by Rockape » Sat Jan 08, 2022 1:29 pm
David Bowie would have been 75 today. Writer Mary Finnigan knew him when he was a struggling musician
I met David Bowie in the spring of 1969. I was sitting in my garden in Beckenham, south London, and heard him playing in the flat above. I was impressed and called up, and a rather thin young man with a halo of blond curls put his head out of the window – he was visiting friends there. He came down wearing an RAF greatcoat, which was too big for him, stayed for supper and played some more. At that time he was a folky, but he had something that lifted him above the ordinary.
I moved to Beckenham from Manchester in the early ’60s, after leaving my first husband and taking our two children with me. Back then it was very sleepy and very conservative, and I rented a cheap four-bedroom flat on a very quiet street, Foxgrove Road. David was really fed up with living with his parents in Bromley, so when I offered to rent him my spare bedroom for £5 a week, he jumped at it. I knew he’d never actually pay it. He was 22, struggling to get gigs and penniless. I was 29 and on a five-year holiday from the five-day week, but we scraped by.
He was a dreadful lodger. He hardly ever cooked, never washed up, and left amplifiers, guitar strings and musical paraphernalia all over the flat. But he was very good fun and fantastic with my kids. I once got my 12-year-old daughter Caroline off school so she could roadie for him, and another time she played the stylophone on Space Oddity.
With friends who lived in the flat upstairs, Christina and Barry, we started a folk club at The Three Tuns pub on Sunday nights to make some money. It morphed into Beckenham Arts Lab, a hub for artists, poets, printmakers – you name it. David hired the headline artists and compèred, and was a consummate professional from the get-go.
On 16 August 1969, we put on the UK’s first-ever free festival at Croydon Road Recreation Ground. It was terribly sedate. Everybody lay around on the grass, enjoying the sunshine, listening to the music, playing with their children and smoking spliffs. David ran the whole show, but his dad had died a week or so beforehand and he was in shock and mourning, although nobody who saw him on the bandstand would have known. He wrote a song about it, which became a hippie anthem, Memory of a Free Festival.
We were very righteous hippies and were only interested in drugs of awareness: pot, LSD, psilocybin and mescaline. Even alcohol was frowned upon, although David was quite a tippler. We are so boring these days compared to how we were then. David was definitely polyamorous and yes, there was romance between us… but I don’t kiss and tell.
Space Oddity started to get airplay during that summer and he was terribly chuffed because success had been a long time coming. After he got together with his future wife Angie, they moved up the road to a decrepit Gothic Victorian mansion, Haddon Hall, where they shared a cavernous flat with other musicians. It was basically a commune and Angie was a mother hen – she cooked, cleaned and kept the domestic wheels turning. We stayed very close, but our lives moved apart when Ziggy Stardust took off and he became a big star.
David was of that era when musicians had something important to say. He was very interested in what made people tick, and had an extraordinary knack of mining the human psyche and turning that into something artistic and beautiful.
One of my favourite memories of that wonderful year is of listening to him improvise one evening. A few of us were sprawled around his room and he sat on the floor, picked up his guitar and played spontaneously for about half an hour with incredible depth of feeling. I never heard any of that music again – how I wish I’d been able to record it.
Mary Finnigan is the author of Psychedelic Suburbia: David Bowie and the Beckenham Arts Lab (Jorvik Press)