Tony Visconti: The Autobiography: Bowie, Bolan and the Brooklyn Boy. Morrissey
Tony Visconti With Richard Havers
Bowie, Bolan and the Brooklyn Boy the Autobiography
foreword by morrissey
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Harper
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First published by HarperCollins 2007 This edition published 2007
Copyright © 2007 Tony Visconti
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Source ISBN: 9780007229451
Ebook edition © SEPTEMBER 2009 ISBN: 9780007343577
Version: 2017-01-03
To Mom, Dad, Morgan, Jessica, Sebastian and Lara
Contents
Chapter 1 Birth, Bananas, Heroin and Marriage
Chapter 2 London Makes its Marc
Chapter 3 Variety is the Spice…
Chapter 6 It’s the Same Ol’, Same Ol’
Chapter 9 Ich Bin Ein Berliner
Many of the early records bearing Tony Visconti’s name made me eager to get out into the world—if only to agitate. In 1971-72 the mighty blaze of T.Rex singles were beyond price to me. They had all the immediate eager motion of pop records, but were also strangely reflective—a mad stew of Englishness and worldliness with Tony’s name on each side of the label. If you enjoyed the music of T.Rex it seemed to prove that you were someone. Here, it seemed, was Art in motion: guitar savagery chopping up the soundstage; pop with intellectual distinction, using full orchestra—if only for a mere twenty haughty seconds.
Making the T.Rex soundscape both fantastic and naturalistic was an abrasive clash of non-traditional routes to the pop conclusion. The wealth and detail and contrast of layered orchestration wrapped around the unravelled riddle of Marc Bolan’s poetry (well, let’s call it that) worked so well that Bolan stayed beside Tony almost until Bolan’s life ended with death. At its highest artistic peak, with the strange flood of ‘Telegram Sam’ and ‘Metal Guru’ we are assaulted by the musical equivalent of secret stairways and false walls, and something enters into me which I can barely fathom. I wanted pop music to be true, and it was with David Bowie’s LP The Man Who Sold the World, which enlivened 1972 as a forgotten reissue, edging up to #;26 in the British charts. It is a soft sound, with luxuriant confidence from Bowie, whose imagination was served by the Visconti methodology. Still, today, it stands as David Bowie’s best work. The first side, especially, is musical literacy delivered.
With Bowie, the tone and cadence are all there: no sentimentalism. The instrumental textures are wispy and often child-like; acoustic and recorder sounds of turn-of-the-’70s dropout London. The Bowie-Visconti vision is concentrated. A good producer gets at something in a singer (or musician) and Tony was there to nail the gift of Bowie just perfectly—making suffering sound like a superior condition—live