These things happened this month: 1) RCA announced that David Bowie has sold 1,056,400 albums in Britain in two years and 1,024,068 singles, while "The Laughing Gnome" has sold 200,000 copies for Deram. Which reminds me of a joke — Marc Bolan, in CREEM, July 1973:

Essentially what they tried to do with Bowie was create another Marc Bolan, but the interest . with the kids was not there... I mean, I don't consider David to be remotely near big enough to give me any competition. I don't think David has anywhere near the charisma or balls that I have. He's not gonna make it in any sort of way...

Davey on teevee, Roger on rag, Lou at Crystal Palace... a confusion of categories.

Now David has presently got two top twenty singles and four albums in the top thirty — Pin Ups is number one and Ziggy Stardust has been in the charts for 48 weeks. He has made it. He may be wet and weedy and ponce with the Jaggers and piss with the Reeds but in England he's a pop star. Not an Angloid wart or a Pop Society glimpse, just a fellow who makes records that most kids like and the middle pages of the Sun and is the only unifying force we've got — the face where skin meets hip. Bowie boys. I don't know what it means when Bowie becomes a straight star and not a bent ope but L. Doper (Sore Corn) Bangs should start bitching about someone really boring, like Genesis or Elton John who should move to America and live on Breakfast shows because

2) Gary Glitter has made a single which I love and all his other singles have been terrible. I don't tap to the Greg Shaw zip-zip-English-glam-is-good beat (most of it xis appalling) but there is something in the air, he's right. Shiny bright. Watch Top Of The Pops, more crucial than ever, and see little Suzi Quatro in her soft leather cat suit — no breasts, no pants, the urchin in her kinky mother's clothes. Barry Blue, wholesome, white satin with a strip. The Sweet, eyeliner, shrugs, thigh high boots. Mud, boys with glitter on their cheeks., It's dressing-up day; funny, bizarre, pathetic. The heels are too high, coats too big and no one cares except the back-up musicians, old session hacks, fidgety in their satin. Everyone else is having fun. Gary Glitter arrives prostrate on a horizontal crescent moon, clutching his stomach which is hairy and hangs out of his blouse. The moon moves round, Gary leaps off, asquint and desperate: "I love you love me love you..." Eyes popping, fingers buzzing, at least it's a party. Which, ismore than can be said for

3) The Who's Quadrophenia. Favourite group? The Who. Person you'd most like to be best friends with? Pete Townshend. Last Who record you bought? Can't remember but I think it was the single of'Pinball Wizard." I'm at a loss. I like the idea of Quadrophenia: the pictures, the pun, the story, the theory. Everything except the practice. I've listened to it, read the awed appreciations but no spark. I haven't got round to buying it and won't. I'm stuck with a simple mind but, out with it, PETE TOWNSHEND DOESN'T WRITE GOOD TUNES ANYMORE. He and the Who do everything else,v but there's nothing to get used to. English critics have duties: to like the Who, Ray Davies; to dislike Gary Glitter. I'm getting confused in my categories — worst of all

4) Family's farewell gig was a bore. Family are/were English rock writers" number I good lads. The biggest and best group never to make it in the States. Provincials, groping with Groupie, acid to good times, split while you aren't too far behind. Family never did make it in America because they were too strenuous — strenuous Roger Chapman on vocals, strenuous rhythms. They were too strenuous because they were basically losers. Fine musicians and fine music mostly, but worried. Even their final gig in their original place, Leicester, was worried ‡?, would it be folly enough? Would it be the j oiliest night ever?,)

The party afterwards, in the Holiday Inn swimming pool, was just as desperate. I can't swim and edged along the walls, fixed grin, hot having fun. Everyone else fell in and out of the water, fixed dripping grins, Having Fun. Pop star parties sound neat but /they aren't: in Leicester there was food and drink and splashing and one eye always on Roger Chapman to see if he was happy. The party was paid for by the record company (and the wind); the guests were strangers, press men, record people, there for the buzz, done nothing to deserve it. The pay-off was Keeping The Band Happy, having a good time on TURN TO PAGE 78.

CONTINUED FROM PAGE 32. their orders, the roadies leading. And who knows what the band wanted except not to be bored for a minute, no * expense spared, no sensibilities. Through the windows Leicester's bourgoisie watched on, bread and circumstances, having a wonderful time, wish you were here.

Family were losers who pretended they weren't, straining and pushing for a good time;

5) Roxy Music are winners who pretend they aren't. Gloomy and off-key, playing to no-one. Their concert in Birmingham Town Hall was sodd and Violent. They came out like it Was their, last tangos — Bryan Ferry in shabby evening dress, N 118th on the bill at a Kinks all-nighter. Wrong style, wrong date, we'll call you. The kids went wild but Roxy ignored them, peering into the dark and the kids went wilder and clutched for Eddie Jobson's neon fiddle,. Bryan's hair and Roxy stood that, think-

ting other things, and the kids were, plucked off by roadies, flung back, pushing and swearing, and Roxy Music finished, bowed, left and these girls next to me, black lace and silver letters, were screaming, showering their glitter on the stage, see mef';,

Bryan Ferry's a clever fellow and it's token me a long time to realise what he's trying to do (and he does it better now weary Eno's gone). He's fascinated by the seediness of rock, the tension between its pretended, public, glamour md its real, private, shabbiness. He spent his time listening to Roxy music long before he'played it: the Bridlington Palace, fights and puking and the band (British ' R&B, cl963) played on; Buckles (for .Chuckles), two women slapping each other with; fheir handbags, ripped-off dresses, hair falling, tears and the band (British Elvis Presley, cl960) played on; Keighley Municipal Park, a group of hairies, popped, pooped, moaning into their hands and The band (Black Sabbath, cl970) played on. Roxy play on and their audience goes mad trying to stop them, make them admit they've DONE IT, GOT FANS, FAME, FORTUNE!! Love you, love me but it's no go and even Gary Glitter, riding high (straight to number I, record of the year) is a middle-aged man in . blue silk pyjamas, pretending he's not silly, knowing that he is and

6) England was knocked out of the World Cup. Now football is riot just ™ England's national sport, it's part of rock culture: rock stars are frustrated footballers (Rod Stewart, Ray Davies); rock audiences are football crowds (the Slade sway); football records get into the top twenty. The relationship of rock and football varies from year to year but it's jolting to read that Led Zeppelin broke records by playing to crowds of 50, 60, & 70 thousand. Wembley, where the Cup Final and internationals are played, packs in more than 100,000 and teams like Manchester United and Liverpool have weekly home crowds of 50-60,000 for ordinary league matches. Football teams inspire more solidarity, loyalty, fanaticism than any rock group * can; more hatred too, the country unites in its hatred of London clubs — Arsenal, bores; Chelsea, show:biz pooftahs...

And England is out of the World Cup. Not just beaten in the final — they failed to even qualify for the play-offs in Germany next summer, not even in the last sixteen, beaten by fuckin" Poland!! And bloody Scotland will be there, rubbing our noses in it. England won the World Cup in'1966 arid the effect was immediate — a boost to. football, gates, interest, excitement, skin-heads, Slade, Gary Glitter; English football in decline will shake up English rock. England vs. Poland at Wembley, then, was as desperate as Family's farewell show. England spent their time in Poland's penalty area and could only score,, mogre and more frantic, from a penalty. The Wembley crowd was South ^London heavy: camel-hair coats, Kray contacts, extras from Performance, resigned and vicious. A crowd of second division rock managers, every trick of the trade, their artists, agents, promoters, strungout nailed down and unsuccessful. After the match there was nothing to do but scream at the Poles and put a few boots in. You don't get to like losing but you get used to it and

7) Lou Reed's concert was the best I've been to this year. He did a dance on his heels arid fell over, missed the rriike, came in at the wrong time and was shut up, had a superfine backing band and was pale, slow, uncertain and magnificent. American sod. fH