Chapter Seven: Young American (1973-1974)

town to record a new album. As word got out, the local contingent of Bowie fans snapped into action, establishing a communications system that would put the FBI to shame. They seem to know where David was at all hours. For days, a rotating group waited outside his hotel and then tailed them to the studio, sometimes beating his Cadillac limousine. Bowie and his entourage were used to crowds, but few

of such unwavering dedication. They'd wait for hours on the hard sidewalk ledge for word, a smile, even just a glimpse rain or shine. Night or day. There they were a tribe of teenage Martians holding vigil in an alley just off a skid row. Many couldn't even drive Lord only knows what they told their parents. They formed a small community with their own etiquette and hierarchy. Some brought blankets, others radios. Most wore glittery jackets and spiky hairdos dyed

fluorescent shades of red. Their classmates called them freaks. They had adopt a different name for themselves, the devotes. They came from all over town, united by their love of their favorite alien rock star. Bowie spoke to whatever it was that made them feel different, other and isolated. Sexuality, intelligence, social values, creative aspirations, or even just pure rebellion. They

weren't groupies. They didn't want sex. They didn't want anything other than the odds cigarette but or strand of hair collected from inside his limo. But other than that, just being near him was enough. Or rather than feeling stalked, Bowie was touched. They were sweet. He began to look for them each day and a friendship started to develop.

He dubbed them the Sigma Kids. Sometimes he'd opened the window of the control room, allowing them to hear a playback or what he was working on, a small thank you for their devotion. But today he had something special for them. If you're still out here when I come out, he told them earlier that evening. Then I'll have a surprise for you, but don't tell anyone. And so the faithful few waited through the rainy night. They just received

an invitation from David Bowie. What would you do? It was almost dawned when Bowie's bodyguard ushering them inside the studio. Chairs and refreshments have been arranged on the studio floor for the twelve or so lucky ones, all laid out in front of a pair of massive speakers. The underaged kids made a grab for the wine and champagne, but most were way too nervous to pick up the corns

beef sandwiches. Once Bowie made his entrance, he traded his astral attire up the prior year for an ultracool pastel blazer, loose tie, and hip tinted aviators. David posed for photos and signed autographs, and even politely declined one girl's marriage proposal. He thanked them all for being so wonderful and supportive. Then he asked if they wanted to hear his latest work in progress, as if that was even a question, but he was serious. The music was unlike any he'd

ever made, and he wanted their feedback. David sat in the back of the room as they listened, biting his nails anxiously. He was worried. These weren't record labeled yes man or people on his payroll. These were his most dedicated fans. They'd proven it over the last few days. Would they like it or would he let them down? Most came dressed as ziggy star dust and this was

anything but. David had come the Sigma Studios in search of the sound of Philadelphia, known R and wide as Philly Soul, the smooth, sonic blend that was being hailed as the second coming of Motown, a bridge between funk and disco. Philly Soul hits were burning up the American charts, crossing over from black radio to white audiences. Bowie was just one of the many fans of this jubilant music. For all of his fame, he hadn't had a top

forty hit in the United States. He hoped these new R and B tinged tracks would be his breakthrough, but it was a gamble what audiences accepted or was he just some liney trying in vain the same music that didn't belong to him? After all, it took a certain amount of goal for a brit to sing a song called Young Americans to a bunch of actual young Americans. David studied their young faces closely, looking for some kind of reaction that they were inscrutable. When it was over,

a stunned silence fell over the room. For these sleep deprived kids, that all felt like a dream. They were in the studio with David Bowie, listening to his latest music, and it was totally unlike anything they'd ever heard from him. How could they respond to this most magical moment in their lives? For one brief, awful moment, David thought they hated it. Then one of them screamed, play it again. David's face lit up. Really, he asked with a sheepish grin.

The kids yelled in the affirmative yes. The night ended in a dance party. Bowie and his fans did the stomp and the bump as the sun rose over Philadelphia. It was a new day. Hello, and welcome to Off the Record, the show that goes beyond the songs and into the hearts and minds of rock's greatest legends. I'm your host, Jordan Runtug. This season explores the life, or rather lives of David Bowie. Today's episode looks at David,

the young American. He'd arrived on US Shores in the spring of four to launch The Man Am a Diamond Dogs Tour, the Broadway style production inspired by Orwell and his own unnerving trip behind the Iron Curtain. The show was his most elaborate venture to date, epitomizing the dystopian

drama that had made him a star. Yet, as David spent more and more time in the States, he found himself reconnecting with the music that enthralled him as a young boy American soul on R and B. This radical departure brought the risk of alienating his fans, who all but worshiped David's sci fi characters, But with the help of some of the finest funk players of the era, plus a Beatle, it became his biggest success to date.

Trading choreographed theater for genuine emotion proved to be a revelation for David and a major artistic leap forward, But his escalating cocaine used threatened everything his career, his marriage, and even his life. David Bowie hadn't planned to conclude the Asian leg of a Ziggy Stardust tour and a Siberian ghoulaw, but that was looking increasingly likely. It had all been going so well too. It was April three, and he just wrapped the triumphant series of dates in Japan.

Rather than fly home, the notoriously plain Phillibic David decided to take the scenic route, an eight day, six thousand mile train journey across Russia. The luxurious Trans Siberian Express looked like a holdover from the days of the Czar, with opulent golden mirrors, soft developed couches, and polished dark wood paneling. The elegance of David's quarters made the poverty

outside all the more shocking. As the train whisked them through the grim, colorless terrain, Cold dust filled the air and even infiltrated the car, leading David to joke about changing his name to Ziggy soot Dust. The tracks were lined with ramshackle structures of rotted wood and frayed rope homes for the peasants who eked out a living in the barren Soviet countryside. Outside, David spotted an elderly woman, old and a to be a grandmother ramming railroad spikes

with a sledgehammer. The vision disturbed him. The entire journey was tinged with an uneasiness. Life in the communist Eastern Bloc was rigidly controlled, with checkpoints and endless paperwork enforced by steely eyed, on smiling officials. David pushed his luck one day when he ventured outside the train during a brief stop at a small town. Playing the tourist, he began to film the scene with this home movie camera. This didn't sit well with two uniformed guards, who immediately

descended on him. Before they could shove him into a waiting armored car, he was rescued by a pair of train attendants who physically carried him back to the train and out of harm's way. I've never been so damn scared in my entire life, David would later say. The first hand experience with a totalitarian regime would help inspire

his next album of new material. Initially, David planned to go full well in adapting the novel four into a stage musical tenively titled We Are the Dead, but author George Orwell's widow was horrified at the thought of putting the book to music, especially rock music, and refused to

give David the rights. Annoyed but undeterred, David took the songs he'd written and adapted the idea in new his own dystopian tale, Diamond Dogs Orwell's London became the post apocalyptic Hunger City, where teenage punks on rusty skates lived on roofs and marauding dogs with red mutint eyes proud the decaying streets. The lyrics told the story of a new character, Halloween Jack, a real cool cat who lived on the top of Manhattan Chase Bank, above the ravage

urban healthscape. Hunger City wasn't far removed from reality. In the fall of nineteentree, Urban America had descended into ruin New York was heading full speed towards the financial collapse that would overwhelm the city in just a few years, leaving the metropolis bankrupt burning. The Watergate scandal was gaining momentum, exposing the paranoia and deception at the heart of the world's leading democracy. Gas shortages meant lengthy lines and the

most extreme rationing since the Second World War. In England, a minor strike and oil embargo left millions freezing and unheeded offices and factories. For the first time in living memory, quality of life seemed to be getting demonstrably worse instead of better. Had the world taken a wrong turn? David's obtuse lyrics with the result of a new approach to

his writing borrowed from William S. Burrows. David met the legendary author as part of a joint interview for Rolling Stone That Fall and grew fascinated by burrows cut and paste composition technique, with words pulled from a basket at random and threaded together to create a fresh spur of the moment thought. David would describe it as sort of

a Western terror. There was a beauty in the spontaneity, and he was fascinated by a quote the wonder House of Strange Shapes, colors, tastes and feelings that created That wasn't the only change to his working methods, Diamond Dogs found David Leaving tried An Studios, his creative home since the days of Space Oddity, in favor of Olympic Studios. He also dispensed with two of his most crucial collaborators.

One was producer Ken Scott, who had overseen his remarkable run from Hunky Dorry to Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin, saying the other was Mick Ronson. More than just the lead guitarists for the so called Spiders from Mars, Ronson had been David's musical arranger, on stage, sparring partner, and artistic soul brother. Publicly, David blamed the split on musical differences, citing Ronson's obsession with Jeff Beck as a hindrance to his own artistic journey. But the truth was more complex.

David wanted to make a clean break with his past, new studio, new producer, new musicians. The fact that Ronson had recently released a solo album, Slaughter on Tenth Avenue also rubbed David the wrong way. For years, Ronson had resided on the edge of David's spotlight. Now he was fifty ft tall on a Times square billboard paid for by David's own management company, Maine Man. David felt, on some level betrayed that Ronson was now trying to be

at the Star. This explains why David, never the most nimble fingered of players, handled most of the guitar parts on Diamond Dogs himself. If Rono was going to play the front man, David would try his hand at being the guitar god. The end result of both ventures were mixed. Ronson's solo album tanked, and David struggled onto the workload writing, producing and singing the material, as well as playing guitar, saxophone,

and a host of keyboards, all by himself. I was very much on my own, he would later say of the sessions, it was my most difficult album. The situation was made worse when Olympic Studios gave David the boot for failure to pay for the sessions. The blame fell on Maine Man, which was spending money significantly faster than they earned it. Just the American branch of main Man employed some twenty people throughout multiple offices spread across prime

Manhattan real estate. On call, limousines, private jets, and even helicopters got employees where they needed to go and expense accounts at Bloomingdale's ensured that they looked fabulous as they did so vanity projects, cases of Don Pere, Young champagne, rodeo, drive shopping sprees. Everything was being paid for by the company's sole successful artist, David Bowie, not that he knew anything about it. He was far too focused on completing Diamond Dogs and set off to a recording studio in

the Netherlands to finish it. When it came time to mix the record, he called on his old friend Tony Vasconti. The pair hadn't worked together since Visconti produced the Difficult Sessions for The Man Who Sold the World more than three years earlier. David visited Tony at his new home studio, which was little more than a construction site at that time. Instead of chairs, they had to sit on old sawhorses. The following day, Tony saw a huge truck pull up.

Out came tables, chairs, and a sofa. Within minutes, the whole place was furnished. Then David showed up with a big grin. That's kind of my studio warming present, he said. The moment of levity offset an otherwise maccabb album, characterized, in David's words by quote, a quality of obsession. It's desperate, almost panicked. He cited Diamond Dogs as his attempt at a protest record, but the optimistic we shall overcome spirit of the sixties had curdled into something darker and more sinister.

You can't preach it people anymore, he said, at the time, you have to adopt a position of almost indifference. You have to be super cool nowadays. Released in April of it became David's highest charting album in the States to date, but it left many critics confused. The review and Rolling Stone read most of the songs are obscure tangles of perversion, degradation, fear, and self pity. The grotesque visions are presented in full in the album sleeve, depicting Bowie is a half man,

half greyhound beast in a circus freak show. It's genitals air brushed out at the last minute in a ridiculous and costly nod the puritanical censorship. The painting had been done by bell Joernard's Gy Pilliard at Mick Jagger's recommendation. Well, perhaps recommendation isn't quite the right word. David was visiting Mick one day when the Rolling Stone frontman let it slip that he'd hired the painter to do the cover for the band's upcoming album, It's Only Rock and Roll.

David loved the results so much that he commissioned Pilliard to do his own album. Due to hit shelves before the Stones, Bowie looked ahead of the curve, and Jagger was supremely annoyed. Mick was silly, Bowie cackled a short time later. I mean he should have ever showed me anything new Mix learned. Now He'll never do that again. Threats of legal action came to nothing, but Jagger would

keep his famous lips shut when Bowie was around. He'd later say, be careful the shoes you wear around David, because the next time you see him, he'll be wearing them, and he'll be wearing them better than you. By this stage, Mick Jagger had officially supplanted Mark Bowland as David's rival of choice. Their relationship blossomed since Mick attended the Ziggy Farewell show in the summer of seventy three, but as David Starr continued to ascend, their relationship took on a

more competitive edge. Five of David's records had reached the UK top forty at once, a feat that not even The Stones have been able to accomplish. When the band played a gig in Newcastle, Jagger couldn't help but feel the crowd's attention drifting away from him and towards the side of the stage where David was watching the show. The symbolism was obvious. David was literally waiting in the wings, and Mick had every right to be worried. Bowie saw

him as the man to beat. As a young Maud in the sixties, David had eagerly offered to carry a guitar for Rolling Stone Brian Jones, only to be rudely told to piss off. Now he posed a serious threat to their title was the greatest rock act on the planet. David thought the Stones were on their way out. Now was his turn on the top of the pop pedestal. As David's wife Andrew would say, David wasn't only the

diamond dog, he was the top dog. Their arrivalry drew them together like magnets, each one keeping a close eye on the other. Of course, a genuine friendship remained at the core, but neither could ever completely let their elegant formal persona slip, not when they were on double dates, fooling around on song fragments, drinking at any number of chic London watering holes, or even when they went to the casino to compete over who could lose the most money.

Some in their circle believe that David was madly in love with Mick. It's likely that their mistaking admiration for lust. But if this is true, it's highly improbable that the feelings were reciprocated, And yet the rumors persist. They're stoked in large part by Angie Bowie in memoir. Andie wrote evocatively at the time she caught David and Mick and bed with one another. It's a tale that's become enshrined

in rock lore. But most who knew the men doubt they could have ever let their guard down enough to consummate in the fair. Whether or not they actually shared a bed, they shared a great deal else. David's latest record drew much from the Stones more than just the choice and cover art. Olympic Studios have been the stones favorite haunt back in the sixties. David also poached their

favorite engineer, Keith Harwood, to help with his sessions. Mick and employed the William Burrows cut up writing approach on the Stones Exile on Main Street album several years earlier. Diamond Dogs lead single Rebel. Rebel boasted a guitar riff and on beat drum pattern that sounds straight out of satisfaction. While recording the song, Bowie explicitly told these musicians, I

want this to sound like the Stones. During sessions for Diamond Dogs, the Bowies moved into a new house just a short walk from Jaggers in the upscale London neighborhood of Chelsea. The decision to leave the funky Gothic communit hadden Hall had been difficult, but necessary. Fans descended on the place in droves, making it impossible for David to even set foot outside without being mobbed. He complained that he felt like a zoo animal in his own home.

Door knobs and other pieces of the structure were stripped away about the Bowie faithful like holy relics. There was one terrifying incident when a woman attempted to abduct baby Zoe, but the final straw came when the Bowie's dinner was interrupted by a teenager who had shimmy through an open window totally nude. She approached David and meekly asked if she could kiss his foot. Uh, you can kiss my boot,

he replied awkwardly. Then and you called the police. The hadden Hall era was over, but the spirit of artistic freakiness was certainly carried over to their new pad on Oakley Street. The five story George and Terrace House was decorated like a blend of Star Trek, Graceland and the Playboy Mansion. There were plastic sofas, glow in the dark sculptures, spherical television sets, oversized Dolly style paintings, and airbrush murals

of sunrises and beach scenes. Hallways were lit by car headlights, and the white shag carpeted living room was dominated by a four ft deep sunken sitting area done up in white leather and finished off with the state of the art sound system and video player. And then there was the sunken, fur lined king size bed in the master quarters, mythologized as the Pit, the very public hub of all erotic activities at Shay Bowie, David and Angie through many parties.

If you were liked, you were invited to end the evening in the pit, a venerable sexual cocoon. Whether McJagger spent time in the pit as a matter of conjecture, but there are many others who did. One frequent guest at Oakley Street was David's new girlfriend a young singer and model named David Cherry. They met in New York that February at a party celebrating Stevie Wonders concert at Carnegie Hall. David was drawn to Ava's bleached blonde buzz cut. Immediately,

he asked her if she was a singer. She didn't have any professional experience at the time, but she said yes, a gutsy thing to do in a room filled with the likes of Aretha Franklin and Gladys Knight. On the spot, he invited her to be his backing singer on an upcoming tour. A brief audition the next day led to dinner, a show, and a night in his hotel suite. She was awoken in bed the next morning by a knock at the door. That's when David introduced Ava to Angie,

who seemed unnervingly happy to see her. Ava had no idea that David was already married, but she quickly got used to the idea this just must be how it is for rock stars. The backing singer gig fell through, but she joined the couple that fall with their new London home, the Minajatoi. Worked great for a while, all but things soon took a turn when David steered Ava into the studio, intent on developing her into another main Man star. David had never lavished such attention on Angie's career,

and the resentment was immense. Lovemaking was one thing, but starmaking was quite another. Soon, at Angie's insistence, Ava was evicted from Oakley Street. David moved her into an apartment down the road, where they carried on their affair. Andie was even more bothered by another woman who had entered the picture. Unlike most, she would stay by David's side for the rest of his life. Her name was Karine Schwab,

known to one on all as Coco. She'd started off as a secretary at Manman, foraging David's autograph for fan club photos and doing what she could to fight off the hordes of bill collectors. Her background was a bit grander, daughter of a distinguished French war photographer. Coco used to tell her friends that she was born during her mother's shopping trip to Bloomingdale's. Schooled in America, Europe, and Ashmere, she entered adulthood fluent in multiple languages and in possession

of a strong, self assured demeanor. This made her uniquely well suited for the everyday chaos of made Man, which she handled with grace and an efficiency that intimidated the uninitiated. It wasn't long before she was promoted to David's personal assistant, a job title that barely hints at the complexity of their relationship. Coco became David's right hand, constant, companion, and

as close as confidant. She shielded him from the outside world, at times, acting as his driver, chef, nurse, or manager. Her loyalty and devotion were legendary. One friend recalled, David has only to utter the words I'm hungry and in the middle of nowhere, Coco can cook a meal over a candle and put it in front of him. They quickly established a morning routine where she roused him each day by bringing him coffee and fresh orange juice, lighting

his cigarette, and handing him his morning papers. She seemed to be all things, yet totally anonymous, who on assuming quality made her particularly lethal as David's personal pit bull. Ready and willing to attack without hesitation, Coco was fiercely protective, fending off the leeches, undesirable troublemakers, and anyone deemed a distraction or poor influence. This included many of David's old friends,

who I had Coco with utmost suspicion. They wondered what motivated this petite powerhouse who seemed to live and die for David. Some thought she was just sad and possessive, allowing her own personality to be completely co opted by her charge. David. Cherry had a simpler theory. She thought Coco was in love with David from day one. Angie agreed, and she was kicking herself. It was she who recommended Coco for the job as David's assistant in the first place.

Asie was impressed with Coco's work, ethic, and ferocity. In many ways, she reminded Angie of herself. Her instincts were right, too right, and now she'd been edged out as david co conspirator. She'd prefer to Coco as quote the gatekeeper in the assassin, who did David's dirty work for him and took all the consequences. As far as Angie was concerned, she was a surrogate wife and mother. David's frosty relationship with his own mom, Peggy had left him starved from

eternal attention on affection. He wants a mother, Angie would later observe, and Coco was a mother's substitute. They were both dominant, tempestuous women, and even looked similar. In Coco, David may have received the warmth and attention he'd always felt denied, regardless of the precise reasons for his attraction. Coco's day to day presence made contact between David and Angie all the more infrequent, and the gulf between them grew wide. They were driven apart not only by Coco

but also cocaine. David had never been much of her recreational drug user. Counterculture staples like Pott and l S d never really did it for him. I hate anything that slows me down, he once said. I like fast drugs. He'd grown up as one of the London Mods, a social scene that subsisted on a kaleidoscope of uppers and speed. Cocaine was a logical progression in vogue with the chic celebrity set. It served as both a status symbol and a tool, providing a burst of energy and creative stimulation.

That was the thinking, at least at the time. It was believed to be non addictive and basically harmless. Plus it wasn't hard to find. White powder blanketed the music industry like a Peruvian blizzard. Once in a recording studio bathroom, someone sidled up to David though he was standing at the journal, and slid a bump under his nose. As with everything, David threw himself into cocaine with unbridled abandoned. It soothed his insecurities, making this shy kid from the

suburbs feel worthy of his rock star mantle. It also helped him keep up with his increasingly hectic workload. By the time seventy three turned in nineteen seventy four, he was using two US worth of coco day snorted off the blade of an antique knight. David's music began to hint at his drug use. Tracks on Diamond Dogs included references the street deals, shooting up snowstorms, and pattering one's nose, but the ego inflating influence of cocaine was most apparent

on the album's accompanying tour. Not content to merely play a concert, he vowed to mount the biggest, most elaborate rock and roll stage production that the world had ever seen. When Diamond Dogs was released in the spring of ur it was touted as a comeback. True, David had never gone anywhere, but this was his first new artistic statement

since Ziggy Stardust over two years earlier. His manager Tony DeFreeze mounted a promo campaign befitting the momentous occasion, a four hundred thousand dollar advertising blitz that included Times Square billboards, multi page magazine spreads, the first ever TV ads for a rock album, and specialty made hardcover books sent out to five thousand journalists. But these looked positively quaint compared to the Diamond Dogs tour. From the start, the album

had been designed to be performed live. Many of the tracks were written for the Aboarded four musical, and David never lost the ambition the stage of full Broadway style production. I'm just not content writing songs, he told the press. I want to make it three dimensional. The idea took root on David's twenty seventh birthday of that January when he saw Metropolis, the seven silent film epic made by

German expressionist filmmaker Fritz Lange. The futurist art deco dystopia on the screen evoked urban decay through glamour rather than the grotesque. David could get down with that. The next day, he scoured bookshops for every book he could find on Lang and their German new realist directors. He tracked down a copy of Metropolis and watched it obsessively at home, along with another surreal silent eraic classic nine twenties, the

Cabinet of Dr Caligari. Even more than Metropolis, Dr Caligary's nightmarish, jagged city Escape fueled David's imagination. This was his Hunger City, a hellish realm of nihilism and loneliness. To make this vision of reality, David hired New York based set designer Mark Rabbits, who had recently started working with a new band called Kiss. David gave Rabbits three words the go off of for his new stage set, Power Nuremberg and

Fritz Lang's Metropolis. With that and a limitless budget, Rabbits was often running over two hundred thousand dollars Later, the set began to finally take shape. Weighing six tons and consisting of over twenty thousand moving parts, it was unlike anything ever seen in the realm of rock and roll. It was dumb, needed by an enormous motorized bridge that could rise and fall, delivering David to the stage. Also at his disposal was an eight sided mirrored cage that

descended from the ceiling like a giant disco ball. David even overcame his fear of heights to sing space oddity and a hydraulic cherry picker, which thrust him forty ft above the first six rows of the venue. Hunger City loomed in the background with thirty foot skyscrapers made of silk screened newspaper, each one dripping blood. They were designed to be torn down at the end of each performance,

a dramatic and very literal interpretation of urban decay. The complex mechanics brought an assortment of headaches and body aches during tech rehearsals that June, David was nearly killed when the bridge suddenly collapsed. The crew looked on horrified as their star plummeted to the stage. David was saved by his catlike reflexes, miraculously jumping at the precise moment the

structure smacked the ground, thus avoiding serious injury. The technical problems were never truly resolved, and David was at constant risk of being maimed or electrocuted by his creation. Nevertheless, the show opened a week later in Canada as scheduled. Fans didn't know what to expect as they poured into the Montreal Forum in June. It had been less than a year since David had retired Ziggy Start Us from

the stage. Who would he be now? The tape loops of animal sounds booming from the p a added to their curiosity. Anticipation mounted as the crowd waited for nearly an hour. Finally, there he was, leaning, oh so casually against the building of the city he'd created. We're in his fantasy now. The Wawa funk of Night four enveloped the room, though the band was nowhere to be seen. Like a Broadway show, the musicians were hidden by screens and props. This was far from a normal stand and

deliver concert. David coolly ignored the audience completely, never breaking the fourth wall. Each song was presented as a living tableau as David and a fleet of dancers performed steps by legendary choreographer Tony Basil. There was no Hello Montreal style greeting, no earnest request to put your hands in the air, clap or scream. This was theater in the classic sense. The audience were merely spectators watching the action unfold,

and the effect was electrifying. And even bigger shock was that Bowie no longer looked like Bowie, or rather Bowie no longer looked like Ziggy Gone with a garish kabuki style jumpsuits. Instead, David wore an elegant double breasted off white blazer, suspenders and a modest white cotton shirt. His face bore no obvious trace of makeup. He jettison this spiky red peacock hairdo in favor of his natural blonde slicked back with a center part like a nineteen forties

matinee idol. Many fans who had showed up and there's zigified glam rock space suits looked like they've gotten the wrong invitation. During the intermission, there was a mass exodus to the bathroom to wash off face paint and glitter to save themselves the embarrassment of wearing last year's Bowie look.

The musical vignettes were stylish and surreal. The song time was a major highlight, as David descended from the heavens and his octagonal mirror ball seated in the palm of an oversized hand, delivering him to the stage like a great disco deity. For cracked actor, he was a young hamlet and sunglasses and a cape, singing to a skull while a horde of diamond dog dancers powdered his cheeks and prepared him for his movie close up. The hounds turned the tables on the title track, gleefully hog tying

David with their leashes. Panic in Detroit found David in the middle of a boxing ring, red everlast gloves on his balled up fists as he shadow boxed himself and lost. He delivered sweet Thing in between drags on a cigarette lee against the lamp post and a long trench coat like a Sinatra album cover changes. His instant classic from Hunky Dorry had been given a cocktail piano makeover, and other legacy tracks like Gene Genie and Rock and Roll

Suicide were revamped as Vegas style production numbers. But Space Oddity was a standout. It began in a chair set in the window of a nondescript office building. David sang as Major Tom into a microphone disguised as a telephone. At the liftoff climax, the cherry picker lifted him out of the office and over the audience's heads. The width of a circle culminated in David dramatically tearing down the

buildings of Hunger City. When it was all over, there was no curtain call or words of thanks from the stage, just the voice over the p A system delivering the Elvis esque announcement David Bowie has already left the auditorium. The implication was clear. There was a new king in town. By bringing Broadway sets and aging into a rough and ready rock and roll show, Bowie had laid the groundwork for every big budget arena rock spectacle to come. But

it came at a high cost. A crew of fifteen roadies toiled for over thirty two hours to assemble the set for opening night. Originally, the Diamond Dogs Tour was slated to play a week long residency in each city, making the work a little more worth it. But when the tour morphed into a series of one night stands,

the elaborate production quickly became a logistical nightmare. One night, the hydraulic lift he used during space odd and he became stuck, leaving David no choice but to sing the next six numbers, suspended in mid air over the crowd, which included future singer Brian Adams. When the production was headed to Tampa, the truck containing the set wound up in a local swamp after the driver was stung by a bee. There was talk of canceling the show, but

David wouldn't hear of it. He delivered a stripped down performance that earned him a twenty minute ovation. The technical problems were impounded by personal ones, especially with Bowie's band. They didn't appreciate being hidden from the audience by big black drapes, not after being forced to wear matching suits and in some cases cut their hair to match the nineteen forties aesthetic. The rigid choreography and complex technical cues meant that there was no room for improvisation, and even

the slightest adelaide was punishable by a fine. The arrangements were to be followed note for note, choking every ounce of spontaneity out of what was obstensively a rock and roll performance. There was also some resentment over the disparity in hotels. David and his innermost entourage were put up at the shary Netherlands of the Pierre or something equally ritzy. The rest of the band may do with holiday inns.

Relations reached a breaking point in Philadelphia when the band found out that the string of dates at the Tower Theater was being recorded for a live album. Aware that they were lending their services to help record a future smash, they demanded to be compensated by more than their meager a hundred and ninety dollar per week rate. Shortly before showtime, bassist Herbie Flowers informed David that the band would not

perform without receiving a fee. David's bodyguard claims he was so enraged that he threw a chair before screaming for the freeze. The band got their fee, but Flowers was off the tour soon after. The album in question, David Live would rank among Bowie's least favorite releases. He'd remember it as quote one of the shoddiest albums I've ever done,

and admitted that he never played it. The tension it must contain must be like vampire's teeth coming down on you, he added, And that photo on the cover looks as if I just stepped out of the grave. He had been looking increasingly thin in recent months, and his face had taken on a disturbingly hollow appearance, the effects of his increasing reliance on cocaine more than the unflattering cover. He hated David Live because it wasn't where he was

at musically. He would later say, Diamond Dogs scared me because that was mutating into something I just didn't believe in anymore. That persona has started to feel claustrophobic, and I needed a change. Diamond Dogs was making me sick, both physically and creatively, and I was shifting into melodrama. The characters, though providing armor and artificial confidence in equal measure, had started to grow burdensome. He wanted something with a

little more emotional authenticity, something a little more real. He thought back to the spine tingling sounds that ignited his own passion for music, soul on R and B. It didn't get any more real than that. He had wanted to be a little Richard, or at least a reasonable substitute. Somewhere along the line his priorities had shifted, but that ambition always lay dormant in the back of his consciousness.

Having made music that connected with millions. He wanted to make music that connected with himself, the boy from Bromley with his next release. That's exactly what he would do. David Bowie's first musical love was rekindled in the spring of nineteen seventy four when he arrived in New York prior to the Diamond Dogs tour. He'd later explained, I sunk myself back into the music that I considered the bedrock of all popular music, R and B and soul.

The thrilling sounds were ubiquitous and American dance clubs and David couldn't get enough. Diamond Dogs had largely been an intellectual enterprise. This music struck right through the heart. They called its soul music for a reason. David's new girlfriend, Avid Cherry, acted as his personal guide through the American R and B scene. Her father had been a musician, and she regaled David the tales of life on the

black blues circuit in nineteen forties Chicago. She even brought him some of her dad's old clothes silk ties, baggy pleaded pants, and suspenders that have been all the rage with black performers of the past. They'd called themselves gowster, adopting the style and swagger of the local gangsters with ostentatious fedoras and canes. It was all about attitude, pride, and hip nous. David knew a thing or two about those decked out in any of his father's outfits. He

wanted to be a Ghoster too. Ava fulfilled David's lifelong dream by taking him up to Harlem's iconic Apollo Theater. Heads turned is this extremely freaky looking pale dude stepped out of a limo and into the predominantly black musical mecca. Ignoring the obvious gaux stairs, gaping mouths, and probable profanities, he strolled right in. He couldn't have been happier. As a teen, he treasured his copy of James Brown Live

at the Apollo. Now he was inside the hollowed hall himself, watching acts like the main Ingredient, The Temptations and The Spinners live and in person. David returned to Harlem again and again in the coming weeks to hear music or just taking the vibe of the vibrant street scene the sidewalks for an endless fashion show with wide brimmed hats, zoot suits, white patent leather shoes, and lots and lots

of fur. More often than not, he was joined by a talented young guitarist from the Bronx named Carlos Alamar. Though he was five years younger than David, he boasted a stacked resume that included a spell on the Apollo house Band, touring membership and the main ingredient, and a lucrative gig as a first call studio player for Our c A. They had met that spring at a session David was producing for pop singer Lulu, and they quickly hit it off. Carlos was alarmed by David's emaciated frame

and the dark circles under his eyes. Man, you're too skinny, he told David with classic New York bluntness, you should come out to my house for a decent meal. To

carlos surprise, David took him up on it. Despite their unequal levels of fame, David was the one asking all the questions, pressing Carlos for details about hanging out with Chuck Barry or Wilson Pickett, or the time he was fine as a member of James Brown's backing band for missing his hit me que David's trips to Harlem and sparked a major record buying spree, and before long he'd filled the whole steamer trunk with soul discs from the

past and present. Most of the new releases were straight out of the City of Brotherly Love, the velvety, smooth sounds of Penny Gamble and Leon Huff's Philadelphia International Records label. There was Bad Luck by Harold Melvin in the Blue Notes, If You Only Knew by Patti LaBelle Me, and Mrs Jones by Billy Paul, When Will I See You Again? By the Three Degrees, and of course Love Trained by the o Js. David had them all, and he listened obsessively.

The potent blend of funk rhythms, lush orchestral arrangements, and seductive horns forged a new R and B sound with lyrics steeped in romanticism and social consciousness. It was slick, too slick for some musical purists, but the soulful vocal performances were undeniable. Philly Soul was a more mature answer to the primal R and B stomps of a decade earlier. Motown had famously billed itself as the sound of Young America in the sixties. Philadelphia International Records was the grown

up equivalent for the seventies. As David's love affair with Philly Soul intensified, he decided to go straight to the source. During a brief break on the Diamond Docks tour of that August, he made the pilgrimage the Gamble and Huff Song Factory Sigma Sound. He wanted to record with Sigma's crack team of studio musicians collectively known as mfs B or Mother's Father's Sisters Brothers, but few wanted to make time for this bizarrely dressed interloper who descended on their

musical home. Instead, David enlisted Carlos Alamar as his guitarist and band leader. Carlos brought his wife, Robin Clark, and a high school friend named Luther Vandross. Long before he achieved immortality as the god of bedroom ballads and smooth sex jams, Vandros was a timid, pudgy unknown whose biggest claim to fame had been a handful of musical appearances on the children's TV programs Sesame Street. That would change

after these sessions. During rehearsals for a new Bowie number called Young Americans, Vandros suggested reworking the songs backing vocals rather than take offense. David let him take a crack at it, and the gospel flavored result wound up on the final record. David was impressed and asked with other ideas. He had those shy at first. Vandros offered up an original composition he called Funky Music. David loved it immediately and asked Vandros's permission to record it. On one condition.

The title had to go. A scrawny, limey rock and roll star singing a song called funky Music that was asking for trouble with Vandro's mind if he changed the title the fascination. Vandros's response was immediate. You're David Bowie. I leave at home with my mother. You can do whatever you like. The Sigma Sound session continued for nearly two weeks, and David was awake for most of it.

Fueled by his increasing appetite for cocaine and uppers, he worked day and night, pushing himself beyond his usual workaholic tendencies. The band would curl up in quiet corners of the studio, desperate to snag a few moments of rest whenever they could. Following one grueling all night session, David threw open the studio doors at dawn and invited the camped out, bleary eyed fans to come inside for an impromptu listening party. These so called Sigma Kids were the first to hear

tracks for the album that would become Young Americans. The rapturous response came as a huge relief to David, who was genuinely unsure how his abrupt change in direction would be received. Gone were the complex sci fi plot lines that had characterized his biggest successes to date. Instead, he relied on feelings to drive the music. It's one of the first albums I've done that bounds along on a most will impact, he said proudly at the time. There's

not a concept in sight. When released in the spring of nine, Young Americans was his first album in years to depict David on the cover, and not a ziggy incarnation. The songs themselves were an almost total rejection of rock and roll, which Bowie declared dead a toothless old woman. Whether or not that was actually true in the mid seventies is up for debate, but his decision to move into a genre like soul seemed to invite ridicule, if not outright mockery. Back in the fifties, this was called

race music. Times had changed, but the cultural implications still held firm. What business did a white boy from England have singing this music? Some would call the effort potentious and fake, but David never pretended to be something he wasn't. Though he had soul, he knew he was no soulster. David once described young Americans as quote the Phone, East, R and B I've ever heard If I ever would have had my hot hands on that record when I was growing up, I would have cracked it over my knee.

Over the years, he frequently referred to the album as quote plastic soul, presumably to differentiate it from the genuine article. The self deprecation is largely an act of self defense, but it's also a disservice to the work of Carlos Alamar, Robin Clark, Luther Vandros, and the host of other artists of color who contributed view Today, young Americans may raise questions about the fine line between appropriation and appreciation, but

Bowie doesn't come across as an impostor. Instead, he's merely an outsider role he plays in most of his work. In fact, it may not be a role at all. After wrapping the Sigma sessions that August, David found himself in an awkward position. He was due to continue touring Diamond Dogs, an album that no longer interested him musically. The obvious solution, whom would be to tweak the set list.

This wouldn't have been a problem if this were any other tour, but Diamond Doggs wasn't just any other tour. This was a production, an obscenely expensive one at that Every song had complex choreography and an elaborate set. To junk the songs more or less meant junking the whole show, and so that's exactly what he did. Tony Defreese had the grin and bear it, as four hundred thousand dollars worth of sets and props were scrapped, with pieces given

away to the drama department of a Philadelphia high school. Tragically, almost no video footage of the Grand Spectacles known to exist, beyond a handful of brief clips from shaky fan filmed home movies. David's most ambitious production survives only as a cherished memory for the lucky fans who were able to experience it live. To Bowie and the band, the Jettison set was a relief. It was a costly creative burden. With the weight lifted, he could just focus on them music.

The band, now including Carlos Alamar, Luther Van Dross, Robin Clark, Ava Cherry and other Sigma Sound cohorts, emerged from the wings to reclaim their place on stage in full view of the crowd. David himself took center stage, dressed like a Harlem street hustler and tapered zoot suits, baggy pants, suspenders and checkered ties, a regular gowster that would do Ava Cherry's dad proud, with just a plain white backdrop.

The stripped down Soul Review playfully dubbed the Philly Dogs Tour put the emphasis on the playing rather than the performance. This was disappointing to those expecting to see the overblown theatrical spectacle they'd heard so much about. They were supposed to be selling the entire show on the spectacular set. David would later laugh, and the kids would come and there was no set, no nothing, and there I was singing soul music. Some critics felt slightly cheated, and the

reviews reflected their resentment. One journalist likened the show to a huge, sumptuous birthday cake made out a cardboard with a hollow center. Lester Bangs, the most infamous and unsparing rock critic of the era, declared the evening a parody of a parody in Cream magazine, and David a pasty face, snaggletooth, little jitterbug. The lukewarm reviews failed to dissuade the A listers who turned out and droves to see David's latest. Diana Ross attended the Los Angeles performance, as did fellow

motown stars the Jackson Five. At the after party at Al Green's house, Bowie was seen teaching a teenage Michael Jackson a funny backwards step that he learned from Tony Basil, who had worked with an early street dance troupe called the Lockers. To this day, many cite this as the moment that the Starman taught the King of Pop had a moonwalk, But it was another meeting that had the

biggest impact on David's musical trajectory. His gig in Anaheim was attended by none other than Elizabeth Taylor, clad in a diaphanous purple one humbolt to bring out her violet eyes. She was reportedly accompanied by six male escorts. Her relationship with David got off to a bumpy start when the Silver Screen Icon invited him over for a photo shoot and a casual discussion about possibly doing a film together. Had the agreed upon time, David was a no show,

Liz was furious. The tales of her own tardiness were legendary. Nobody ever kept Elizabeth Taylor waiting. David showed up hours later, looking groggy and worse for the wear, but his considerable charm was enough to smooth over the social error. He didn't end up taking the role, but they formed the bond, speaking regularly on the phone about clothes and makeup, swapping

showbiz gossip like slightly catty old friends. They were chatting together at a birthday party for Dean Martin's son and Beverly Hills when she waved over another familiar face, John Lennon. David Bowie was not easily starstruck. Hell, he had no qualms about standing up Elizabeth Taylor, but the sight of a real live Beatle in the flesh sent him into an immediate silent panic. Back when David was just another struggling London rocker, the Fab Four were the act against

which all others were measured. Three thoughts flashed across David's mind in rapid succession as Lennon ambled over, it's John Lennon. I don't know what to say. Don't mention the Beatles. You look really stupid. John had a decade to get used to the supernatural effect that he had on people, and did his best to break the ice with a friendly Hello, Dave. David blurted out, I've got everything you've made except the Beatles. At least that's the story David

told in later years. John was in l A as part of his estrangement from wife Yoko Ono, a debauched eighteen month period later mythologized as his lost Weekend. John's joined that day by his girlfriend May Pang, who remembers David acting a tad bit odd. Seconds after being introduced, David supposedly announced I have to go out and excused himself. Relations were a bit warmer a few months later, in December, when the pair crossed paths of the record planted studios

in New York. David was putting the finishing touches on young Americans and John was working on a covers album called Rock and Roll. Bowie invited John over to his hotel suite, where they connected by sketching rapid fire caricatures of each other. They hung out more frequently after that. Sometimes they get up to no good, killing bottles of kognak or mounds of cocaine the size of the matterhorn. Other times they'd go undercover and explore the city, John's

favorite pastime. They managed to slip through the downtown streets largely unnoticed, but every now and then someone would approach them. Are you John Lennon, They'd breathlessly ask. He'd always reply, no, but I wish I had his money. David loved the line and started using it himself. One day, while out for a walk alone, heard a voice in his ear, Are you David Bowie? No, but I wish I had his money, he replied Hugh lying bastard came the response, you wish you had my money. The voice belonged to

John Lennon. As their bonds strengthened, David told John about his plan to record a cover of his old Beatles composition across the Universe. Lennon never overly sentimental about his fab four years. I thought it was a bizarre choice, but gave his blessing. He even agreed to come down to Electric Ladies Studios that January and played twelve string guitar on the session. During a break in the takes, Carlos Alamar began playing a hypnotic chicken scratch guitar riff

he'd been kicking around lately. It had been used for David's funky update of an old doo wop tune by the Flares called foot Stopping, but the white hot groove was destined for more than just an on stage cover. Lennon started playing along in his acoustic guitar, absolutely singing dummy lyrics borrowed from Shirley and Company's recent disco hit Shame, Shame, Shame Shame morphed into a which David interpreted his fame a compelling topic for his first collaboration with a Beatle.

After all, fittingly, fame would become David's very first number one a chart topper with John Lennon. It didn't get any higher than that and he just recorded a soul album in Philadelphia, the vibrant center of the musical universe. After making a name for himself as a fiercely individual outsider, he'd become a part of the music that had inspired him. R and B in the Beatles, and he put his

own unique spin on both. But David wouldn't get an opportunity to say, with the triumph in nearly every sense, his life was about to be blown apart. Off The Record is a production of I Heart Radio. The executive producers are Noel Brown and Shan t. Tongue. The supervising producers are Taylor Shaky and Tristan McNeil. The show was written and hosted by me Jordan run Tug and ed. It had scored and sound designed by Tristan McNeil. If you liked what you heard, please subscribe and leave us

a review. For more podcasts from my Heart Radio, visit the I Heart Radio app, Apple podcast, or wherever you listen to your favorite shows.