and got one of his friend

not to beat me up, but to give me some kind owarning. It was really intimidating, I was almocrying – it was horrible.’ George, for all his talenwas simply too nice – ‘a gentleman’, he explain

He didn’t protest; he even lent them his guitar ampWithout it, they were fucked.’ It was an earlesson in the ruthlessness of the music industry fo

Underwood, albeit one he never took to heart.At first, David was unconcerned by his friend’

departure. He was fascinated by the new drumme


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David Hadfield, who already seemed like a prcompared to the rest of the Kon-Rads. Hadfielhad grown up in Cheshunt, Hertfordshire, wherhe’d teamed up with Harry Webb, later famous a

Britain’s first home-grown rock ‘n’ roller ClifRichard, at secondary school. Hadfield had hypehis Cliff credentials in a ‘Drummer Seeks Workadvert placed in Furlong’s music shop. David

along with guitarist Neville Wills, was intriguedquestioning the drummer closely over coffees ahe Bromley Wimpy. Rhythm guitarist Alan Doddoined them for a rehearsal in Neville’s front room

a few days later, and they all agreed that Hadfiel

was in. The drummer would become David’closest musical confidant for nearly a yeaogether, they’d hustle for shows, paint backdrop

and update their set list.

Over the following weeks, Hadfield discoverehe skinny blond-haired sax player, who lookeounger than his fifteen years, was by far the mo

ambitious band member. ‘He was very verboyish, blond, and didn’t look his age at all. But h

carried himself well – and he just wanted to b


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Mary’s Church Hall that they were hounded ouafter complaints about the noise and forced tmove to a damp prefab building down the streeSoon the Kon-Rads were playing most weekend

n small halls and pubs around south-east Londonncluding Bromley, Beckenham, Orpington an

Blackheath.Over their year-long existence, the Kon-Rad

changed line-up continually, with the addition obassist Rocky Shahan, and later a singer, RogeFerris, while Hadfield brought in girlfriend StellPatton and her sister Christine as backinvocalists. Over that year, the two Davids spen

nearly all their spare time working together. Thounger David was good company, energetic

enthusiastic and practised incessantly on thaxophone. His schoolwork languished, but h

became a good sax player, mastering a raunchKing Curtis-style tone on the Conn tenor to whiche’d recently switched, and there was somethinabout the way he stood, relaxed on stage, that waeffortlessly cool. But his fellow Kon-Rads wer

unimpressed by many of David’s ideas fo


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updating their outfits or their set-list. ‘Wheou’ve got seven people in the band you can

change things overnight,’ says Hadfield. ‘Ouattitude was, if we go out on a limb we’re going t

ose all our local bookings – and lose whapopularity we have.’

But there was a bigger world out there thaocal bookings, a world populated by people lik

oe Meek, who had scored a huge hit that summewith his space-rock hit ‘Telstar’. The pioneeringgay producer had recorded some of the UK’s moadical early rock ‘n’ roll hits in a self-buitudio, crammed into a tiny flat above a leathe

goods store on the Holloway Road. Meek was aobsessive; he recorded day after day without break, auditioning hundreds of bands, lavishineach session with sonic adornments. Within a few

weeks of Hadfield joining the Kon-Rads, the banmade their way up to Meek’s flat for an auditioession. The producer was already known fo

becoming obsessed with some of the younmusicians in his studio, often hassling young, blon

ookers – but for the Kon-Rads session he wa


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uncommunicative and surly, unimpressed by thebest shot, an MOR version of ‘Mockingbird’. Thappy, undistinguished ditty, sung by Roger Ferris

was later consigned to one of Meek’s notoriou

ea-chests full of rejected material. David was thonly band member who chatted with the producefor more than a couple of minutes, quizzing hiabout his productions. But their conversation wa

cut short when he was called to help carry thband’s gear down to their old Evening Newdelivery van, waiting outside. Meek never callehem back, and in their postmortem the ban

acknowledged the possibility they weren

original enough’. David’s suggestion that thewrite their own material was ignored by Hadfieland Neville Wills, though, who insisted that theiive audience preferred familiar cover song

Perhaps the session was not a total dead loshough, for it’s possible the concept of ‘Telstar’ a quirky, otherworldly novelty song based on celebrated spaceshot – lodged in the young Daviones’ mind.)

A second failure was harder to stomach, for thi


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ime it involved one of David’s friends and rivalsAfter sending a demo recording to the RediffusioTV company, the Kon-Rads won a slot on ReadSteady Win – the talent contest spin-off from th

uper-hip music show Ready, Steady, Go!. Therwas snickering from the audience and judgeduring the heat, as the Kon-Rads, in matching suitet up their lavish backdrop, drum riser and light

before launching into an impeccably played set ocovers. The winning band, The Trubeats, playeheir own songs and gave a stripped-dow

performance highlighting their blond, goodooking, teenage guitarist, Peter Frampton – now

tudent at Bromley Grammar School – who woover boys and girls alike. The Kon-Radsperformance was mocked in a press report, whicdeclared that ‘the band has nothing original t

offer’.It was David, the youngest member, still achool, who always rebounded from such setbackHe kept pushing,’ says Hadfield. ‘He wanted t

write more things, change how we dressed

saying] “We’ve got to go out on a limb.”’ Th


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older musicians tried to persuade David that hwas being impractical. They were convinced hwas addicted to gimmicks – an impressioeinforced when he announced one day that he wa

assuming a new name, ‘David Jay’. Davipersisted in his schemes, persuading Neville twrite the music to his lyrics for several songncluding ‘I Never Dreamed’. The composition

with dark lyrics inspired by newspaper reports oa train crash, and a poppy tune reminiscent of ThTremeloes – was slotted into their set, alongsidheir predictable line-up of Chris Montez

Shadows and Beatles numbers. And as he starte

o influence their material, David also started tmake an impression live. ‘He looked good, he haa way of standing with his sax slung round his nec– it was very manly, if that’s the right word. H

was getting noticed more, guys and girls seemed tike him.’Two breaks had ended in failure, but then, in th

ummer of 1963, it looked like it might be thirime lucky. Bob Knight, a Bromley entrepreneur

managed to interest his friend Eric Easton in th


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band. Easton was the co-manager of The RollinStones – who were on the brink of the big-time and soon the Kon-Rads were hanging out in hoffice on Oxford Street, being introduced to Bria

Epstein and finally, via Easton, scoring their bibreak: a trial session for Decca, the Stones’ labeon 30 August, 1963.

Determined not to repeat their previou

mistakes, the band showcased their own materiancluding ‘I Never Dreamed’. But their first formatudio session, complete with engineers in whit

coats, was a disaster. Hadfield was ‘a nervouwreck’, the rhythm tracks were a mess and th

esults weren’t even deemed worthy of a playbackBy the time Decca confirmed they werennterested in the band, David had alread

announced he was leaving.

David gave little explanation: ‘There was narguing with him. He simply said he wanted to dhis own thing,’ says Hadfield, who insists that thoung sax player, having deserted the band afteheir first setback, was ‘not a band kind of person

Years later, David explained his defection wa


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nspired by very different reasons. ‘I wanted to da version of [Marvin Gaye’s] “Can I Get Witness” – and they didn’t. That was why I left thKon-Rads.’ George Underwood, David’s co

conspirator, backs up his version: ‘We werdetermined to do music we enjoyed playing – nocopying what was in the Top 10.’

David had coaxed Underwood to make som

guest appearances with the Kon-Rads earlier thaummer, and the two had spent months sharing themusical obsessions as they plotted their own bandBy now David spent all of his free time rehearsinghanging out at Vic Furlong’s, Medhurst’s

Bromley’s two Wimpy Bars or at George’s hous– his voracious appetite for music now borderinon the obsessive. The two friends enjoyed glorious summer, despite the fact that whe

David’s O-Level results arrived, it turned out he’failed every one but art. He seemed blithelunconcerned; his mother was unsupportivedismissive of his music, but Haywood seemed, afar as friends could tell, to indulge David’

fantasies. Nonetheless, David finally caved in t


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he pressure to get a ‘proper’ job, and OweFrampton used his connections to find him position as a runner and paste-up artist at the NewBond Street office of Nevin D. Hirst, a sma

Yorkshire-based ad agency.The sole nine-to-five job of David Jones’ lif

would enable him, in future years, to pronounce ohe world of design, marketing and manipulation a

a self-styled expert. In his later career he’d talabout how the advertising industry had been thprime force, alongside rock ‘n’ roll, in shaping thatter half of the twentieth century, and the fact he’

worked ‘as an illustrator in advertising’ became

key component of his self-image. Yet as he admitshis involvement with the industry was brief. oathed [it]. I had romantic visions of artists

garrets – though I didn’t fancy starving. [Hirst’s

main product was Ayds slimming biscuits, and also remember lots of felt-tip drawings and pasteups of bloody raincoats. And in the evening dodged from one dodgy rock band to another.’

Although his commitment to the job was fain

David was lucky to have a hip boss, Ian – a


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ndulgent, Chelsea-booted, crop-haired blues fan who sent David on errands to the celebrateDobell’s Record Shop, ten minutes’ walk away oCharing Cross Road. This was the mother-lode o

hip blues, the place Eric Clapton shopped foobscure imports which he’d then replicateastounding audiences who figured he’d inventehe riffs he’d lifted from Albert King or Budd

Guy. David embarked on a similar search foource material; when Ian suggested he pick uohn Lee Hooker’s Country Blues on Riverside

he spotted Bob Dylan’s debut on the racks, tooWithin weeks George and I had changed the nam

of our little R&B outfit to “The Hooker Brothers”and included both Hooker’s “Tupelo” and Dylan’“House of the Rising Sun” in our set.’ The pawere so carried away with enthusiasm that the

tarted playing shows as a trio with drummer ViAndrews before they’d even got a proper banogether. Billed as The Hooker Brothers, o

David’s Red and Blues (a druggy reference to thMods’ favourite barbiturate pills) they gueste

between sets at the Bromel Club, at Bromley’


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Royal Court Hotel. Today, as Underwood admitshe notion of two kids from Bromley reinventinhemselves as Mississippi Bluesmen seemudicrous, ‘but it was something we needed to ge

out of our system!’ David’s first compliment froman ‘experienced’ musician came from those earlhows, when The Hooker Brothers shared a bi

with jazzman Mike Cotton at the Bromel Club.

was a brief performance, sandwiched between thwo halves of The Mike Cotton Sound’s trad jazznfluenced set. ‘Well done,’ the venerable twentyix-year-old congratulated the wannabe bluesme

after their set, ‘you must be very brave’.

Brave they seemed in the autumn of 1963, whehey played several brief shows at the Bromel. Ye

by December, when The Rolling Stones crackehe Top 20 with ‘I Wanna Be Your Man’, a tiny

nucleus of British musicians were about tefashion British rock ‘n’ roll. Two bands emergen the Stones’ wake: The Yardbirds, who’d taken

over their residence at the Crawdaddy Club iRichmond, and The Pretty Things, whose Dic

Taylor had played with Keith Richards in an earl


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ncarnation of the Stones. The Pretties were knowaround the Bromley scene thanks to Dorothy BasDavid’s schoolmate (and, briefly, George’girlfriend), who owned a car and was therefor

ecruited as the Pretties’ roadie.With the sense that they were about to catch

wave, David and George stepped up their efforto form a full band. It was David who spotted

classified ad in Melody Maker from a Fulhaoutfit seeking a singer. The trio – guitarist RogeBluck, bassist Dave Howard and drummer RobeAllen – were, in truth, more in tune with the spirof Chet Atkins than Muddy Waters, but Jones an

Underwood both worked on ‘roughen[ing] theup’. Their set was based on songs which countlesBrit blues-boomers would cover: Elmore JamesEarly One Morning’, Howlin Wolf’s ‘Spoonful

and ‘Howling for My Baby’. The band’s nameThe King Bees, came from another blues classicSlim Harpo’s ‘I’m a King Bee’.

For The King Bees’ tiny audience – perhaps couple of dozen local kids – they wer

orchbearers for a new music. ‘This was


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completely different animal from Sonny BoWilliamson’s blues,’ says Dorothy Bass, ‘that wawhere it came from, this was where it was goingPeople like us were taking something old

forgotten, and used it to create a new soundomething that spoke to us.’

Bass was probably The King Bees’ closefollower, hanging out with them at the Wimp

Bars, coffee shops, parties and gigs. She knewDavid well: likeable, cheerful, enthusiastic, bualmost bland and boring in his single-mindednesAll he wanted to do was practise, and listen tapes or records that he’d got hold of. That was hi

ife. Everybody regarded themselves as an expen music – but he really was. What made hi

different was he would pass a party, or anything uf there was something he needed to do for hi

music. For the other kids, that was inconceivable.For David, the lesson of the Kon-Rads ran deephe was convinced that seeking out new, hip musibefore the competition was the key to succesWhen he and George discovered Bob Dylan’

debut album at Dobell’s, David remembers how


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we added drums to “House of the Rising Sun”hinking we’d made some kind of musica

breakthrough. We were gutted when The Animaleleased the song to stupendous reaction.’ Th

Animals, of course, had learned their trade playinnight after night at Newcastle’s Club A-GogoDavid would never pay his dues in such eoman’s fashion. For a start, although he, rathe

han George, had taken on the role of lead singehe was still reticent as a front man. When DorothBass was roped in to drive The Pretty Things their shows in south-east London, David woul

often come up and chat to singer Phil May and th

band’s founder, Dick Taylor, who says, ‘We didike him. Skinny little blond fella. Though I donhink I ever saw him sing.’

As a singer, skinny and likeable was about i

He was very self-contained,’ says Bass, who sawmost of The King Bees’ shows. ‘I didn’t think heached out to the audience very much, maybe h

was concentrating on what he was singing. Hdidn’t actually seem sexy to me. George wa

gorgeous … I wouldn’t say I dismissed David, h


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was blond, he was OK, but I didn’t see him as ex symbol. There was no interacting or givin

anything to the audience. Not that that bothered uThey were people on stage, our age, and that’s a

hat mattered.’On stage, David hadn’t mastered the swagger o

contemporaries like Mick Jagger or Phil May. Otage, though, he was a natural, a hustler. Aided b

his father, who’d now worked in PR for nearly decade, he also had an innate understanding of thfact that a hustler loves another hustler. For thieason, the letter that helped him score his debuingle became better-known than the single itself.

History would have it that David Bowie grew uestranged from his parents. Peggy certainly becamrritated by his musical ambitions, and given tha

David was firmly attached to the family pursetrings for the next half-decade, her intoleranc

would have been shared by most parentHaywood’s reaction was more complex: he waconventional, but indulgent. He and David wer

more alike than many realised; calm, but both wit


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a nervous fizziness. The most obvious sign of thin Haywood was his chain-smoking, which Davioon imitated – to the extent of using the sam

brand, Player’s Weights. There was th

conventional generation gap between father anon yet Haywood’s youthful obsession with th

entertainment world had not been entirelextinguished. So it was Haywood and David who

n January 1964, ‘concocted’ a sales pitch foDavid’s new band. Shameless and ‘over the topaccording to George Underwood, Haywood anDavid’s joint ‘sales pitch’ would kick off David’career.

Around Christmas 1963, David had noticenews headlines generated by John Bloom, aaggressive entrepreneur who’d blazed a famouslfiery trail through Britain’s white-goods industry

tarting with washing machines, then moving on tdishwashers and refrigerators. He seemed to hava financial Midas touch, and father and son typeout a letter suggesting he put his golden touch twork in the most up-and-coming industry of al

pop music. ‘If you can sell my group the way yo


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ell washing machines,’ David suggested, ‘you’be on to a winner.’

Before sending the letter, David showed it tGeorge, who protested. ‘His dad helped hi

concoct the letter – and it was concocted in that aid things like that famous quote, “Brian Epstein’

got The Beatles and you should have us”Undeterred, David assured him, ‘don’t worry.

will be all right.’ His instincts were on the moneyBloom, amused by the youngster’s chutzpahpassed the letter on to Les Conn, a friend from thewish scene in Stamford Hill. Within a couple o

days, a telegram arrived at David’s house

nstructing him to call Conn’s Temple Bar numberIt was a lucky happenstance. Invariabl

described as a small-time manager, Les Conn wasn fact, neither small-time, nor a manager. Hi

connections were impeccable, including Beatlepublisher Dick James, movie star Doris Day, anemerging music moguls like Mickie Most and SheTalmy; he played vital roles in advancing thcareers of The Shadows, Clodagh Rodgers an

The Bachelors. However, to describe him as


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manager would imply some degree of organisationor of the ability to oversee someone’s career qualities which were noticeable by their absencn this charming, supremely scatty man.

Musician Bob Solly, who also met Les thapring, remembers the aspiring mogul proclaimingConn’s the name, con’s the game!’ before showin

off his credentials in the form of a suitcase full o

parking tickets he was hoping to evade. A shorlightly pudgy bundle of energy, he’d shoot ouapid-fire yarns and schemes in a cheeky, vaguel

posh voice, often punctuated by sudden pauses ahe searched for the vital document or press cuttin

he’d been brandishing just a few seconds earlier.Conn epitomised the charming amateurism of th

British music scene. He had set up Melcher MusiUK for Doris Day before being recruited b

Beatles publisher Dick James as a song pluggeHe was a moderately successful publisher, dreadful songwriter, and a genius at spotting talenn just a few short months he would take on bothe future David Bowie and the future Marc Bolan

giving both of them their first career breaks.


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Bloom had asked Conn to check out The KinBees to see to whether it was worth booking themcheaply of course, for his upcoming weddinanniversary party, on 12 February, 1964. Con

emembers The King Bees playing in his flaThey were a nice bunch,’ he remembers. ‘

wasn’t commercial music they played, it waunderground, really. But David had charisma

George too.’ And that was enough to get them thgig.Their debut, though, was a disaster. Some o

The King Bees’ blues evangelism started to desehem when they turned up at the Jack Club for th

party in jeans and suede Robin Hood boots, annoticed disapproving looks from the moneyecrowd, which included Sir Isaac Wolfson anLord Thomson of Fleet. The King Bees were aske

o follow The Naturals, a well-scrubbed Beatlecover band with a pristine backline of Voamplifiers, which The Ki

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