Ziggy Stardust Changed My Life

For me it started on stiflingly hot April day in 1972, stuck on a coach with forty other twelve year olds, with no air conditioning, minimal ventilation, and a bunch of teachers puffing away on Woodbines like condemned prisoners awaiting the firing squads bullet. We were on a school outing to Warwick Castle as part of a History project on Medieval England and, in particular, the exploits of one William The Conqueror who, according to Mr.Hulcoop, our chain smoking corduroy jacket with leather arm patches wearing teacher, who built it in 1068. To this day it never ceases to amaze me how the construction of historic monuments are always attributed to a specific individual, as if that said person had assembled the thing brick by brick like some giant Lego set. I mean, if I have an extension to the kitchen knocked up by a bunch of lads who drink in my local and work on a strictly cash only basis, I haven’t built it, have I? I’ve paid to have it thrown up, but the actual mechanics of digging trenches, mixing cement and laying bricks is down to the labour of others. Which is exactly how I put it to Mr.H. He, in reply, told me to shut up and get back in my seat before he clipped me round the lughole. It was then that it hit me. Not my History teacher’s hand but the sound emanating from the tinny speaker nailed to the bit of roof just to the right of the drivers head. Tony Blackburn had just handed over to Diddy David Hamilton who had told us what a super fantastic show he had lined up between now and DLT at eleven, and to kick things off he was going to play a new record. It was called Starman and it was by some bloke whose name I didn’t catch as, just as Diddy Dave announced it the coach passed under a bridge and the signal to 247metres Wonderful Radio One was momentarily lost. By the time it drifted back in via the coat hanger ariel wedged above the drivers cab, the song had kicked in.

Didn’t know what time it was, the lights were low – o – oh,
I leaned back on my radio – o – oh….

It was like nothing I’ve ever heard, before or since, and for a split second I was welded to the spot, gazing at the speaker like a would be apostle listening to that bloke from Nazareth for the first time. Then it really did hit me. A satchel, that is, thrown in my direction by some Geordie oik who went by the name of Paul Smith and fancied himself an authority on popular music, just as long as it was played by sweaty middle aged men with long hair and beards kitted out from head to toe in faded denim, floppy hats and cowboy boots.

‘This is brill’, I gushed in his direction, ignoring the fact that he’d just attempted to take my head off. ‘Who’s it by?’

‘Some pufta called David Bowie’, he replied, throwing me a look consisting of equal parts contempt and pity. ‘Only girls and shirt lifters like him, so forget it and stick with Slade, ‘cos you know exactly what you’re getting with that lot’.

That much was true. I loved Slade. Coz I Luv You was the first single I ever brought, and the fact that they heralded from a few miles up the road from our school made it all the more personal. They were local lads made good. Christ, even my Mum liked Noddy Holder! But this was something else. It was a bit T.Rexy, but the tune was less formulaic and the lyrics far deeper, and it appeared to be telling the story of some bloke from another planet who was just waiting to come down and blow our tiny minds.

I had to tell someone, so I picked on you – ooh – ooh,
Hey, that’s far out, so you heard him too – ooh – ooh,
Switch on your TV, we may pick him up on Channel Two.

Damn and blast, I remember thinking. Our telly’s only got BBC1 and ITV, so there’s no chance of him getting a message to me. My Dad said BBC2 was for middle class intellectuals, and there was no way on earth he was forking out good money for that crap.

Funnily enough, we didn’t need Channel Two to pick him up, because on July 6th he appeared on Top Of The Pops. Today, with all the advances in technology, you can conjure up shows that you missed first time around at the touch of a button, but in ’72 we didn’t even have video, which meant that if you missed a show it was lost forever, unless it got repeated at a later date, which in the case of Top Of The Pops, a show whose very existence revolved around the here and now, was never going to happen. Which is why I never missed it.

So there I was, perched on the sofa, putting up with the usual drivel (The Osmonds, anyone?) when Tony Blackburn, looking like he’s never heard the name before, announces that next up there’s some bloke singing a song about a spaceman. Cue Bowie and The Spiders From Mars.

Now I’ll spare you all the stuff about the matching jumpsuits, dyed hair (although it was hard to tell on a black & white telly), make-up and the bit during the chorus where DB drapes the limpest of wrists around Mick Ronson’s shoulder, because all that’s been done a thousand times in books and TV documentaries. Instead I’ll recall my dad’s reaction as he watched the performance unfold from the comfort of his favourite armchair, his initial confusion turning to discomfort before manifesting itself into outright outrage, to the point where he removed the slipper from his right foot and threw it at the screen. I think the word “pufta” was uttered on more than one occasion, but it was the way his face turned red as it contorted in utter confusion. Here was a man who had seen the future, and he didn’t like it one bit. Surely this wasn’t what we’d fought a war for? People like Bowie needed locking up, and National service needed re-introducing with immediate effect. He blamed the BBC and questioned why he was throwing good money away on a TV license, and even suggested that the Prime Minister should get involved. And all in the space of a couple of minutes of early evening family entertainment.

As I leaned forward to take a closer look I too saw the future, albeit in black & white, and I got to thinking, if my old man hates something this much then it has to be good. And that’s what Bowie did – he frightened our parents.

Don’t tell your papa
Or he’ll get us locked up in fright.

It was as if Bowie was letting us in on a secret that mum and dad just weren’t gonna get. We were the young dudes who would carry the news. The children of the revolution. Forty years later and I still feel the same. I’ve forgotten a lot of things in my time; friends, lovers, birthdays, anniversaries, who I am and why I’m here, but I’ve never forgotten the night Ziggy Stardust came into my living room via a cathode ray tube and changed my life.