by Simon Philo
Diamond Dogs was, according to Bowie, “my most political album . . . my protest” (qtd. in Millward 132). Yet, it never loses sight of that genre-defining communality, of glam’s inclusive embrace. For at the heart of the album, aimed directly and sincerely at the fans, sat the soulful power ballad “Rock ’n’ Roll with Me.” In this song, Bowie declares himself to be “in tears,” but these are surely “tears” of joy. So, while there is plenty of nightmarish hopelessness to be found on Diamond Dogs—more of it, in fact, than on any Bowie LP since The Man Who Sold the World—this is leavened by its unquenchable life force, its flashes of humor, and its sheer glamness, qualities that conspired to deliver what was believed at the time to be the costliest theatrical show rock had yet witnessed. In the wake of the album’s release, Bowie toured North America for almost six months between June and December ’74. Melody Maker’s Chris Charlesworth was in attendance at the opening night of the North American tour in Montreal. It was, he breathlessly reported, “a completely new concept in rock theatre” with “as much to do with rock ’n’ roll as Bob Dylan has with Las Vegas.” The ninety-minute, twenty-song show was a
completely rehearsed and choreographed routine where every step and nuance has been perfected down to the last detail. There isn’t one iota of spontaneity about the whole show. It’s straight off a musical stage—a piece of theatre complete with extravagant mechanical sets, dancers and a band that stands reservedly to stage right and never receives a cursory acknowledgment, like an orchestra in the theatre pit. (Qtd. in History 1974, 76)
It was a show, Charlesworth concluded, that “belongs on Broadway or Shaftsbury Avenue rather than on the road”—
a Christmas pantomime would be an unfair parallel, but the ideas behind it were exactly the same. Bowie comes out of the show as some kind of magical being. A star above stars, as untouchable as the sky; not once does he address the audience, or even allude to their presence other than an odd grin. (Qtd. in History 1974, 76)
The set was “Hunger City.” At the rear of the stage stood a twenty-foot-high bridge, built from span-girders and forming a catwalk that rose and fell at Bowie’s command. Three lighting towers, disguised as toppling skyscrapers, beamed down on Bowie. Stage left was a phallic structure that would spurt blood. The musicians were positioned stage right. During the show, Bowie executed a series of well-rehearsed dance steps, acting out each song in character. As Charlesworth observed, the “expanse of unoccupied stage in the centre [was] ample for all manner of complex choreography involving chairs, ropes and sundry other props.” For “Sweet Thing,” for example, Bowie “appeared on the catwalk for the first time, dressed in a long trench coat and gazing down on the dancers below while singing and pointing”; for “Cracked Actor,” “Hollywood-type movie cameras and spots were hastily set up around [Bowie] while a make-up man arrived to splash on face powder”; while for “Space Oddity,”
Bowie appeared to have left the arena, then a door atop one of the skyscrapers swung open to reveal him in a seat on a pole—actually a hydraulic boom extending from the base of the phallic [structure]. [Bowie] began the song perched up there, but as the verses progressed and [he] took on the identity of Major Tom, the boom moved forward and extended diagonally outwards so that he was projected somewhat precariously out above the front rows . . . Complete with flashing lights everywhere, the effect was nothing short of sensational. (Qtd. in History 1974, 77)
In Charlesworth’s opinion, it was the “most original spectacle in ‘rock’ I’ve ever seen, a complete move forward in direction for both Bowie and pop in general,” in which “the star comes out of it as an all-round actor/singer/dancer/entertainer, leaving behind his status as a simple singer-songwriter.” The net effect, he concluded, was that “David Bowie in 1974 is not rock any more. He can only be described as an entertainer who looks further ahead than any other in rock” in offering “a combination of contemporary music and theatre that is several years ahead of its time” (qtd. in History 1974, 76–77).
However, such quintessential glamness appeared to be ruthlessly nipped in the bud midway through the tour, when Bowie scrapped both the lavish set and the show itself and started over. Foreshadowing the “plastic soul” of Young Americans, in September, the singer reemerged “as an anorexic matinee idol in tight-cut jacket and baggy trousers” (Hoskyns 98). For Clinton Heylin, this sudden reinvention was commercially motivated. David Bowie, he points out,
had tried and failed to sell the States on a form of English rock as glam as “Get It On,” and as camp as “Blockbuster,” so it was time to come clean: he didn’t have the patience (or the money) necessary to wait for middle America’s mall-children to catch up. (Madmen, 290–91)
David Live—a double album featuring a cover of “Knock on Wood”—would reach the Billboard Top 10 in late ’74. Mission accomplished? Was this, as many have suggested, Bowie’s declaration of glam’s demise? Perhaps, if we were to define it in purely sonic terms. However, it is evident that the glam sensibility would sustain him for the rest of his days.
Like David Bowie, Queen had already demonstrated that it was no stranger to variety. November’s Sheer Heart Attack, though, would take this eclecticism to a new level. “I’d hate to just do hard rock all the time, dear,” Freddie Mercury had told New Musical Express at the time of its release (qtd. in History 1974, 126). True to his words, lead single “Killer Queen” (UK no. 2, US no. 12) was described by one reviewer as “nothing like the noisy heavy metal sound to which we are accustomed . . . a mixture of Beach Boys, early Beatles and 1920s music hall. Quaite naice, actually” (qtd. in History 1974, 112). Conclusive proof that the band did indeed love the single, this tale of a high-class call girl with very expensive tastes could hardly have been more camp (“then again incidentally / if you’re not that way inclined”), theatrical, and glam. With its reference to a decadent world of champagne, caviar, Parisian perfume, and “pretty cabinets,” the song tapped into that by now familiar Cabaret-style Weimar vibe. As Mercury noted, “You almost expect Noel Coward to sing it.” It was, he proudly declared, “one of those ‘bowler hat, black suspender belt’ numbers” (qtd. in History 1974, 112). Representing a departure from the heavier rock sound found on the band’s previous two LPs, the pop chops of “Killer Queen” were nevertheless well served by trademark multitrack vocal harmonizing and distinctive Brian May guitar work. Yet, the versatility of Sheer Heart Attack—in part a product of the fact that all four band members wrote—would inevitably contribute to some less than positive, often po-faced reviews accusing Queen of purveying “supermarket rock.” If, though, you could not love a track as joyfully daft as the banjo/ukulele-led Charleston “Bring Back Leroy Brown,” then surely you needed to take a long, hard look for your heart.
Writing in the NME, Julie Webb remarked that Mercury was “very much hung up on maintaining the ‘star’ image” and that he “thinks he should dress accordingly.” As the singer confirmed, “We’re still as poncey as ever. We’re still the dandies we started out to be” (qtd. in History 1974, 113). While a track like “Killer Queen” had demonstrated this was much in evidence audibly on the new album, it was also signaled visually. Sheer Heart Attack’s Mick Rock cover photo was the epitome of fully conscious playful camp, featuring all four band members in various states of Technicolor undress. Definitely not Roger Dean or Storm Thorgerson. As Rock, who had also shot the front cover of Lou Reed’s Transformer LP, recalls:
They came to me with a specific brief: “We wanted to look wasted and abandoned, like we’ve been marooned on a desert island.” It was their concept. They brought their own clothes. I got in sprays, glycerine and Vaseline and we greased them up and spritzed them. (Qtd. in Hotten, web)
Reviewing a Queen gig for Melody Maker that November, Chris Welch reported that Mercury sported a succession of “stunning” costumes, that “Big Spender” was still in the set, and that the show’s “mixture of heavy rock and glamorous display” served up “a healthy and encouraging spectac
le” amid what he characterized as the “gloom” of the UK’s rock scene (qtd. in History 1974, 131). This “gloom” was not confined to the world of rock. In October, Prime Minister Harold Wilson—who had been limping along with a minority government since February—called the year’s second general election in the hope of securing a working majority. It worked. Just. Wilson would have a cigarette-paper-thin majority of three. In November, continuing political instability and economic woes were exacerbated by mainland terrorism, when the IRA killed twenty-one “civilians” in the Birmingham pub bombings. Another fall, another suitably crepuscular Roxy Music LP released into the gloaming. Country Life (UK no. 3, US no. 37)—whose opening couplet was “The sky is dark, the wind is cold”—had been preceded by the non-album single, “All I Want Is You” (UK no. 12). Not as obviously witty as previous 45s, it was ostensibly a conventional rock song—a sign, for some, that Roxy Music was well on the way to becoming “just another rock band” (Hoskyns 66). Yet, had Ferry’s apparently uncontrollable urge to break into French—“l’amour, toujours l’amour”—been missed? And what lay behind his decision to sport a stained T-shirt on Top of the Pops? As Country Life would demonstrate, Roxy Music was not quite ready to join the rock mainstream just yet. For one thing, the LP’s leadoff track “The Thrill of It All” represented either a brave or foolhardy—and certainly downright ornery—choice for a US single. (Needless to say, it bombed.) Similar in tempo to “Virginia Plain,” “The Thrill of It All” displayed similar magpie tendencies—taking its title from a Doris Day movie while quoting directly from a Dorothy Parker poem called “Resume,” with Ferry crying “Oy vey!” at one point. Posing the question “Do you wonder where you are going?” “The Thrill of It All” also explored familiar thematic territory—“You might as well know what is right for you and make the most of what you like to do”—and concluded that “all the pleasure that’s surrounding you should compensate for all you are going through.” So, stylish hedonism—“high life ecstasy”—is mobilized to counter the heavy, saturating sense of decline—“Let your senses skip / Stay hip, keep cool.” Advocating decadent living, “A Really Good Time” offered the same advice—“Listen to me, I’m not finished yet.” “Bitter Sweet” shared its title with a Noel Coward operetta, but was arguably more Brechtian in form and theme with its oompah rhythm, oboe solo, and Ferry’s Sprechgesang sections in which he talk-sings of being “stranded between life and art.” The Tudor stylings of “Triptych” provided a sharp contrast with the boogie-woogie of “If It Takes All Night.” In Stranded, Greil Marcus writes of Roxy Music “emerging in the wake of David Bowie but outclassing him in imagination and humor” (290). If true, such qualities—which, of course, made the band simultaneously interesting and important—were the very things that made commercial success in the States, at best, tricky, and, at worst, unlikely. This was a terrain where rigid radio formats and equally inflexible music business practice made life difficult for such an uncategorizable, shape-shifting act. These were qualities that were neither valued nor deemed necessary in rock.
Perhaps mishearing Country Life, Alwyn Turner contends that “the celebration of decadence had lost its appeal” by the end of the year (Crisis?, 103). Yet, if this was the case, then what was disco all about? During the British high summer of ’74, disco enjoyed its mainstream breakthrough with three number one singles—George McCrea’s “Rock Your Baby,” the Three Degrees’ Gamble-and-Huff-produced “When Will I See You Again,” and Carl Douglas’s disco-novelty “Kung Fu Fighting.” Having had his first UK hit in the fall, Barry White made number one in December with “You’re My First, My Last, My Everything.” In addition, KC and the Sunshine Band had success with “Queen of Clubs” (UK no. 7) and “Sound Your Funky Horn” (UK no. 17), while Kenny’s “The Bump” (UK no. 3)—a hit in early 1975—would perhaps represent one of the first glam-disco hybrids.
Released as a single in the fall, Bowie’s live version of “Knock on Wood” (UK no. 10) has been widely interpreted as proof of glam’s demise. It had, of course, emerged from a tour that had morphed into a soul revue. In October, Melody Maker reported that Bowie had stopped off in Philadelphia to “change sound and record a new album”:
Blue-eyed soul! This is David Bowie in Philadelphia’s Sigma Sound studios—home of the hottest soul producers in the world, Gamble and Huff. . . . And the result is his first soul album, provisionally called Someone Up There Likes Me, out in the New Year. . . . The Philadelphia album, produced by Tony Visconti, features a vocal back-up chorus, led by Ava Cherry. . . . Bowie originally wanted to use MFSB, the Gamble and Huff house band . . . but they had other commitments at that time, so Bowie settled for a band which included Carlos Alomar (guitar), Willie Weeks (bass guitar), Andy Newmark (drums), Larry Washington (congas), David Sanborn (saxophone), Mike Garson (piano) [and] Luther Vandross (BVs). (Qtd. in History 1974, 112)
Sweet’s latest and last Chinn-Chapman confection, “Turn It Down” (UK no. 41), was released in the same month. Unlike “Teenage Rampage” back at the beginning of the year, this time a Sweet single was subject to a BBC ban for lyrics that featured a reference to “degenerate bums” and used the mild cuss words “godawful” and “for god’s sake.” Even more so than its predecessor “The Six Teens,” the harder rock sound of “Turn It Down” would illustrate the band’s concerted attempt to “change sound” and so reach out to an older demographic. These two tracks also appeared on Desolation Boulevard, which was released in the UK in November and which included five self-compositions, a cover of the Who’s “My Generation,” and an eight-and-a-half-minute version of Bernstein’s “The Man with the Golden Arm.” Although it has subsequently come to be viewed as a lost classic, it met with low sales and critical indifference at the time. Perhaps this indicated that Sweet was trying too hard to distance itself from the teen fan base that had made it. Or perhaps it signaled, as it did with Slade, that the changes being made were being undertaken a little too rapidly to bring those fans along for the ride. “Far Far Away” (UK no. 2) was the first single to be lifted from Slade in Flame, OST (original soundtrack) to the band’s first movie. A contemplative ballad-as-travelogue, “Far Far Away” was a suitable musical hors d’oeuvre for a gritty and sometimes genuinely dark tale of the rise and fall of a fictional ’60s group called Flame that was clearly based on the band’s own dealings with the music business. So, as the year ended, had that business had its fill of glam too? Was the industry about to kill the thing that it once loved? Although the feeling was mutual, Nicky Chinn and Mike Chapman had distanced themselves from Sweet to focus their songwriting and production energies on cracking the North American market via a comparatively new (and presumably more pliable) act called Smokie.
The year 1974 had begun with Slade’s ubercheerful, rabble-rousing “Merry Xmas Everybody” at number one on the UK singles chart. Rather indicatively, it would end with a four-week run as the nation’s best-seller for Mud’s maudlin “Lonely This Christmas.” In the intervening months, there had been number one singles for Mud (“Tiger Feet”), Suzi Quatro (“Devil Gate Drive”), Alvin Stardust (“Jealous Mind”), the Rubettes (“Sugar Baby Love”), Gary Glitter (“Always Yours”), and David Essex (“Gonna Make You a Star”). In total, twenty weeks of glittery chart toppers. Eight weeks less than in the previous year. Not a bad year by any means, but not as stellar as ’73, making it difficult to take issue with Brian Eno, who observed that “glam sort of faded out, didn’t it?” (qtd. in Hoskyns 103). Yet Eno also noted of glam that it “wasn’t about glamour so much as the idea of changing identity or thinking up your own identity” (qtd. in Hoskyns 8). Something that David Bowie, Bryan Ferry, Sweet, and Slade were either already engaged with or, at very least, seriously contemplating as ’75 dawned.
Chapter 6
“Got to Leave You All Behind and Face the Truth”
In 1975, glam albums could only manage to top the UK chart for a not-so-grand total of four weeks—down six on the previous year, and so representi
ng the genre’s poorest return since its emergence in 1971. Of course, it could be argued that it was never really “about” the long-form format. Yet, this is a stat that might still be read as symptomatic of glam’s decline. Besides which, there was plenty of evidence pointing to a serious downturn in fortune in the singles market too. By the band’s high standards, Slade—glam’s most successful singles act—would experience an underwhelming ’75, with just a couple of rather modest successes. “How Does It Feel?” was the second single to be taken from the OST of the Slade in Flame movie, which had gone on general release in January. A piano- and brass-led ballad that had been written by Jimmy Lea back in 1969, “How Does It Feel?” stalled at number fifteen—making it (un)comfortably Slade’s worst chart showing since “Get Down and Get with It” and breaking a run of twelve Top Five singles. This relatively poor performance might well have simply reflected the fact that those who had bought Slade in Flame already possessed the track. It was, though, perhaps not the Slade the fans either wanted or expected—a lengthy, rather downbeat, uncharacteristically wistful song that was unlikely to appeal to those who had not bought the album.
