BOWIE WEEK: Samuel Breen on Discovering Bowie

“It was seeing Earnest Luft. And being along to the church[that got me interested in music]. There were weird notes [in that].

It was the pieces of music that kind of broke my expectations. I also remember in those days Holst’s Planet Suite got played a lot, especially Mars. Those notes were so weird, they didn’t follow anything that I knew. And songs like that and pieces of music where the notes didn’t go the right way. Like Tubby the Tuba...it was awkward.”

- David Bowie in interview with Michael Parkinson (2002).

As a 12 year old, thanks to a keen interest in heritage music magazines, I was aware of David Bowie. My measly paper rounds were able to provide me with inky fingers, and Barney Hoskyns with inkwells. During this time I was a loyal customer of the now defunct Omega Records - which incidentally was owned by Charlatans’ manager Steve Harrison, with a dance section run by Jason Orange’s brother.

At the time my collection of Bowie records was limited, comprising of Aladdin Sane, Hunky Dory and Ziggy Stardust. When you churn through classic records each week, picking up The Beatles and Neil Young only to make a similarly canonical purchase the week later, the records, to me, were merely white powder in cold CD jewel cases. Shovelled up before moving onto the next.

At this time, Bowie was just another face in the black and white photos. He’d be there next to Lou Reed or Grace Jones, John Lennon or Iggy Pop. I could easily compartmentalise him in the past; even Omega would have his records jumbled in with other arcane pop.

The first time I really started listening to Bowie was when I found Let’s Dance amongst my dad’s pitiful collection of Chris De Burgh and ABBA. All of a sudden I could start connecting with him. I had the dusty needle jumping as I used the record as a window into my dad’s youth. What were these songs about? What clues might they offer as to who my dad is? All of a sudden I’d found a deep connection. A talking point.

When I finally approached him, saying “hey, I really like Let’s Dance! It’s a really cool record. Don’t you think?” my enthusiasm was met with a blankness. Was he dumbstruck? No. He just had nothing to say. This mentality was exacerbated when I watched the Parkinson interview with him, only to find his interest in last week's guest, Tom Hanks, greater than that for our kindred musical spirit. To him Let’s Dance was another record he owned that wouldn’t work in his car.

By the time I turned 16 I got my first proper job working in a record store. The man who employed me on the back of my top 5 records (Tonight’s The Night, Exile On Main Street, Mama’s Gun, Velvet Underground, and Desire) was fired on my first shift for ‘stock discrepancies’, and replaced with a Bowie addict. During this period, most days would involve a spin of Heathen (2001) only to be doubled up later that year when Bowie released Reality (2003).

As Heathen opens with lyric “Nothing remains...” I would look at my colleague and sigh at the irony. Is this what our lives had come to? I’d turned 16, got a real job and I was working to the tune of, “It’s the beginning of the end” (another memorable line). By which point I began to like Bowie. Really like him. With a decent income - and a staff discount - I was able to buy his entire back catalogue within a couple of months.

For the first time Bowie was connecting. Not only on a personal level, but were I to turn up late for work, sticking Bowie At The Beeb on was a neat way to avoid a telling-off. For a brief moment, Bowie was on my radar in a big way.

A number of years later I became proficient at waxing poetic about ‘the Berlin years’, with Low being my speciality and my copy of the multilingual version of Heroes being my party piece.

This brings the tale to last month, where I was on the lunch run for work and stopped past the Deli. Bowie was playing inside, so I got talking to the owner. It transpired that he had seen Bowie on every UK tour since ‘74 - an impressive feat, but also a commitment that didn't make sense to me. How can David Bowie, the nefarious, genre-spanning popstar attract such dedication.

Surely one record can't have washed with him? Wasn't there just one where he felt like missing the tour because the album was rubbish?

Following an impassioned debate as to Bowie's choice of attire - to suit or not to suit on recent tours, with me vying for ‘to suit’ - I now get a discount at the Deli, which I don’t regard as his concession of victory (as much as I should). Now all we do is talk about Bowie, making for a peculiar lunch stop.

I’ll never have a normal relationship with Bowie. He’s not constantly ubiquitous like The Beatles, or shadowy like Lou Reed. Bowie, like his music, crops up at unexpected moments in unexpected ways; it will always move me in a way I never anticipate; it will always behave differently than other music; it will always follow a unique set of rules; it will always be a little awkward; it will always break my expectations.

In this jack-in-a-box fashion, Bowie and his music will always haunt me.