The unsung hero behind David Bowie’s rise to stardom: “I really want to learn”
In relatively average artistry, the lineage of influence is easy to trace. Shoddy remakes of dance moves and vocal intonations light up the signposts of where those ideas came from, and in terms of aesthetics, well, they are a surefire way to pick up on who the copycat may be imitating. So when David Bowie came along, all bets were off.
Here was an artist operating purely under their own steam. Of course, the idea of experimentation wasn’t entirely novel. In the mid to late 1960s, alongside a thriving blues scene, new worlds of psychedelic music began to emerge, largely thanks to, you guessed it, The Beatles. Bands were starting to mould the blues foundations that had otherwise populated the charts and embellish them with colour.
But no one did it quite like Bowie. After his self-titled 1967 debut album, he wasted absolutely no time in getting cosmic, leading his sophomore album with the iconic celestial ballad ‘Space Oddity’. It immediately widened the goalposts and allowed for the irreverence of his entire Ziggy Stardust concept to feel somewhat understandable.
But no matter how far Bowie soared on the wings of his spaceship, the foundations of his humble beginnings never strayed out of sight. When asked who acted as the ultimate influence, he uttered a name so many musicians of his era cited as their true north star.
“Little Richard,” he definitely said. “If it hadn’t have been for him, I probably wouldn’t have gone into music. When I was nine and first saw Little Richard in a film that played around town—I think it was probably Girl Can’t Help It —seeing those four saxophonists onstage, it was like, ‘I want to be in that band!’ And for a couple of years, that was my ambition: to be in a band playing saxophone behind Little Richard. That’s why I got a saxophone.”
By the early 1970s, Bowie had superseded any references he might have been referred to. He certainly wasn’t just a saxophonist and frontman; as a mercurial, elusive frontman, he was, to many traditionalists, the antithesis of what a star should be. But the success of his artistry was all built on the sort of childlike curiosity that we all lose as adults. The same curiosity that led him to wear sparkling high-heeled boots was what led him to pick up the brass instrument in the first place.
The experimental artist explained, “I got a saxophone and thought, ‘Somebody should teach me’ So I went through very early copies of the Melody Maker and found that one of the best saxophone players around at the time was Ronnie Ross.”
Naturally, for Bowie, your average teacher wouldn’t do. The cream of the crop was required. “He was the best baritone player in the jazz scene in Britain. I was like nine or ten years old, and I phoned him up and said, ‘Hello, my name is David Jones, and my dad’s helped me buy a new saxophone, and I need some lessons.'”
Adding, “And he said [in Bowie’s imitation of a working-class accent], ‘I don’t give lessons. I’m a jazz player,’ I said, ‘But I really want to learn.’ He said, ‘Well, what are you doing Saturday morning?’ ‘Nothing.’ ‘If you can get yourself over here, I’ll look at you.’ And he taught me for about three or four months on Saturday mornings. I’d get the bus to his house.”
Ross continued for the most part of his life, unsure whether his teachings of a young David Jones went anywhere. Judging by his tone, he felt as though his initial reservations were proven right. But come 1972, when the realms of pop music had widened from the days of Bowie’s early saxophone lessons, he was confronted with the reality of what he had helped create.
Recalling, “Many, many years later, I did the Lou Reed album Transformer, and we decided that it would be very cool to have a baritone sax on it. So I phoned Ronnie up, booked him for the session, and he came along and played this fantastic solo at the end of ‘Walk on the Wild Side’.”
He concluded, “Then at the end I went out, and at the time I was Ziggy Stardust—red hair, no eyebrows, boots sky high, the whole thing—and I said, ‘Hello, how have you been?’ He said, ‘Uh, all right, you’re that Ziggy Stardust, aren’t ya?’ I said, ‘You know me better as David Jones.’ He said, ‘I don’t know you, son.’ I said, ‘See if you remember this: ‘Hello, I’m David Jones and my dad’s helped me buy a saxophone …’’ And Ronnie goes, ‘My God!’.”
