ANTHROPOMORPHOSIS

ANTHROPOMORPHOSIS

WAS NEVER LIKE THIS! OR Is David Bowie Really Billy Carter ?

by

Robert Duncan

I gotta be me!

I got—ta be me!

What else can I be

But what I am?—Sammy Davis, Jr.

The Mayfair House on Park Avenue in New York is not the kind of place you go to throw sofas out the window or light the maid on fire. It's a small, very proper dowager of a hotel that offers quiet comfort, even elegance, to those who wear their wealth with dignity. The kind of place where corpses might have a blast.

Rock 'n' roll star David Bowie has lately set up temporary housekeeping at the Mayfair House. Don't it figger.

I don't exactly expect The Man Who Sold The World or The Man Who Fell To Earth to be grubbing around in Best Western Motels. If nothing else about Bowie's career fits neatly into a pattern, it's clear that he is always been about aloofness, but that his various images— from Ziggy Stardust to Diamond Dogs to the Disco-Deco Dandy of Young Americans to the Space Monkey of Station To Station and Low—have always been at least one step removed from our nasty human drama.

So thinking, I contemplate the hideous possibility of an audience with the man. Particularly since I am pencilled in late in the schedule following countless Rolling Thingamajig reporters eager not only to feast on the bird, but to leave ho bone unsucked. I expected Bowie to be unable to muster even the twp or three words—or alphanumeric groups—that are surely his custom.

How does one transcribe an hour of taped silence?

I enter the Mayfair House on tiptoe, and, after I am announced ("a Mister Duncan..."), find my way to the suite occupied by Mister Bowie's publicity operatives, where I am to wait—again, one step removed. What catches my eye—it's impossible to miss—upon entering the tastefully plush living room of the apartment is a book displayed cover forward on the fireplace mantle. It is Cuisine Minceur by Michael Guerard. (Actually a cookbook, Cuisine Minceur—literally translated: "Skinny Cooking"—posits an "innovative" approach to French cooking wherein fattening elements are minimized and the rich flavors remain intact. In case you haven't yet heard, Chef Michel and his book are the very latest gas among the stiff-upper-nostril Bloomingdale's set...and zoot alors to you!) Cuisine Minceur. If you know what !'m talking about, I can just stop there. If you don't (which would only indicate that you tread terra firma more solidly than some New Yorkers), then let me just say that the idea of a fad based on Cuisine Minceur is so ludicrous that if someone else hadn't dreamed if up, Bowie might've had to do so himself. In fact, the concept behind the frantic popularity of this tome may very well be the same elusive concept that is the keystone to Bowie's whole existence.

David Bowie may be rock's foremost chameleon, but the situation here as it unfurls itself looks to be, in some way, the same old Bowie. That is: aloof, cold, with a not unpleasing patina of elegance over all. Much the same as the man's records, especially Low and the latest one, Heroes. The biographical record company handout protests that uHeroes is a significant, indeed momentous, step" in Bowie's career, but I refuse to believe that. Sure, I hear the musical difference from, say, Aladdin Sane, and I detect some, but not too much, lyrical difference from the earlier songs. But as far as I can see, the emotional content and what is projected subconsciously is the same. If, indeed, he has changed as radically as it appears on the surface, it is only that he has travelled halfway around the world to give us Arctic cold in place of Antarctic cold. And the snbwballs feel the same.

But here's the clincher. The last line of the official bio, presumably approved beforehand by the artiste, offers a new slant. "With Heroes," reads the sheet, "Bowie is at last Bowie and that is really a totally new character." (Do you see, what I'm up to now?) To back that up, they quote their subject: "I've given up adding to myselfl I stopped trying to adapt. No more characters."

I'll say one thing, if the real Bowie— or Bowie Bowie, as I prefer—is Cuisine Minceur, we might all be better off with pink hair, platforms, and good ol' Ziggy. , ,

I've been Waiting nearly 20 minutes when "the word" comes down by phone. My escort leads me out to the elevator and up to the 15th floor. My knock on the door is answered by a friendly, attractive, somewhat diminuative brunette who gestures us into the smallest living room, furnished sort of modern t deco.

There at one end of the built-in sofa, the real Bowie, Bowie Bowie himself, is revealed to me for the first time.

He wears a grey 50's-style shortsleeved silk shirt, light cotton pants and house slippers. His hair is blonde, cut short and swept back on the sides in the manner of the Heroes LP cover. He hurriedly taps a Gitane out in the ashtray. Introductions are made and Bowie Bowie smiles broadly as he half stands to proffer a surprisingly vigorous handshake. In front of him on the coffee table is a half-full glass of beer. The brunette woman asks for my drink order, brings me a glass of coke, and then she and my escort discreetly slip out the front door.

Along with Bowie Bowie, my mind suddenly reels back to the first time I met him during the 1976 Station To Station tour. At that time, I got involved in a group howdy-do after the show with "no interviews,"we were assured. Though I had been thoroughly impressed with the concert, what transpired afterwards left a bad taste in my mouth for a long time. Backstage at Olympia Stadium in Detroit, a select 25 of us were herded into a hockey dressing room. There, one by one, we were assigned to either the left bench along that wall or the right bench over here by the publicist and told to keep our seats when the Star arrived. It was 20 minutes before Bowie made an appearance, at which time he walked solemnly before the right bench, mumbling hellos, wanly smiling, and shaking hands as he travelled. Inside of three minutes he was gone. He did not acknowledge the folks on the left, as planned. All of which seemed to me to be, on Bowie's part, somewhat beyond ice and deep into the realm of disdain.

"It was easier when I had characters."

Here in his living room at the Mayfair, Bowie Bowie crosses his legs Indian-style beneath himself on the couch, straightens his back, and assumes a politely alert and ready expression. I begin to unfold my interview notes on the table, but, the genial atmosphere aside, I remember that Detroit dressing room and am not really looking forward to this. I don't trust it.

For an opener, I ask Bowie if he feels all talked out after a full day of press duties. He brightens further and admits jauntily, "Well, yes, I really do. After awhile I find myself repeating things so often that I almost think that I should change my responses just for the sake of variety or something. But then if I create a fiction...I don't know...I get caught in it, you know, people get the wrong impression."

I nod and agree that as an interviewer I sometimes begin to repeat questions. He watches me keenly over the top of his glass as he sips at the beer. Besides, I tell him, it's been a rough day for me too. "You know," he confides, referring pointedly to his newly discovered Bowie Bowie state of being, "it was easier when I had characters. I could sort of talk through them."

There is a brief pause in the conversation which otherwise might be uncomfortable were I not completely absorbed studying his teeth. I'd always thought Bowie to be a reasonably handsome fellow except for one fatally distracting flaw: his teeth. It was something about the canines being too long and the others being too small that put me off. Somehow, because of the teeth, Bowie always looked to me like a sort of silly vampire. Strange, yes, but true. Those damn choppers even ruined the rest of The Man Who Fell To Earth for me. The point is that here, sitting face to face with the man, I don't find that I'm annoyed by the teeth. In fact, they look perfectly normal. Now either he's had them filed down or else they just weren't that weird in the first place, only unphotogenic. In general, Bowie seems to be glowing with good health and lightly bronzed good looks. Except for the marginal eccentricity of the hairdo, the guy might be your classic All-American beach bum.

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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 37

Bowie Bowie jumps into the silence. "Well, then! Why don't I just get started with these." And he slides nearer me on the couch producing a handful of color snapshots. The first one he shoves in my direction is, get this, a photo of David Bowie, blond rock star, djressed in safari whites, standing before a grass hut between two very tall and very black half-naked men. The men wear green headdresses, paint on their faces, what looks like maybe bones through their noses, and each hold a very long spear at their sides. The new band, perhaps? No, Bowie Bowie explains, "I just returned from Africa where Zowie and 1 visited a tribe in Kenya called the Masai. See," he says with a glint of pride, pointing to a small figure running among the huts in the next snapshot, "there's Zowie." So it is—or at least the back of his little blond head. "I'd always wanted to go to Africa and the Masai are fascinating. Funny, those two there in that first shot were about the only two who would pose for the camera. The others were afraid, thinking the camera might steal their souls."

Bowie Bowie is not grossly insistent as we thumb through the rest of the photos, but displays genuine excitement— emotion, even. He tells me about the Masai and the lions of Kenya and I tell him—and he actually listens— about what I've seen on Wild Kingdom. Irf the space often minutes I find myself completely engaged, truly liking the man and respecting his intelligence. Considering my preconceptions, that represents a quantum leap.

As we finish with the photos, my amiable host gets up and dashes around the corner into the kitchen to retrieve himself another beer. He returns and pops open the can, a performance in which there are three surprises: One,, that David Bowie drinks beer at all; Two, that he drinks beer which comes from a can, instead of a bottle, or, oh, maybe...a lady's silver slipper; Three, th^t the beer is anything so mundane, so American, so non-continental as good ol' watery COOTS.

Beef in hand, screwed back comfortably but attentively into the couch, Bowie Bowie asks, "So, shall we start?"^ I wish we didn't have to and could just continue conversing, but, placing duty at the fore, I launch into my routine.

I tell him that tq me, his latest recordings have not sounded very commercial. I wonder if he has abandoned the idea of commercial competition. He answers: "What is commercial? I'm not sure if I know anymore what a commercial record is, or if one can really tell what will sell." He shrugs affably and he's probably right. I mean, who would've picked his buddies Kraftwerk a year ago as a band that disco groups would be ripping off for hit riffs? Come to think of it, he is right.

I ask him about touring. "Yes, there will be a tour starting up around February, I believe," he says, wincing. "The band will be much the same as the record and we are going to use the same set as the Station To Station tour. It will be the first time I will ever have repeated a set." But you aren't looking forward to it? "Well, no, not exactly," he allows with qualifications. "It's just that a tour can take so much out of you, can be so very draining. It's hard to do."

Which leads neatly into my next question. How did he feel about touring with Iggy? "Ah, Jim," he says, the face wrinkling up into a very big smile. "Now I quite enjoyed that. You see, the pressure wasn't on me forihat. It was Jim's show, and he ran it. I could b£ just one of the guys in the band. And, of course, it was great watching him. I had never seen him performing before, so I was quite curious." But what about when you produced Raw Power? "No, I hadrv't seen him perform yet."

This discussion brings to mind a pet theory of mine on the Bowie-Iggy pairing. Could it be that, through Iggy, Bowie gets to experience performing vicariously, that Iggy is some sort of surrogate for his producer? Bowie Bowie chuckles in surprise and then knits his brows momentarily. "Well... perhaps you're right," he says goodnaturedly, allowing me my possible point. "Perhaps you're right, but I never really thought of it." And what are his prospects of a continued relationship with the Ig? "Oh, very good. We'll be starting on a third album in Berlin."

What about movies? Does David Bowie's future perhaps lie in movies? Will he eventually give up recording? "No, I wouldn't give up recording," he responds directly. "I like doing a lot of different things. Recording is one, films are another. I'll be starting another film shortly, about a subject I've been very influenced by: German Expressionist Art. \play a painter. What I really want to do in films is direct, actually, and I think of the acting as .my preparation for that." Half shyly, he continues, "You know, I have my paintings, too. I've been painting again and doing all right, I think. I've also done about 200 lithographs." Would he consider showing this work? He chuckles again. "Well, you know, I've thought of it, and I think the work is not bad, but I don't think I could do it...least not now." Bowie's voice lowers. "I almost hate to say it. It may sound awful," he says, swatting the thought down with his hand, "but I feel I have a lot to express, and I like to express it in a lot of different ways." Bowie draws on his beer again, his eyebrows raised expectantly over the rim of the glass, inviting a laugh at his own expense.

I decline, having long since forgiven him for Detroit and surrendered my blood lust in favor of good cheer with a fellow human person. Besides, the hard-nosed publicity honcho has just re-entered the room and high-handedly signalled the end of the interview.

One more short question: Where do you live now? "I don't really live anywhere," Bowie Bowie tells me. "I don't really like to stay in one place. This year we've been to Thailand and the Far East and then, as I showed you, to Africa. I've been in Berlin and now I'm in New York. I get very restless. I feel a need for change. I don't like to become too settled in. I like to keep my environment as alien as possible. That keeps things fresh." But, I suggest, wouldn't it be most alien for you to settle down somewhere in a house with a family and go to the post office every day? "Oh, but I couldn't do it," he protests. "I just couldn't do that."

But, you know, maybe he could. Where once I saw him as a talented idiot wasting himself on the latest fad, perhaps unwilling to plumb emotions deeper than petty narcissism, and where I have lately come to see him as a somewhat more serious, though no less cold and distant, member of the tea-sipping lunatic fringe, along with Eno, Fripp, and Kraftwerk's Florian "V-2" Schneider, I now have an entirely^ changed opinion of David Bowie.

Slugging at his canned American beer while he trundled out the snapshots of the family trip, David Bowie seemed not altogether different from any other middle-class Yank slob— who just happened to not be middleclass, a Yank, or a slob. Maybe something along the lines of the Billy Carter of the avant-garae. Yes, I think to myself as I breeze out of the hotel, that's it. That's Bowie Bowie, indeed, the real Bowie of the press release. And the trick to the whole thing this time is that the changes are up to me. And you, of course. What a cold-hearted s.o.b.