Tropic of Ruislip by Lesley Thomas (1974)

‘She’s got the sniff on you, mate.’
(18-year-old working class Bessie to 36-year-old, middle-class Andrew who she’s having an affair with, pointing out that Andrew’s wife, Audrey, is starting to suspect him of infidelity)

This was Lesley Thomas’s ninth novel. In it he takes the comical sex farce approach he developed in his novels set abroad and applies it to sleepy, snobbish, quietly sad London suburbia. The quiet desperation of suburbia was very much in the air: 1974 was the year of the TV show ‘Rising Damp’, 1975 saw the first series of ‘The Good Life’ and ‘Fawlty Towers’, along with David Lodge’s brilliant campus comedy Changing Places which mocks life in suburban Birmingham. 1976 saw the first TV series of the desperately sad The Fall and Rise of Reginald Perrin, along with the first of Tom Sharpe’s series of novels about the sad demoralised academic Henry Wilt. Every Dad Rock fans knows the Pink Floyd lyric ‘Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way’ from 1973’s Dark Side of the Moon’. As I say, damp depression was the spirit of the times.

The novel accurately records the quiet desperation and seething desperation of suburbia – seething with ‘unsatisfied demands and emotions’ (p.139) – and what people these days call ‘micro-aggressions’, the countless little aggravations between husbands and wives who are sick of each other and neighbours who politely loathe each other (p.172).

Plummers Park

Thirty miles northwest of central London, Plummers Park is a middle-class estate set on a hill. The hill slopes down to the embankment which carries the railway and on the other side are the terraced houses of the working classes (p.12).

At Plummers Park you do not quarrel with your neighbours. Hate their guts but don’t quarrel. Be nice to them, admire their roses, pat their dog, smile, but don’t leer, at their wives. (p.43)

Thus we are introduced to:

Cast

Andrew Maiby (pronounced ‘maybe’) is a local journalist for the Watford Journal, who is the court reporter at Bushey Crown Court, a job he loathes. He is 36 (p.224) and owns a big, smelly, tragic-faced Bassett hound named Gladstone which his wife hates. All the houses in Plummers Park have fake names. Maiby’s house is on a road called Upmeadow and is called ‘Bennunikin’ which is allegedly Navajo for ‘the Wigwam on the Hill’. Maiby knows he’s living, like he’s working, at 25% capacity. Two years ago he had a mad 6-week fling with an American woman, moving into her flat and feasting on sex every minute of every day. Then it was over and he moved back in with his wife and nothing more was said about it.

Audrey Maiby, once a wild child, now settled wife of Andrew, during the bored days she remembers their nights of naughty nakedness out of doors, by the lake, drinking and making love, all a long, long time ago. He had an affair. She forgave him. Life goes on.

Lizzie Maiby, teenage daughter of the above who spends too much time at a canal with other teenagers, fixing up’ an old canal boat.

Simon Grant, married for just 8 months to Ena, who has the most magnificent breasts for miles around, so that Simon can’t help boasting about them or telling the jaded men how he’s just had sex that morning etc (p.13). She is miserably unhappy.

‘Earnest’ Ernest Rollett, always fiercely angry about some local issue (p.15).

‘Gorgeous’ George, the hole-in-one-man, who practices golf and talks about it obsessively and yet, ironically, never has scored a hole in one (p.17).

Herbie Futter, the uxorious Jewish taxidermist (p.19), the smell of whose chemicals drive all the neighbourhood dogs wild (p.86).

Hercules‘, nickname of the mentally disturbed man who pushes a pram packed with junk around Plummers Park during the daytime.

Cynthia Turvey, stay-at-home wife who Audrey often gossips with (p.23), wife of Geoffrey Turville who’s having a passionate affair with unhappy Ena Grant.

Mrs Burville, dishevelled neighbour, alcoholic, drunkenly doing gardening in a nylon overall and white knee socks (p.27).

The onion man, tall, slim, black-haired, dark-faced foreigner who cycles round the estate once a month, festooned with onions and setting the bored housewives’ hearts a-flutter (p.27).

‘Big’ Brenda Perry, the fat court correspondent of his rival newspaper, the Chronicle (p.41).

Bessie White, 18-year-old working class granddaughter of a 70-something old man who’s convicted for shoplifting, including stealing a live eel from a fishmongers’. Later she phones Maiby and offers him £5, then sex, if only he can keep his story out of the local paper. Maiby turns her down.

Burton, Maiby’s editor at the Journal, a ‘street born North Londoner’ who Maiby never bothers arguing with (p.42).

Barney Rogers, landlord of The Case Is Altered pub, exaggerating its historic interest to two Americans, Harry Solkiss who’s an officer at the US Air Force base and his wide-eyed wife Jean (p.53).

Gomer John, keeper of the Plummers Park sub-post office and fantasist about the South Seas.

Freddy Tyler, the Plummers Park station-master, ‘an amiable, olding man’ (p.61).

The Reverend Malcolm Boon, vicar of St James the Less (p.128), a figure of fun who makes every situation embarrassing.

Miss Dora Jankin, a short rude woman, headmistress of Plummers Park Primary School (p.140).

Group Captain Fernie Withers, secretary of the Plummers Park gold club (p.189).

Miss Mappin, headmistress of the local grammar school (p.205).

Kids

Lizzie Maiby, Andrew and Audrey’s 12-year-old daughter.

Billy Reynolds, 14 and Tom Reynolds his 12-year-old brother.8

Events

On their walk to the station together Rollett tells the other chaps he’s got wind of council plans to build a home for maladjusted kids on some waste land in the posh estate.

Maiby covers the usual Monday morning court cases, a sequence of sad losers, including the old man done for shoplifting an eel, described above.

We learn that Stuart Turvey is having an affair with sexy Ena Grant while her husband’s at work. They drive out to Dunstable Downs and have sex in the warm summer open air, until they’re discovered by four small girls who taunt and tease them.

Maiby is having a midday drink outside The Case Is Altered pub when a funny procession passes, the local station-master pushing an old lady in a wheelchair piled with bric-a-brac accompanied by a woman carrying bags. Maiby offers to help and accompanies them to the house they’re moving into. The youngish woman is named Joy Rowley, she’s a widow and used to be a TV star.

Maiby’s editor told him to gather opinions about the new home for maladjusted children, which is the very simple narrative pretext for Maiby visiting and chatting to local characters.

He visits Gomer John’s sub-post office and is astonished when the shy Welshman invites him into his room behind the shop and reveals that it is decked out like the captain’s cabin of a commercial clipper to the South Seas. More than that, Gomer has maps of the Pacific, charts and tide timetables and knows every island inside out. Of course he’s never actually been abroad but…in his imagination.

Then Maiby visits the large old rambling home of Bohemian artist Mrs Polly Blossom-Smith who he discovers sunbathing in her bikini but quickly disarms him of all sexual thoughts by being so frank, straightforward, blunt and odd (for example dropping the ice for his gin and tonic on the floor and hoping he doesn’t mind the carpet hairs and cat hair in his drink). She takes him to her bedroom where he’s astonished to discover her latest sculpture, being a statue of a naked man, visibly made from the face and body parts of various men in the neighbourhood.

At some point early in the novel, it’s mentioned that there’s a flasher on the loose in Plummers Park. The police are informed and comedy is made of their ham-fisted search for him. And the local artist Mrs Blossom-Smith tells Andrew she’ll use the flasher’s penis as a model for the missing member on her sculpture. But this is one of those areas where social conventions have moved on a lot. Most modern people (I think) refer to it as ‘indecent exposure’ and it is regarded as a serious sex crime and no laughing matter.

Cut to Andrew and Audrey walking along the canal to visit the old canal boats their daughter Lizzie is ‘doing up’ with some of the neighbourhood kids. The kids come out all squeaky clean and, with some misgivings, Andrew and Audrey withdraw to the pub across the road, telling them to lock up and join them. But then in a comic stroke it’s revealed that the kids were not doing up the boat and were up to no good, in the sense that the older boy, Billy, was just in the middle of showing Lizzie his willy, and in exchange she was going to show him her front bottom. When the adults withdraw, this is what they proceed to do in a very funny scene. Well, I found it sweet and touching but I appreciate this is the kind of thing which nowadays gets books banned.

The riotous party of loud, beaded Susie Minnings, with her over-makeup, tactlessness, and three brats. At which Gerry Scattergood, a burly contraceptive salesman who lives opposite Andrew and Audrey, entertains the crowd for a while by blowing up weird and wonderful shaped coloured condoms. When the Frank Sinatra album comes on, the lights go down and couples pair off with people not their spouses. Suburban titillation.

Mind-bogglingly, in the middle of the party Mrs Blossom-Smith appears in the French windows dramatically announcing that ‘the blackies are coming’! This turns out to mean that Susie Minning is married to but separated from a West Indian and he has unexpectedly turned up with a crowd of his friends. But there’s one more gag. Susie’s rowdy kids roam among the drunk guests in the dim light with a tray of small glasses containing a thick grey liquid and the shout goes round that they’ve pinched a bottle of crème de menthe and are handing it out, so the sozzled guests quickly grab and down the drinks…only to discover the kids have filled the glasses with fairy liquid and adults run for the toilet, bathroom or throw up in the garden.

A few days later Andrew is at the pub with all the neighbours when Bessie, the working class girl from the court, arrives with her dad, a stocky menacing figure, who says he’s got ‘something to discuss’ with Andrew and demands he ‘step outside’. In the event he wants to force £20 on him in gratitude for keeping the thieving granddad’s name out of the papers but Andrew is a) embarrassed in front of all his friends and b) he didn’t keep the name out of the papers and didn’t even know the story wasn’t printed. So he tries to refuse the money, but the working class man forces it into his hands.

Worse, Bessie insists on coming into the lounge bar and loudly buying him a drink in front of everyone and forcing Andrew to lie about everything, for some reason not telling the truth about the grandad shoplifting but saying he was in court because of some misunderstanding about his bicycle lights. Gerry, Geoff and George, the other chaps, none of them believe him, they just see him acting embarrassed by quite a good looking young woman from the council estate and draw their own conclusions. Somehow Andrew finds himself walking her back down to the hill to the tunnel under the railway embankment i.e. to the border of the council estate, and realises she is really quite attractive, young and slender with her cocky confident manner and before he realises, he’s made a promise to meet her at Watford cemetery where she usually goes for her lunch break.

The vicar, a ceaseless figure of fun in English comic writing going back at least as far as Henry Fielding in the 18th century. In this novel it’s the Reverend Malcolm Boon, vicar of St James the Less on the wrong side of the tracks i.e. in the council estate. He has decided today is the day to go on a missionary expedition to the posh side and so he sets off wearing a clerical collar, shorts, socks and sandals.

Once, a while ago, he compered an art show with Mrs Polly Blossom-Smith. Now, as he feels his way into her overgrown estate, she pounces on him, thinking (and hoping) that he may be the Phantom Flasher I referred to above. Once the misunderstanding has been sorted out she gives him a pen portrait of the kind of nouveaux riches people who have moved into Plummers Park which is an interesting slice of 1970s social history.

The vicar then goes on to meet Miss Dora Jankin, headmistress of Plummers Park Primary School, and makes a fool of himself, surprised at just how much Miss Jankin hates parents and hates their children even more.

Simon Grant has just persuaded sad Ena to put on the bodystocking he’s bought from a Sunday supplement when there’s a ‘coooeee’ from the hall because the vicar’s let himself in. Ena throws on a dress to meet him then comes sniggering back to the bedroom to tell half naked Simon that the vicar wants him to become a church leader, maybe a lay preacher. To Ena’s dismay, Simon is genuinely taken with the idea, telling her about all the social contacts they can make. Good for your career!

Unexpectedly, improbably, insanely, Andrew commences an affair with the shameless chav 18-year-old Bessie. She meets him in a churchyard, makes him put on a gas inspector’s uniform so the neighbours won’t talk then screws him on her narrow bed in her parents’ pokey house. They have sex twice. Andrew can’t believe he’s taking such a risk.

Later, that evening, Andrew is fending off Audrey’s questions when there’s an explosion of barking and they look out the window to see the old Jew being Futter being engulfed by a pack of deranged local dogs, really biting and attacking him. Andrew rushes out with a broom and tries to kick and punch them off, himself getting bitten, before Geoff rescues them both with a hose. Odd scene.

Earnest Ernest hosts a meeting for all the concerned neighbours about the threatened home for maladjusted children only for Andrew to mockingly announce that he rang a contact at the local council who told him it’s been called off.

Andrew takes Bessie to the canal barge which his daughter’s restoring, for sex. He pumps up a rubber dinghy for them to lie on in the narrow cabin. It sounds sordid, and it is, but Thomas describes their changing feelings at length and it comes over as sweet and melancholy and exciting and sad as adulterous sex. She asks him to spank her which he does, reluctantly, though it excites them both.

As they’re getting dressed she discovers a piece of paper with crude drawings of a boy with an erection, a naked girl with big boobs and another girl watching, with names scrawled next to them, including his daughter’s name, Lizzie. Suddenly sickened, as a now-dressed Bessie regains the shore, Andrew quickly drops a lighted lamp into the lower deck of the barge, quickly closes the hatch and door and joins her to stroll back along the towpath, having set it alight. Arson.

The affair of the flasher comes to a climax. He is described, including his sweaty obsession, before he exposes himself to four lady golfers at Plummers Park golf course, trouble is the police have got wind of it somehow and soon there’s a hue and cry after him, as he runs across greens and fairways, through gorse and escapes into the ample grounds of Mrs Blossom-Smith’s mansion.

Comic scene where the chairman and team captain of the local golf club try to get rid of the ancient groundsman, Fowler, who proceeds to outwit them by carefully explaining that he’s the only one who knows where all the drainage culverts and pipes are; without him, first big downpour and the course will flood. Gnashing their teeth with frustration, the golf supremos realise they have to leave him in place.

Cut to Geoff and Ena in bed at a motel when she gets serious and tells him she’s pregnant and Simon wants to move to Wimbledon. Geoff needs to do something to keep her? Shall they move to New Zealand? And she bursts into tears.

Prize giving at the local grammar school which starts out funny with the terrible junior school choir murdering some classics, but ends up upsetting and tragic as the start pupil, Sarah Burville’s mentally ill alcoholic mother gatecrashes and shouts at her in front of the assembled parents and children.

Herbie Futter, the old Jewish taxidermist, has a heart attack and dies despite the first aid attempt of the neighbours. When they carry the body into his house to await the doctor they’re all astonished that it’s decorated and furnished like a Regency palace.

Andrew persuades his contact at the local council to loan him his flat for a couple of hours during the Wednesday afternoon council meeting which he’s meant to cover, so he can have sex with Bessie. They’re going for it when the phone rings, Andrew incautiously answers it and it’s his wife! She rang the court and someone gave her this number. She hears the panic in his voice and is instantly suspicious. He is grovellingly placatory. Bessie is disgusted. When the call ends she takes the mickey out of his grovelling and goads him till he slaps her. Then she announces she’s engaged to get married to one of her own and walks out leaving him upset but also petrified of what he’s going to tell his wife.

Cut to Cynthia Turvey confronting Geoffrey, accusing him of having an unfair. He tries to brazen it out and leaves the house, so Cynthia storms over to Mrs Blossom-Smith’s house who she thinks is the other women. She’s out but the housekeeper tells her about the male nude statue in her bedroom, and when Cynthia sees it she immediately recognises its face as her husband’s. Mad with anger she punches and hits it and pulls off the clay penis and flings it at Mrs Blossom-Smith who’s just arrived and walked in.

Later, back at her house, Mrs B-S leaves and a much chastened Cynthia is forced to acknowledge the woman is a sculptor, the nude had bits of anatomy from men all over the estate, and her husband wasn’t having an affair with her. She feels silly. Geoff heaves an invisible sigh of relief at not getting caught.

Andrew has just been served a quiet pint at the Case Is Altered when Bessie’s dad turns up and threatens him, then throws him the length of the bar, through all the chairs, then kicks the crap out of the ‘medieval’ wall the landlord’s always bragging about, then threatens him not to go to the police, turns and leaves, Andrew still shaking (continued below).

Interlude: details from the 1970s

Men drink Skol lager, women drink Martinis. When Simon wants to impress his date at the pub, he offers her a lime juice or maybe a tinned shandy (p.146). The pubs closed at 3pm and didn’t reopen till 6pm. There were three TV channels. Colour TV only came in in 1967 and we didn’t get it in my house till the early 70s. Britain went over to decimal coinage on 15 February 1971. The snobbery of the professional middle classes who frequented the smarter, more expensive ‘lounge bar’ of the pub. But some attitudes never change:

‘Nothing brings out the Dunkirk spirit in the British so much as a threat to their property values’ (p.174)

So nothing new there, then. Small children play freely in the street in a way nobody does now. Modern traffic has killed childhood.

Psychology

Seeing some kids playing and laughing, Andrew has an intensely sad memory of his own lonely childhood.

As he watched them at their remote pretending, microbes in a huge world bounded by unapproachable fields, untouchable roads, and with planned trees and flat roofs holding up a sky of nursery blue, he thought briefly of his solitariness as a child; that inward tightness, a refusal of something to let go or give way; a strong and secret box he knew was still there and still locked. When he was dead perhaps they might open it and find him – crouching. (p.57)

I think that’s powerful. Modern readers may object to Thomas for the obvious reasons but his books contain a steady stream of moments like this.

Thomas as entertainer

I admire authors like Thomas. He knew what his job was which was to write popular entertainments for middle-brow readers, and he did it very well, and with some style. Not as often as in his first novel but fairly often his prose lifts and sings. It has colour and surprise.

The sky was in its final shade of day, but the birds still sounded and the water had become thick with diminished light. (p.84)

The great narrow jug [of orangeade] was lifted until it was all but upside down and the final drip of the pale refreshment had riddled into his glass. (p.175)

He visibly enjoys writing and I enjoy reading him. I realised this on page 29 where Andrew is attending magistrates court, and I read:

The court had been filling and now the elevated oak-panelled door opened in a mildly dramatic way and, to the bellow of ‘Rise, please!’ from Sergeant Fearnley, the three magistrates made an entrance of modest majesty. (p.29)

‘The three magistrates made an entrance of modest majesty’ captures a scene, conveys a very English, downbeat sensibility about that scene, and has fun with alliteration into the bargain. It feels like Thomas wrote it smiling and I read it smiling and we’re smiling together.

The climax of the novel

At least that’s what I thought right up till the book’s last five or so pages, which completely transform the tone of the entire narrative and leave you with a very bad taste in your mouth.

Andrew’s birthday party

A few days after the dust-up in the pub, Audrey hosts a dinner party for Andrew’s 37th birthday. Geoff and Cynthia Turvey come, with Geoff’s father (who was a miner Up North) and mother, who’ve turned up unexpectedly and are invited to tag along; and Gerry the contraceptive salesman and his wife. It is not a successful evening: the Northerner sounds off on his Northern opinions, there are arguments, and then Gladstone the dog starts farting from under the table. Audrey hates the dog and has a row with Andrew.

After the guests have left, Andrew, by now very pissed, continues his drunken argument with Audrey until he snaps, grabs the dog, and goes off blundering off through the midnight streets of the estate. Then the novel has its shocking denouement.

Joy’s fire

Through his profound drunkenness Andrew realises there’s a funny glow over the houses. As he gets closer he drunkenly realises it’s the house of Joy, the newcomer who he’d been polite and welcoming to. It’s majorly on fire, with flames streaking out of the windows. Then Joy herself is leaning out of a window screaming, something about her mother being trapped in the room at the back.

Andrew gets burned

Andrew tells Joy to jump and makes a drunken attempt to break her fall before assuring her he’ll go into the burning house to rescue her mother. He doesn’t. Instead he blunders through the front door and up the stairs and is suddenly engulfed in a fireball of flames. Because he’s so drunk it takes seconds through the blur to realise that his hair is on fire, the skin is burning on his chest, his hands are on fire, as he blunders back down the stairs out onto the lawn and passes out.

Hospital

Cut to hospital many days later. Andrew was very badly burned and is going to need extensive skin grafts. He will be disfigured for life. Most of his fingers were burned off. Not many laughs, eh. Days afterwards he discovered several things:

One was that Gomer, the sweet sub-postmaster who dreamed of tropical climes, had gone in after him to rescue Joy’s mother and was burned to death (!)

Next, that Joy’s mother was never in the house – when the fire started she had gone wandering down the street and ended up in the house of strangers telling them there was a fire. So she was safe and sound throughout. Andrew need never have got burned, Gomer need never have died.

Audrey, of course, has to stick by him, but when she comes to visit there is no love lost. She, of course, thinks Andrew must have been having an affair with Joy, why else would he have risked his life for her stupid mother? So she visits him in hospital, and the nurses remark how brave she is to stick by such a terribly disfigured man. But their marriage is over; he and Audrey are completely sundered, separated, alienated.

It is a horrible, dispiriting, needlessly sickening ending to what had, right up to this point, been a highly enjoyable and funny book. Why? Does the world need more sickening horror?


Credit

Tropic of Ruislip by Lesley Thomas was first published by (1974). References are to the 1976 Pan paperback edition.

Leslie Thomas reviews

Aladdin Sane: 50 Years Exhibition @ Festival Hall

This surprisingly extensive and greatly enjoyable exhibition on the ground floor of the Royal Festival Hall is premised on the notion that the cover to David Bowie’s 1973 album, ‘Aladdin Sane’ – the photo of Bowie’s face with the ‘lightning bolt’ drawn across it – was an epoch-making, benchmark-setting, game-changing, epochal work of art. On the wall labels and in the exhibition publicity the curators go so far as to claim that the cover photo is ‘the Mona Lisa of Pop’. Do you agree? This exhibition tries its damnedest to persuade you.

Cover of Aladdin Sane by David Bowie, released 19 April 1973

The album

‘Aladdin Sane’ was Bowie’s sixth studio album, released on 20 April 1973 on RCA Records. The previous albums had been:

  • David Bowie (1967)
  • David Bowie/Space Oddity (1969)
  • The Man Who Sold the World (1970)
  • Hunky Dory (1971)
  • The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)

The concept album ‘Ziggy’, creating an elaborate mythology about an ill-fated, fictional rock musician, was Bowie’s breakthrough LP. It sold over 100,000 copies and catapulted him into the realm of real stardom. Concerts sold out, the music press started to treat him as a player, his fan base exploded. It established him as a leader of the more thoughtful, cerebral, art student end of Glam Rock, far more ambitious in his skilful deployment of a persona and concept than rivals like Marc Bolan, let alone the pure pop end of Glam such as Sweet or Slade.

The follow-up, ‘Aladdin’, is closely linked to ‘Ziggy’. Bowie recorded it with the same backing band (led by guitarist and arranger Mick Ronson) and it was recorded between gigs of his extensive Ziggy Stardust tour. The songs were mostly written on the road in the US between shows. This explains why the subject matter is often directly American (‘Panic in Detroit’) and also has a heavier, harder rock feel than Ziggy. The track listing is:

Side one:

Side two:

It contains one solid gold hit, ‘The Jean Genie’, which is a classic of a certain kind of style of repetitive, one-riff rock. It started with Mick Ronson fooling around with a Bo Diddley riff on the tour bus. Back in New York Bowie developed lyrics to entertain Andy Warhol acolyte, Cyrinda Foxe. In fact the way the lyrics describe a certain New York type is strongly reminiscent of Lou Reed, whose album Transformer, full of such portraits, Bowie had just finished producing and playing on. A cursory listen to both shows that Transformer is, quite obviously, much better than Aladdin, more varied, more interesting tunes (‘Perfect Day’, ‘Walk on the Wild Side’), has stood the test of time far better.

The bassist on the Jean Genie session later claimed it was recorded in an hour and a half flat. It went to number 2 in the UK chart (a chart which, one of the many entertaining and nostalgic wall labels tells us, had recently featured Sweet’s ‘Blockbuster’ and Jimmy Osmond’s ‘Long-Haired Lover From Liverpool’). But I find most of the other tracks on the album boringly repetitive and too long. And the lyrics?

Crack, baby, crack, show me you’re real
Smack, baby, smack, is that all that you feel
Suck, baby, suck, give me your head
Before you start professing that you’re knocking me dead

It was ‘daring’ and ‘risqué’ at the time to describe blowjobs in a song, 50 years later…not so much. And ‘professing’?

It’s surprising that this contrived performer, this cracked actor, so keen to display a glammed-up, self-consciously theatrical character, should include a Rolling Stones track, ‘Let’s Spend the Night Together’, on the album. He said in interviews it was a tribute to the Stones-inspired feel of many of the songs, but it’s dire, isn’t it? The main difference is Bowie swallowing or snatching the word ‘together’ in contrast to Mick Jagger’s lazy sexy drawl, which is definitely worse, and the spoken ad lib at the end:

They said we were too young
Our kind of love was too young
But our love comes from above
Let’s make love

This sounds like a blatantly commercial play for the adoration (and money) of pimply misunderstood 15-year-olds everywhere.

Who is Aladdin Sane? In interviews Bowie simply described him as ‘Ziggy Stardust goes to America’, where he discovered urban decay, drugs, sex and violence on a scale you couldn’t get in Britain. Critic Kevin Cann is quoted describing him as ‘a kind of shell-shocked remnant of his former self’.

Installation view of ‘Aladdin Sane 50 Years’ at the Southbank Centre showing a contact sheet and blown-up images of Bowie dressed for his performance of ‘Starman’ on Top of the Pops. Note the red-and-blue colour scheme already much in evidence. Installation photo by Pete Woodhead. Bowie photo by Duffy © Duffy Archive & The David Bowie Archive ™

The album had 100,000 advance orders which meant it went ‘gold’ and to number 1 in the UK album charts, staying there for 5 weeks and in the top 10 for 27. It’s estimated to have sold 4.6 million copies in total, the kind of figures record companies, accountants, and rock music geeks adore.

The exhibition includes an area dominated by a fantastic old-style hi fi system comprising record player, amp and big speakers, on which the album was playing. (For techies, the deck is a Michell Transcriptor, with Celestion 66 loudspeakers and a Rotel RX-1203 amplifier.) Someone must have been continually turning it over or putting the needle back to the start of the side. There are bean bags to slump on. Tellingly I came across someone’s daughter, obviously not very interested in the exhibition, slumped on a bean bag with headphones on, and when I asked her what she was listening to, it wasn’t Bowie.

However, the thing about this exhibition is that it isn’t really about the music. The actual content of the album is barely discussed. The focus of the exhibition is the cover art for the album. This, we quickly discover, was shot by fashion photographer Brian Duffy, was the most expensive rock album cover made to date and, according to the curators, is one of the most iconic rock images of all time.

Brian Duffy

Thus an immense amount of time is devoted to the background and build-up to the famous cover image. I counted no fewer than 84 photos devoted to telling the story. First the context and key personnel. So there are photos of each of the band members with wall labels explaining who they are and their contribution, the largest number devoted to the extremely photogenic Mick Ronson in various rock star poses, but also shots of the bassist and drummer. (The curators speculate that some of these shots were meant to be used in the gatefold of the album sleeve, but the power of the final slash image swept them aside.) There’s photos of Bowie’s producer, Ken Scott, manager Tony Defries, two photos of Bowie’s wife, Angie.

So much for the music. More central to the story of the iconic cover is the extensive section devoted to the photographer of the iconic image, Brian Duffy. We learn about his career before the shoot, that he was one of a trio of young London photographers, what older photographer Norman Parkinson called ‘the Black Trinity’ – the others being David Bailey and Terence Donovan – with contemporary newspaper clippings to that effect.

We learn that Duffy, as he was universally known, was a leading fashion photographer, which is backed up by a wall of 27 of his very impressive fashion photos. These powerfully convey not only the style of the day as found in glossy mags such as Vogue and Cosmopolitan, Elle and the Sunday Times, but also indicate the fashion, rock and celebrity figures of the era, such as John Lennon, Michael Caine, politicians.

There’s a cornucopia of 1960s gossip: Duffy’s collaboration with Len Deighton on the 1969 movie ‘Oh What A Lovely War!’, technical influences such as the way graphic artist Philip Castle used an airbrushing technique on the poster for A Clockwork Orange, which Duffy was to ask him to repeat on the Aladdin cover, the way the cover of Hunky Dory was printed as black and white and then hand coloured by Terry Pastor, how the cover photo of Transformer was taken by ‘legendary’ rock photographer Mick Rock, was accidentally over-exposed but Reed liked it that way, and so on.

The shoot

But there’s more, lots more, as the exhibition zeroes in on the creation of the iconic image. We learn about Duffy’s studio manager Francis Newman, and designer Celia Philo. We are treated to photos of the interior and exterior of the Duffy’s studios at 151a King Henry’s Road, Swiss Cottage NW3. where the famous shoot took place.

We learn about the canny strategic thinking of Bowie’s manager, Tony Defries. They shared a vision of how the marketing of a pop performer could be transformed into high art – or at least a good impression of what pop music consumers thought of as art. One extremely practical and canny reason is that Defries knew that, the more they spent on the cover art, the more record label RCA would be forced to cough up to boost sales in order to recoup their investment. Hence he and Duffy agreed on using an extremely expensive seven-colour printing technique which was then only available in Switzerland.

In order to justify the process the image had to be simple and striking. It had to make maximum use of bold colour. Hence the development of a bright red (with some blue shading) against artificially pale bare skin.

This explains why nobody on the shoot saw the final version on the day because the negatives had to be sent away for commercial processing to achieve that hyper-real effect.

Then we’re on to the photo session itself. An immense amount of resources go to describing in great detail how the shoot was conducted and where the idea for the famous zigzag across Bowie’s face came from. Bowie was 26, had hit new peaks of fame, was deeply aware of the importance of image and media presentation. He wanted something striking and new but didn’t know what. The shoot was crammed in between dates on an international tour.

Duffy had never done a shoot for an album cover before. Both star and photographer were in new territory. So the most striking thing about the shoot this whole exhibition is making such a song and dance about is it was all over in an hour,

In fact, rather disappointingly, or maybe fittingly, right at the heart of the story is uncertainty/mystery. Turns out nobody really knows where the idea for the iconic red flash came from. There are several possible sources. Bowie shared his birthday with Elvis and the King had developed a motto, ‘Taking Care of Business – In A Flash’, and accompanying logo:

Elvis Presley’s Taking Care of Business logo

Rather more prosaically, Duffy’s studio had a National Rice cooker and their logo was a red flash. In 1970 the company had created the world’s largest neon sign depicting the logo on the side of an office building in Hong Kong. From some source, Duffy conjured up the idea of painting a flash across Bowie’s face. It took make-up artist Pierre Laroche to achieve a first draft, establishing a pale ground for his face and chest, and then the red flash.

Then the background was brightly lit in order to burn it out or render it invisible. Bowie was positioned against it wearing only his underpants and Duffy started snapping (as the curators carefully inform us) using his Hasselblad 500 EL camera, using a David Cecil ring flash unit on Ektachrome ASA 64 120-format film. Turn to the left, turn to the right, look straight ahead, two rolls, 24 images, all knocked off in well under an hour. Clean make-up, free to go.

The exhibition features a wall of contact prints of the ‘outtakes’ or unused images i.e. other almost identical shots of made-up Bowie which were rejected for various reasons. The decisive factor was the eyes. In all the rejected versions Bowie has his eyes open. Seeing the final version among all the rejected ones makes you realise that the one with his eyes shut is head and shoulders more powerful than the rest. Why?

Aladdin Sane contact sheet by Brian Duffy

The curators explain that using the image of Bowie with his eyes closed broke with all the conventions of portrait photography. Usually there’s some kind of eye contact with the viewer, the eyes establishing contact or rapport. Even if they’re looking away, we get a stronger sense of someone’s character if we can see their eyes. Thus choosing the eyes shut image immediately created an aloofness and mystery about Bowie, exactly the kind of androgynous, alien effect he and Defries were cultivating.

The second big artistic decision Duffy took was to add the blob of mercury on Bowie’s collarbone. It was added by graphic artist Philip Castle. The curators, like all modern art curators, obsessed with sex, describe this blob as ‘phalliform’ i.e. shaped like a penis*. Is it, though? If it’s the shape of anything, I’d pick up on Bowie’s obsession with aliens and interpret it as being a a ray gun. At the time, this kind of special graphic effect was relatively new, and so I think I interpreted it as a sort of science fiction detail, the kind of thing you might get on a Hawkwind or Emerson, Lake and Palmer album.

Anyway, it certainly emphasises the other-worldly, disembodied vibe of the whole image. For the curators, constricted by their framework of gender and sexual identity, the image emphasises Bowie’s gender fluidity. Not being so constrained, I see it as far more playing to Bowie’s alien from another world schtick.

Anyway, any interpretation is equally irrelevant to the actual music which I outlined above, grimy, gritty portraits of New York types, the Jean Genie or Lady Grinning Soul. You only have to listen to half the album to realise that the cover image is wildly misleading as to its contents.

Last word about the lettering. This is Rémy Peignot Cristal with a blue-white-red gradient. It was Duffy who changed the dot over the i of Aladdin into a small flame shape.

Why the fuss? Gender, obvz

Personally, I was never that particularly struck by this album cover because it came from an era overflowing with striking album cover art. At the time it seemed just one among many amazing, imaginative and striking images, so I don’t quite get the fuss.

What comes over with increasing insistence as the show progresses is that the arguable over-valuation of this one image is in part because it is also being considered and valued as an emblem of gender, queer and identity politics. Aha. This explains why the actual music – its composition, production and performance, its lyrics and its value – are more or less ignored by the exhibition. Nobody says whether the album is any good, probably because it isn’t really.

Instead, as you progress into the second half of the exhibition you realise the whole thing is being seen through the lens of contemporary concerns about gender and identity. Seen from this perspective you see its value in a completely different light, namely that Bowie’s poses in the early 1970s, as bisexual, asexual, strange and alien (the aspect of his persona which was foregrounded in Ziggy, Aladdin, Diamond Dogs, ‘The Man Who Fell To Earth’ and, maybe, ‘Low’) helped a lot of people who were struggling with their sexuality. It’s made pretty plain in the show’s press blurb:

With a focus on the photo session that gave us Bowie’s ‘lightning bolt’ portrait, this exhibition explores the continuous reshaping of Bowie’s image, and his part, along with Duffy’s, in a reimagining of sexual and gender identity.

It explains why in the last part of the show – once we’ve got past the 80 or so large photos of the band members, manager, wife, and all the contact images from the shoot itself, past the wall-sized blow-ups of Bowie in full glam pose, and past the room with the hi-fi system playing the album – we come to a space with sheets hanging from the ceiling bearing quotes from people who grew up in the 70s and 80s, who struggled with their sexuality and identity, and who found solace in Bowie’s confidence and unashamedness and bravura performance of alternative sexualities.

Personal testimony room in the ‘Aladdin Sane 50 Years’ exhibition at the Southbank Centre. Installation photo by Pete Woodhead

In a world dominated by macho movie stars and football hooligans, Bowie offered an alternative, an imaginative way out, a refuge. He made a lot of troubled, embattled people realise they weren’t alone. Bowie showed that you could not only feel confused and uncertain and not fit into any of society’s categories, but become a star on your own terms, appear on the telly, pack out concert halls, and make a fortune.

As the curators out it, Bowie’s message for generations of outsiders, not just sexual outsiders but alienated, unhappy teenagers, was:

Ignore what society wants you to be. Be what you want to be – including how you look to the outside world.

This part of the show – and the first-person tributes from young people who Bowie, with his many-changing masks and fluid sexual identity, helped and reassured and inspired – was genuinely moving, but also a bit disorientating. It was weird walking from the world of trash glam throwaway pop hits into quite a more serious and troubled realm, a world of gender anxiety and liberation, freedom but worry, which seems to be with us more than ever.

I doubt if Bowie set out to be sex therapist to a generation but, this exhibition suggests, that was the impact he had, for a lot of people.

Nostalgia

For me, though, being neither troubled by my sexuality (no more than average, anyway) and no particular fan of Bowie’s early music, I thoroughly enjoyed this exhibition because it is an absolute riot of nostalgia. The opening rooms set the scene for the Great Photoshoot by establishing the social and political and music context of 1973.

Probably younger visitors walked swiftly past the background panels describing Britain in the 1970s, the collage of newspaper headlines from the period, the oil crisis, the four day week, Harold Wilson and Ted Heath, the endless strikes, but I lingered long and lovingly, reliving the long-ago days of my boyhood.

Next to the politics was a similar size panel with a collage of contemporary music paper articles, giving an impressionistic sense of who was who in rock music, circa 1973, many of them, apparently about Elton John, whatever Paul McCartney and John Lennon were up to, a new young band named Queen, and so on.

Far more visually striking, though, was another collage establishing the context of classic rock album covers from the period. These included actual vintage copies of Sergeant Pepper, Abbey Road, Black Sabbath, King Crimson, Dark Side of the Moon, Led Zeppelin IV, Sticky Fingers by the Rolling Stones, What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye, Slider by T Rex, early Roxy Music, Music from Topographic Oceans by Yes and many more. This is what I meant by the Aladdin Sane cover image being just one among many. Surely the cover of Dark Side of The Moon is as, if not far more, iconic than Aladdin Sane, is far more widespread in the culture, you’re more likely to see it on t-shirts or spoofed in cultural references.

Album cover of ‘Dark Side of the Moon’ by Pink Floyd, released 1 March 1973, 6 weeks before Aladdin Sane (19 April 1973)

And indeed the exhibition confirms that the Music Week Sleeve Design Award 1973 gave first place to Dark Side (with Aladdin coming a very creditable second). Looking more broadly, a quick internet search for rock albums of 1973 turns up:

  1. Gram Parsons – GP (January 1, 1973)
  2. Little Feat – Dixie Chicken (January 25, 1973)
  3. John Martyn – Solid Air (February 1, 1973)
  4. Iggy & The Stooges – Raw Power (February 7, 1973)
  5. John Cale – Paris 1919 (March 1, 1973)
  6. Pink Floyd – The Dark Side of the Moon (March 1, 1973)
  7. King Crimson – Larks’ Tongues in Aspic (March 23, 1973)
  8. Roxy Music – For Your Pleasure (March 23, 1973)
  9. Led Zeppelin – Houses of the Holy (March 28, 1973)
  10. Mahavishnu Orchestra – Birds of Fire (March 29, 1973)
  11. The Beatles – 1962-1966 (April 2, 1973)
  12.  The Beatles – 1967-1970 (April 2, 1973)
  13. David Bowie – Aladdin Sane (April 13, 1973)
  14. Mike Oldfield – Tubular Bells (May 25, 1973)
  15. Steely Dan – Countdown to Ecstasy (July 1, 1973)
  16. Mott The Hoople – Mott (July 20, 1973)
  17. Carlos Santana & John McLaughlin – Love Devotion Surrender (July 20, 1973)
  18. New York Dolls – New York Dolls (July 27, 1973)
  19. Lynyrd Skynyrd – (Pronounced ‘Lĕh-‘nérd ‘Skin-‘nérd) (August 13, 1973)
  20. Faust – Faust IV (September 21, 1973)
  21. The Who – Quadrophenia (October 19, 1973)
  22. Paul McCartney & Wings – Band on the Run (December 5, 1973)

Of which you’d have thought the cover art for Dark Side, Raw Power, Houses of the Holy, Tubular Bells, the two Beatles compilation albums and Band on the Run are getting on for being as ‘iconic’ as Aladdin Sane.

And a quick Google also turns up Rolling Stone’s list of top ten rock album covers of all time which doesn’t even include Aladdin Sane.

Consideration of general album covers from the period then moves onto another section focusing on album covers specifically by or closely related to Bowie i.e. the covers of his previous albums, especially the androgynous or sexually ambivalent ones such as The Man Who Sold The World where he’s lying on a divan wearing a dress, or Hunky Dory; and the equally ambivalent, but in a different, far more butch way, cover art for Lou Reed’s Transformer, produced by Bowie, which he and Mick Ronson both played on, and released a few months before Aladdin, in November 1972.

Front and back cover of Transformer by Lou Reed

All this is great fun, to see the great album art and play in your mind all the great tracks from long ago. There’s also a guilty pleasure: off to one side of the ‘classics of rock’ album covers is a montage of ‘square’ albums from the period, to remind us older guys how dire most music and entertainment of the period was. So there are the covers of albums by The Black Watch, the TV show Opportunity Knocks, the musical Godspell, Break-Through, character-based albums by Alf Garnett, Benny Hill and Tony Hancock, by Ken Dodd and his Diddymen and, a bit more acceptably, by ‘pop sensation’ Gilbert O’Sullivan. Half a century ago.

Montage of retro 1970s album covers at the ‘Aladdin Sane 50 Years’ exhibition at the Southbank Centre

*Camille Paglia

A little further on into the exhibition I discovered the curators’ use of the word ‘phalliform’ is lifted from one of the lengthy quotes from American feminist academic, social critic and renatagob, Camille Paglia which are printed on the walls.

I remember Paglia’s presence on the scene in 1980s TV and magazines, touring her leather-jacketed, spike-haired form of aggressive New York feminism, and churning out page after page of mashed-up, hot-wired Beat prose poetry. The exhibition relies very heavily on her for its central premise, namely that the Aladdin Sane photo:

with its red-and-blue lighting bolt across Bowie’s face, has become one of the most emblematic and influential art images of the past half century, reproduced and parodied in advertising, media and entertainment worldwide.

This is the premise of the entire exhibition. Here’s another slice of Paglia’s all-about-everything, showily eclectic, name-dropping prose:

It contains all of Romanticism, focused on the artist as mutilated victim of his own febrile imagination. Like Herman Melville’s Captain Ahab, whose body was scarred by lightning in his quest for the white whale, Bowie as Ziggy is a voyager who has defied ordinary human limits and paid the price.

‘…and paid the price’ – this is sentimental tripe, a facile, clichéd, pre-modern view of the artist as specially damned and cursed for his gift, the kind of thing that Byron invented in the 1810s, felt a little ridiculous when Baudelaire did it in the 1850s, lived on into the poets maudits (damned poets) of the late nineteenth century (Rimbaud bunking off to Africa, Verlaine crying into his absinthe); was a thorough-going cliché worthy of mockery a hundred years ago.

It’s superficial magazine writing, rewarded for being exaggerated, over-written, sentimental and stereotyped. But, like wearing a leather jacket and having a spiky haircut, it was enough to persuade many people that Paglia was cool and has something to say, back in the Reagan-Thatcher 1980s. If you like this kind of 6th form showing off, then it usefully underpins the exhibition; if you don’t (and you might have noticed that I don’t) then it undermines it.

Afterlife of an image

But back at the exhibition we haven’t finished yet. There’s more. This really is an exhibition for Aladdin Sane completists, because the exhibition goes on to chart further highlights of Bowie’s career after the album was released, and the long afterlife of the Aladdin image. For a start the curators aren’t backward in pointing out that Bowie himself had long links with the South Bank Centre, from his debut in 1969 in the recently opened Purcell Room, to his curation of Meltdown, their annual contemporary music festival, in 2002.

In the same year that the album came out, 1973, Radio 1 broadcast a series called ‘the Story of Pop’ in 26 episodes, and the cover of the first part of the associated part-work featured the Aladdin Sane image.

As to Duffy, he went on to work with Bowie on two further album covers, namely: Lodger (1979), Scary Monsters And Super Creeps (1980).

In 2002 Absolut Vodka ran an advertising campaign which used classic album covers, and one used the Aladdin Sane image.

In 2003 Kate Moss appeared on the front cover of Vogue sporting her version of the Aladdin Sane lightning to celebrate 30 years of its impact on culture and fashion (fourth photo down on this page).

After the 2008 financial crisis some parts of Britain issued their own local currency (news to me). Apparently a currency was issued local to just Brixton in south west London. Since Bowie was actually born in Brixton (at 40 Stansfield Road) the Aladdin Sane image featured on the Brixton £10 note.

In 2013 the Victoria and Albert Museum staged a huge exhibition about Bowie, titled David Bowie Is. it ‘set a new benchmark for immersive music exhibitions’ and was a sellout, going on tour round the UK and then abroad.

Bowie passed away on 10 January 2016. The following year Royal Mail issued a set of ten commemorative stamps for what would have been Bowie’s 70th birthday year. Six stamps featured album covers, including Aladdin Sane. The first day cover was franked with a copy of the lightning bolt logo.

All these occasions are lovingly recorded, with appropriate illustrations and detailed captions. Bowie has been turned into an institution. All images have to be licensed by ‘the David Bowie Archive’. To quote the Clash, ‘turning rebellion into money’.

Chris Duffy

Things fall into a place a bit more when you learn that the exhibition is curated by Duffy’s son, Chris Duffy, and accompanies a book of the same name. Ah. And that it was Chris who described his Dad’s work as ‘the Mona Lisa of Pop’. Ah. And that Chris Duffy has set up the Duffy Archive to preserve his father’s work and legacy. Ah.

I loved this exhibition. It’s a lot of fun. It’s a relaxing, easy-going wallow in 1970s rock and pop and social nostalgia, full of nuggets and gossip and factoids. It’s a broad walk down memory lane. Like everything, it’s capable of multiple meanings and interpretations. The curators go heavy on the gender liberation aspect, which I see and understand. I responded more fully to the nostalgia elements. But once I understood the lead involvement of Duffy’s son, I also came to see it as a rather touching act of filial respect.

Installation view of ‘Aladdin Sane 50 Years’ at the Southbank Centre showing Bowie posing in the flash make-up against a flash backdrop. Installation photo by Pete Woodhead. Bowie photo by Duffy © Duffy Archive & The David Bowie Archive ™


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