(Crown Publishers; 402pp)

www.crownpublishing.com

BY RICK ALLEN

Marc Spitz’ wordy biography of the Thin White Duke is written in the first person, a telling fact, one that should function as a caveat. There is a lot of Spitz in this book; opinion, conjecture and some occasionally unwelcome comparison of author to subject. Had the book been written by another musician or creative artist it might that might have been a more effective approach than it is here.

Not that writers – Spitz has written a couple of novels as well – aren’t creative artists. But conjectures coming from a writer with a larger public persona, one with whom a reader might be more familiar, would elicit more interest. Depending on the details, too much self-revelation on the part of a biographer can be negatively prejudicial; how does one take seriously the musical opinions of someone who, as Spitz does, reveals even a pre-teen affection for the vomitous, superficial anti-rock and roll of the Grease soundtrack?

Even more disconcerting is Spitz casual unapologetic use of the racially offensive term “Jap” as though he and his audience were still mired in World War II era xenophobia. The use of such terms makes it tempting to wonder what to infer regarding Spitz’ statements about the characteristics of blonde, blue-eyed people earlier in the book. Spitz’ writing is often slipshod; referring to the legal risks of gay life in England as extant “as early” as 1966 rather than “late” and making a non-sequitur reference to William Shatner by only his last name and no explanation of why the reference is relevant; not exactly writing for the ages, the faults help to confine the appeal of the book to those interested in Bowie and pop music in specific rather than those interested and open to a good read regardless of subject.

Some of Spitz’ “facts” are questionable too. In discussing David Robert Jones’ transition to “David Bowie” he likens it to Robert Zimmerman’s becoming Bob Dylan in homage to poet Dylan Thomas. While that explanation for Dylan’s name change cannot be entirely ruled out, more than one Dylan biographer has said that it is at least equally likely that the source of Dylan’s new surname was actually TV cowboy Matt Dillon of Gunsmoke though he took the cooler spelling from the Welsh poet. The notion has weight when it’s considered that Dylan comes from a TV mad generation for whom the cowboy was as glamorous and iconic a figure and object of hero worship as spies, astronauts and pop stars would later become. While the idea that Dylan took his name from Thomas is equally plausible, the resistance to the alternate theory is based in the same kind of intellectual snobbery that rules out the possibility that Bowie chose his name for similar reasons and/or just because it’s a cool name. In an anecdote about Marc Bolan, Spitz also shows that he is unclear as to what actually constitutes a double entendre.

There’s no solid reason why the admittedly plentiful details of Bowie’s early life and about his family provided should be called into question – there is enough material provided by recollections from people like Bowie’s childhood friend, artist/musician George Underwood (the Pete Shotten to his John Lennon), and others close to him during adolescence to give them believability. But there is a carelessness about Spitz’ writing that makes some assertions slightly suspect. Spitz even describes Jim Bowie’s famous knife as short-bladed when in fact the distinguishing characteristic of its blade is its uniquely long length. And there is so much theorizing and intrusive opinionating from Spitz that one spends a great deal of the time – especially through the first chapters — wishing that Spitz would just get on with it; enough about you already.

Nevertheless, Bowie is one of rock and pop’s more interesting characters and a worthy subject for a detailed, intimate biography. Has Spitz provided that? Not really. No recent info from Bowie appears in the book. There are few pictures, none of Bowie’s parents or sibling, none of his children, none of either his ex-wife Angie or present wife Iman and no recent pictures of the subject himself. He gets some interesting, sometimes revealing, information from Jones family members and Bowie friends and lovers – though not always first-hand; contributions from Angie come mostly from her memoir – and there is a good amount of suitably juicy gossip and the settling of certain rumors to varying degrees of satisfaction.

Spitz does a give some interesting, but not necessarily trustworthy, details about people and places pertinent to Bowie’s past and development that will help readers unfamiliar with them understand – or guess – how and why they affected his life, personality and music. Some may lead curious readers down other, interesting paths; the Bowie story is full of interesting characters.

A good biography gives a sense of times of the arc of its subject’s life and Spitz does score on that aspect. Tidbits of information surface: like the fact that young David was a Cub Scout who followed American football and whose interest in American rock ‘n’ roll was encouraged instead of opposed by his parents; the man who wondered why people looked askance when he paraded about in a dress as an adult started out as a Real Boy. And for young David Jones, “pulling birds” was as important as sports and rock and roll. Like other artistic types Bowie was constitutionally incapable of holding down a straight job; he’d spend hours hanging out at record stores but couldn’t keep it together for more than a few weeks working in one. The book tells how Bowie’s intellectual side was also nurtured by his troubled older half-brother, Terry, who introduced him to and distilled Buddhist philosophy and the works of the Beats, which led to an interest in the “cool jazz” of John Coltrane and Wes Montgomery and his taking saxophone lessons from British Baritone sax player Ronnie Ross. The sentimental side of Bowie is also revealed: At the height of his popularity he called on Ross to play the extended saxophone solo at the end of Lou Reed’s “Walk On The Wild Side” produced by Bowie and Mick Ronson.

Early in the book, the telling fact is revealed that Bowie’s first musical hero was not a jazzman like Coltrane or the smooth cool word-centric Chuck Berry but the explosive primal R&B-rooted Little Richard; the interest originating not in Bowie identifying with Richard’s glitz and androgyny, but from listening to the copy of “Tutti Frutti” given to a ten year old David by his father. At root Bowie is not a performance artist, lightweight pop star or art rocker; not a rock musician but a rock ‘n’ roll musician which puts him on a level with contemporaries and near contemporaries like Velvet Underground era Lou Reed, Iggy Pop and even Marc Bolan rather than circus acts like Kiss or the style-heavy, substance-lacking haircut bands of the 1970s. 

Spitz’ book – not always a page turner - may get as close to the heart of the enigmatic Bowie as possible. If so, he does it by showing that heart, more than libido or even intellect, is what’s at the core of his work.

Even so, Bowie’s story deserves to be told better than it is here.