During the course of rehearsals, Mike Garson, who is the pianist with the Spiders, played an arrangement of his own of four of David Bowie’s numbers. Those numbers were ‘Space Oddity’, ‘Ziggy’, ‘John, I’m Only Dancing’, and ‘Life on Mars?’ – which, incidentally, is number 4 today [cheers from crowd]. David Bowie, ladies and gentlemen, was so knocked out with Mike’s arrangements of these numbers, he thought you might like to hear them. So, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, from New York, Mike Garson! [cheers again]
What follows are dazzling solo instrumental renditions of those four songs. Garson says he was scared to death, and that Bowie told him backstage that he was more frightened that night for Garson than for himself. This was clearly going to be an historic occasion. Mick Jagger, Ringo Starr, Elliot Gould, Barbra Streisand and many other stars were in attendance that night. He says now that his aim was to play these songs in a way that would show that they deserved to be part of the standards repertoire. In an interview with Charles Shaar Murray in the NME a few days later, Garson explained that on the afternoon of the show he had been in the bar with Bowie and played him his jazz version of ‘Ziggy Stardust’ with the melody obscured and asked Bowie if he knew what it was. He replied that he didn’t know, but that it was a good jazz piece, and to play it again. After a few plays, ‘finally he got it and flipped’, asking Garson to open the show with them.6
In his short piano set, Garson made some fascinating changes, adding jazz cadences and putting his unique stamp on them, to the extent that he suspects even some of the devoted Bowie fans might not have recognised them at first: ‘To this day, some people don’t even know what I played! You’ll know what I played, but I was changing the melodies, adding all kinds of jazz chords…’
The sound engineer on the night, Robin Mayhew, vividly recalls the challenges of amplifying real pianos, in the days when digital pianos had not yet reached sufficient quality to become almost universal for rock and pop arenas:
Piano pick-ups like the Helpinstill and Countryman were not available back then so what I did was to mount and secure two microphones in the piano sound box and close the lid. The mics were plugged into a Kustom 100-watt 2x10' speaker amplifier close to Mike which in turn was mic’d to the PA system. This gave a great on-stage sound and bags of gain for the PA mixer channel.
At Hammersmith, on 3 July 1973, in his solo set, Garson first played ‘Space Oddity’ – though in B rather than C.7 He truncates the song at the start by skipping from the intro straight to the bridge. He adds a discordant twist to the two brief stabs on the same chord at the end of each chorus (the two chords which on the original recording are accompanied by hand claps). He adds some Latin rhythm and frenetic staccato octaves and chords to the middle instrumental section, in an evocative reminder of his solo on the title track of the recently released (13 April 1973) Aladdin Sane, follow-up album to Ziggy Stardust. There follow some subtle jazz progressions which segue into a brief and quite jazz-styled taste of ‘Ziggy Stardust’, with at least one imaginative change from the usual chords.8 He then picks up the pace for a lightning-fast bluesy riff to introduce ‘John, I’m Only Dancing’, in which he uses a stridently strong and percussive left hand to cover for the entire rhythm section which would normally create the movement and the feel of the song. In place of Mick Ronson’s guitar riff at the end of each chorus on the recorded version (before the drums come in to introduce the next verse), there was an edgy, avant-garde series of open chords laid extravagantly against the insistent pedal note in the bass.
Finally, he lends a more classical treatment to ‘Life on Mars?’ with the verse accompanied by softly repeated chords in the left hand reminiscent of Chopin’s beautiful little Prelude in E Minor. The piece soon builds, however, to an absolutely full crescendo adorned with cascading runs and crashing chords using the entire range of the keyboard. The final chord of Garson’s set – which lasted just under eight minutes in total – is met with huge and resounding cheers, even louder than when it was mentioned earlier that ‘Life on Mars?’ had reached number 4, for example. The crowd had clearly warmed to him. Garson went back to the dressing room to prepare for his return to the stage shortly afterwards as a member of the band. Bowie greeted him backstage with a silent hug, which spoke volumes.
In the days of the great musicals or theatrical shows it was a common tradition for the orchestra to play a prelude before the show started, an instrumental medley giving a taste of the melodies which would be sung later, and Garson suggests that this was the spirit in which he was asked to do this short spot. In addition, Bowie had carefully planned his shock announcement to kill off Ziggy later that night, with great secrecy and precision, combined with characteristically powerful dramatic imagination. In this context his invitation to Garson to provide such a prelude to the show that lay ahead appears even more fitting, since this was to be the most theatrical of all his shows to date.9
During the 1972-73 world tour in support of David Bowie’s The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars album, Bowie also recorded and released his follow-up album, Aladdin Sane. Garson was asked to play on the new album and in January 1973 entered Trident Studios in London to record with Bowie for the first time. On the title track of the new album he improvised a piano solo, in one take, which would prove so memorable for so many people over the years, that it has become for many an instrumental motif for that period of pop culture. Jazz and avant-garde elements were infused into the more naïve world of pop and a moment of pure genius imprinted itself firmly on one of the key albums of a generation.
Within seconds of putting the vinyl of the Aladdin Sane album on to the turntable in the summer of 1973, it was apparent that this would be a major departure from the feel of Ziggy Stardust the year before. It was more rugged, fuller, even further from the folkier feel of Hunky Dory than Ziggy Stardust had been. In particular, there was the crisp punctuation of the high backing vocals from Linda Lewis, Juanita ‘Honey’ Franklin and Geoff MacCormack, like a glossy overcoat fashioned from 1960s American girl-group harmonies, but with a nod to a more soulful future. And wrenching a sturdy path through all of this was something else quite extraordinary. A brittle, almost angry and demonically percussive piano: first as rock-and-roll hammered chords on the opening track of ‘Watch That Man’, and then reappearing in an altogether different form on the achingly beautiful ballad which came next, the title track.
So much has been written about Mike Garson’s playing on this album, and on this song in particular, though there is something about almost all writing about rock or pop music which steers a very thin line between sharing enthusiasm verbally for the music, and appearing pretentious and pompous. Perhaps this is connected with the long tradition of the music press fostering an adolescent house-style. However, Bowie’s voice on Aladdin Sane was simply hypnotic and, as a young pianist, hearing Garson’s playing for the first time was halting. It opened up a whole new world of possibility on several levels. The way that he used the piano as a ‘tuned percussion’ instrument fascinated me, but that was just the start. The EQ on the piano was adjusted by engineer and producer Ken Scott to give predominance to the high frequencies and the result was brittle, like splinters and shards of glass cascading through the air and settling dangerously on the scenery, giving it a reflective and glinting edge. If this was what could be done with a piano, then my own playing took on a whole new complexion. It was no longer a weekly chore or the mark of a geek, of someone out of touch with the gritty reality of popular culture.
In the first part of the title track, ‘Aladdin Sane (1913-1938-197?)’, there are sweeping piano runs embellishing the verses, counterposed with high and slightly discordant octaves. The whole sound is delicious, the tuneful bass notes of Trevor Bolder reaching ever higher, the gentle drumming of Woody Woodmansey, Bowie’s strumming acoustic guitar and ethereal voice, the plaintive guitar voicings of Mick Ronson and, later, the wailing sax of Ken Fordham. The first sung note of the chorus, ‘Who
…’ is a minor ninth, the high A sung against a G minor chord, and this adds to the air of mystery, whilst also perhaps having helped to inspire the piano solo to come.
The chorus introduces some slightly more funky chord rhythms. But then the band seem to stand aside slightly as this other, insistently atavistic voice emerges in the form of an inspired piano solo. At first this solo voice sounds like the demented and random hitting of the keys by a group of wayward children, but then it takes shape into a tortured work of genius. As Garson’s musical soliloquy stutters and its inner narrative unfolds, we start to perceive its intent.
There are paroxysms of temper or unbridled passion, but these moments are threaded together by an inner language which is far from random. The discords are tantalising, full of meaning and resolved with aplomb. The strong Latin flavours are woven in with an avant-garde petulance. There is technical know-how and thousands of hours of practice contained in this succession of notes and chords. Yet there is something which transcends that, a wisdom of invention which could only be accessed by somehow bypassing all of the clutter of technical know-how, even whilst using it.
One of the influences feeding into this expression came from New York avant-garde pianist Cecil Taylor, famed for his lengthy and uncompromising performances and described by Garson as ‘this wild, crazy, virtuoso’. He liked a lot of Taylor’s work but ‘could not take too much of that constant, “outside”, avant-garde dissonant banging away, non-stop! I tended to do it more melodically, a little lighter-hearted, and just put an edge on things.’ Garson ‘hears too much melody in my head’ to be happy with such bleakly atonal experimentation. It was precisely this balance in his spontaneous solo that day, poised between resonance and dissonance, grafting melody on to discord, which secured its lasting and compelling appeal. In later years Garson has accumulated over two thousand emails received from around the world, praising this solo. It clearly caught people’s imagination as both a pivotal moment in cultural evolution and as a deeply expressive and inspired piece of musical creation.
Garson’s old friend, jazz saxophonist Dave Liebman, once told him that in this solo he could hear the influence of all the many diverse pieces of music they had worked on together in their youth. It brings to mind Shakespeare’s phrase, spoken by Polonius about Hamlet: ‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.’ What at first appears to have ‘neither rhyme nor reason’10 gradually reveals an inner structure with its own narrative and intent, in which can indeed be heard the many influences which fed into Garson’s psyche, from the old Liberace television shows of the 1950s to his teenage reverence at attending a classical recital by Arthur Rubinstein, via the avant-garde jazz scene of his home town.
Not only were David Bowie and Aladdin Sane seminal in influencing later generations of musicians, Mike Garson’s playing in particular also inspired future artists specifically. Gary Kemp, of Spandau Ballet, explains that, ‘For me, Mike Garson’s piano was what lifted that above anything anyone else was doing at that time. It made it exotic, made it decadent.’ Steve Harley of Cockney Rebel also comments, ‘Musicians like Garson were playing jazz stuff that isn’t written on the chord sheet for the song. Garson’s playing is eccentric and wild, and beautiful at the same time.’11
Having recorded for Bowie’s 1973 Aladdin Sane and his follow-up album of covers of seminal hits from the 1960s, Pin Ups, Garson was also enlisted to work on Diamond Dogs, in which Bowie further explored the apocalyptic themes which had opened the Ziggy Stardust album with ‘Five Years’. More specifically, the inspiration here was Orwell’s 1984 and several of the tracks (essentially the second half of the album) were originally intended for a theatrical production directly based on Orwell’s book, which proved impossible as permission would not be granted by the Orwell estate. Despite having played a key role on the album with songs like ‘Sweet Thing’, ‘Candidate’ and ‘Rock ’n’ Roll with Me’ being very much piano-led, Garson was not familiar with Orwell’s book when I first met him in 2009, which made it an easy decision what I should give him for his birthday that week.
Garson recalls the recording of the Diamond Dogs album in 1973 at Olympic Studios in London as having been a great experience.
It was special because somehow it was really David’s project… there was no Mick, David was playing the guitar, it’s dark, Tony Visconti’s part of it [he mixed it], David’s utilising me a lot, he’s talking to me about cutting up words like William Burroughs, he’s kind of guiding me through certain things, but to tell you the truth he would play me something and the music sort of told me what to do. He’s never been one that micro-managed me, which is why I always thought Bowie was my best producer.
He says that he felt the album was deep and honest, and that he ‘loved David’s guitar playing on it’. The recording went smoothly, he got the train in from Sussex every day for a couple of weeks at most. This was where the Rolling Stones had recorded, and Keith Emerson too, whose recent presence was evidenced by a huge Hammond organ with various wires and ropes attached to it (‘he would be attached to it and it would go upside down,’ Garson says), all of which inspired him. He felt it would be hard to top what he had done on Aladdin Sane, so he just did his best on it as a professional recording session. It was only when his attention was drawn to it years later by guitarist Page Hamilton that he started to see that he had done something special on songs like ‘Sweet Thing’.
This whole period of the early 1970s was one of intense work for Bowie and all those working with him, as the rapid rollercoaster of recording and touring continued. In the two and a half years from autumn 1972 to spring 1975, no fewer than five albums were recorded and released. In addition, there were two major tours, first with Ziggy Stardust and then with Diamond Dogs. The latter paused in Philadelphia for the recording of Young Americans but also gave rise to Bowie’s first live album, David Live, on which we can hear clearly just what a significant part of Bowie’s sound at this time was provided by the distinctive stylings of Garson’s piano.
Garson soon developed an affinity with and a deep feel for Bowie’s music. Over the years their working relationship was to flourish and today Garson has a huge respect for the consummate artistry of the English singer whose manager had telephoned him at home in Brooklyn in 1972:
David Bowie has the ability to absorb art and be it, whether painting, sculpture, lyrics, song writing, singing, entertaining, acting. He is art and he knows how to become it, bigger than life. That’s not the kind of artist I am, but he’s got a ridiculous gift, that’s probably been there all along, like a pool of creativity that, if he jumps in he just comes out being it. It sits there, it’s available to him at any second.
On David Live there were three ‘bonus tracks’ added on later editions, one of which is a powerful version of ‘Time’ in which the piano starts quite low in the mix but then when Garson plays his solo it sounds as if the whole band drop out and there is a great shift in the rhythm. When Bowie comes back in with the vocal, the timing between him and Garson is striking in its perfection. Putting this to Garson elicits a telling response:
I’m one of those guys… as much as I like to feel comfortable when I’m performing, and know what I’m doing, there’s a part of me that is really always searching. For that next rhythm, that next chord, that next tear from the audience member, the next heart-string pulled…The next bit of frustration or anger, the next bit of… piano playing that was never heard before, the next strange chord – and not for the sake of it, but more for the avoidance of boredom! [laughs]
When asked whether he means avoiding his boredom more than theirs, he says he thinks so, but adds: ‘It is the duty of an artist to keep pushing his own envelope.’
Garson’s solo for the version of the ‘Aladdin Sane’ song on David Live is quite different from the original improvisation. Garson says it is more complex and feels that it was played more heavily than when improvised for the original recording. It also seems to have more of a pronounced Latin feel
, though this is perhaps due to Pablo Rosario’s percussion accompaniment on the live version. He was not entirely happy with this solo. A year earlier, at the original album recording session, he had improvised spontaneously and it had proved the epitome of his principle of accessing creativity without self-consciousness. For that minute or two he had no distracting awareness of effort, had lost himself in the moment and therefore tapped into something different, something beyond our everyday limitations and immediate surroundings. That level of inspiration introduces a different musical language and makes everything else seem merely prosaic or formulaic by comparison. Now, however, he was faced with the basically impossible task of repeating or imitating that extraordinary moment – of imitating himself.
He used all his considerable technical ability to do just that but, perhaps not surprisingly, did not feel satisfied. He asked Bowie whether he could go into the studio and redo it as an overdub, to which Bowie agreed. This close collaborative understanding between them has been demonstrated many times over the years. When Trent Reznor wanted Garson to play on the 1999 Nine Inch Nails album, The Fragile, Garson asked Bowie’s advice and was told, ‘Don’t play rock, just do your thing.’ Clearly both men are artistically committed to authenticity. Their shared passion for artistic creativity above all else means that for both Mike Garson and David Bowie, ‘it is all about the music’.
Garson is not entirely sure which version of his ‘Aladdin Sane’ solo for David Live was used, although the cover of the album does proudly boast, ‘These are all live recordings, and there are no overdubs or parts added.’ Either way, he was not overly happy with either attempt, as he was inevitably now having to work at this with his head rather than his heart. In addition it was hard to compete with the sound quality of the Bechstein piano at Trident as engineered by Ken Scott for the studio version of Aladdin Sane – the same piano used by everyone from the Beatles to Queen. Garson mentions that ‘it was finally auctioned off once it had been played to death’. The piano sound had been compressed by Scott for the album, giving it a punchier effect and Garson says that Scott ‘was extraordinary at mixing and producing, and much credit for the sound of the album goes to him’.
Bowie's Piano Man - The Biography of Mike Garson Page 4
