When Bowie plays pygmalions for Lou Reed and Iggy Pop

In the summer of 1972, the definitive anthem of glamrock resounded in the United Kingdom: All the Young Dudes. A juvenile snapshot between the suicidal Billy, Lucy, this kleptomaniac of clothes who turns out to be a boy, and Freddy’s acne problems. The previous generation is eyed: Beatles and Rolling Stones are cited, but it is to claim T-Rex, the star group of the moment. And the break with the elders is consummated in one sentence: “We never walked with this story of revolution / What a pity, too many problems”. All the Young Dudes is signed David Bowie, who holds his greatest hit here, in third position on the national charts. However, it is not he who interprets it.

The contact with the Michigan Iguana took place in September 1971 at Max’s Kansas City, a Manhattan club frequented by Warholian fauna.

Before All the Young Dudes, nobody – or almost – had heard of Mott the Hoople, a rock’n’roll group under the influence of the Stones and Bob Dylan – which is not very original at the time –, with singer Ian Hunter, an English double of Michel Polnareff. Except a square of followers, including Bowie, sorry to learn that the quintet is about to split up after the bitter failure of its third album, Braincaper. The fan convinces Mott the Hoople to persist and pitches in. These demanding rockers will allow themselves to deny him the devastating Suffragette Citywhich the author will retain for his album The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. They will be less difficult with All the Young Dudes. In fact, they can’t believe their ears at the generosity of the donor.

Especially since Bowie does not just bring a tube. He also offers to produce it and ends up being behind the console for a complete Mott the Hoople album, assisted by his guitarist Mick Ronson for the arrangements. These boogie-rock sidekicks that seemed doomed have been resurrected as a living force of glam. Released in September 1972, the album All the Young Dudes is also distinguished by its opening title, a cover suggested by Bowie. Except for a few enlightened minds, the British public hears for the first time the riff of SweetJane, which will become one of the most famous in rock. Its author, Lou Reed, had forged it three years earlier, without this discovery changing the failure of his New York group, The Velvet Underground. The singer and guitarist had not waited for the sad confirmation and had thrown down the gauntlet even before the release in November 1970 of a fourth album, Loaded. He had returned to live with his parents, then had migrated to London.

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