“The Bowie Summer” – a personal memory, and how art can fundamentally reshape identity, by G.D. Newton-Wade

January 22nd, 2026

Boris Yaro, CC BY 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

David Bowie at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium

October 23, 1972

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The Bowie Summer

G.D. Newton-Wade

…..Cosmologists estimate our universe to be at least 13.787 billion years old, a span that renders my brief existence almost insignificant. Yet, within this fleeting sliver of time, I lived through remarkable years of upheaval and innovation — political protests and shifting values, the advent of television, the birth of the computer age, and above all, the restless surge of music that defined and redefined entire generations.

***

…..In the spring of 1972, my best friend Richard and I took refuge in a modest caravan nestled in the garden of The Old Vicarage in Marshfield, near Cardiff. We had returned from our wanderings in Salisbury, more teenage adventurers than true runaways, having dropped out of college with little more than bravado and restless energy to guide us. At sixteen and seventeen, we were not so much rebels as escapees, eager to carve out a small world of our own.

…..A college friend, Ashley Martin, arranged with his aunt and grandmother for us to rent the caravan. Ashley’s aunt gave us blankets, a kettle, and other essentials. Ashley’s grandmother, known in whippet-breeding circles as “Poppy Martin,” surrounded herself with the slender, elegant dogs. They raced across the lawns, pressed their heads into your palm for affection, and occasionally curled beside us in the caravan. They hardly barked, which made them seem noble, almost mystical. I fell in love with them then and there.

…..The caravan itself was threadbare: a pair of lumpy bunks, a wobbly table, dust in the corners, a faint smell of damp upholstery. We furnished it with sleeping bags, a few pots and pans, and a Dansett record player I retrieved from my parents’ house. That retrieval was an adventure in itself — balancing a ladder from the garage to a bedroom window, climbing into a house we technically still belonged to, though it felt like burglary. I emerged with records, posters, and the prized Dansett. For a moment, I felt like a thief in my own home, yet the caravan quickly became our sanctuary, humming with music, hash smoke, and late-night laughter.

***

…..Those were golden weeks. We smoked hashish that tasted of earth and spice, rolled in thin Rizla papers. We drank cheap cider that left us lightheaded. We played music deep into the night: Dylan, the Beatles, Donovan, Savoy Brown, and, above all, Bowie.

…..I had bought Hunky Dory the previous year in London, in the cluttered stalls of Portobello Road. Its brilliance had cemented Bowie as a compass point in my friendship with Richard. That bond endured for half a century, stretching all the way to Blackstar in our later years. In June of 1972, Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars had just been released. I read the ecstatic review in New Musical Express and rushed to Buffalo Records in Cardiff to buy it. The cover alone — Ziggy, alien and glamorous, caught beneath a London streetlight — promised a transformation of rock into something theatrical and cosmic.

***

…..That same week, we heard whispers of “Red Barrel” acid tabs, said to rival the mythical California Sunshine in potency. I took a bus to Walter’s flat in Roath to buy some. Walter was a vague acquaintance, but fortunately my old school friend Phil answered the door. He grinned, let me in, and smoothed the introduction. I left with three scarlet pills and a lump of Gold Seal hash; my pockets lighter but my anticipation heavy.

…..By six, I was back at the caravan. Richard was stirring something in a battered pan, the smell of onions and potatoes filling the tiny space. When I showed him the hash, his eyes widened, and he laughed, delighted. Ashley drifted in briefly, smoked a little, and left for a night of drinking. That left Richard and me alone with Bowie, hash, and the tablets.

…..We each swallowed one. “Here we go, mate,” Richard said with nervous bravado.

…..Half an hour later, we were grinning uncontrollably, our faces aching with joy. Time loosened its grip. The scratch of the Dansett needle became cathedral acoustics, every note crystalline. I stared at Donovan’s Cosmic Wheels cover; its black-and-white centrefold pulsed with colour until the drawings seemed alive, glowing. The phrase “Get out your cosmic crayons” suddenly made perfect sense.

…..The music wasn’t merely sound; it was narrative. Lyrics spun stories that unfurled inside our minds, visual echoes shimmering in the air. Patterns clung to every surface, like lace woven into the fabric of reality. I knew it wasn’t real, yet it felt as though we were glimpsing the hidden design of the world.

…..Later — though the clock insisted it was only nine-thirty — we decided to walk to the local pub. The night air was sharp, each breath almost painfully vivid. Inside the pub, conversations seemed to collapse into silence at our entrance, then swell again into a distorted murmur. Shadows grew and contracted; vines crawled across the bar in my vision. Richard leaned close and whispered, “Mate, are we… glowing?” I could only laugh.

…..We staggered outside with cider, chocolate raspberry ruffles, and cigarettes. The raspberry ruffles tasted divine, each bite a burst of sweet, perfumed nectar that seemed too perfect for earth. Back in the caravan, we poured cider, lit up, and put Bowie on again. His voice filled the room, intimate and immense. Five Years sounded like a prophecy of doom delivered straight to us. “It’s real, isn’t it?” Richard murmured. “The Starman’s warning us.”

…..Ashley returned, drunk and raucous, pounding on the door: “You fuckers are trippin’, aren’t you?” He joined us, took the last tab, and soon was flying too. We pored over album covers, searching for messages. At one point, Richard and Ashley drew a flaming torch, titling it “I’m a gunna!” The phrase echoed like revelation. Everything vibrated with meaning, as though the universe itself were in on our private joke.

…..By the time we descended from the high, the world felt imprinted forever.

***

…..The following Thursday, flipping through NME, I spotted an advert: David Bowie at Croydon Greyhound, Sunday June 25. The coincidence seemed cosmic. Ashley’s friend Chris offered us a lift, his mother’s house nearby. The plan came together as though ordained.

…..We spent Saturday in Croydon, even catching a Krautrock show — Amon Düül and Jericho — though our minds were already with Bowie. On Sunday, we walked to the Greyhound Hall, our bags dragging behind us in the queue. The line wrapped the block, but luck was with us. We were among the last admitted, stamped with glowing ultraviolet ink. Just two minutes later and we would have been outside with the thousand who never made it in.

…..Inside, only two hundred people filled the hall. We pressed forward until we were nearly touching the stage. Roxy Music opened: Brian Eno in a golden jumpsuit, Brian Ferry’s voice strange and soaring, Phil Manzanera’s insect-like glasses reflecting the stage lights. Glam was being born before our eyes.

…..And then, at last, the lights dropped. The Spiders from Mars strode onto the stage. Bowie sprinted to the microphone, electric and magnetic, his voice cutting the room: “Hello, Croydon!”

…..They launched into Queen Bitch, followed by Starman. Bowie bent low, biting Ronson’s guitar strings in the infamous act that would soon scandalize television viewers. Strobes fractured the hall as Suffragette City and White Light/White Heat pounded our senses. Costumes changed, silver glitter jackets gleamed, and even the aborted Space Oddity — briefly derailed by faulty tapes — became unforgettable when replayed later in the set.

…..With just two hundred of us pressed close, it felt as though Bowie was performing not to the world, but to us personally. When the encore finally came — Rock ’n’ Roll Suicide — we shouted ourselves hoarse.

…..Outside, the night air smelled of sweat, beer, and electricity. We had seen the birth of a legend. Bowie was no longer just a singer; he was a myth in the making, reshaping music and identity itself. As Richard and I trudged toward Turnham Green to hitchhike home, I felt as though we were carrying some secret knowledge that would never leave us.

***

…..Looking back, that summer of 1972 was not simply youthful rebellion. It was a crucible. The caravan, the LSD, the music — these experiences cracked open the ordinary and showed us other possibilities. Bowie, especially, revealed that identity was fluid, that art could be both playful and prophetic, that music could alter not just moods but the very way we saw ourselves.

…..Richard and I have carried that with us across decades. Whenever Bowie re-emerged in a new guise — Berlin Bowie, Thin White Duke, Blackstar — we were there together, still listening, still chasing echoes of that night in Croydon when everything seemed possible.

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Garnet David Newton–Wade (he/him) is a British short-story writer based in Wiltshire. He is a retired firewall engineer who now crafts fiction steeped in landscapes both physical and psychological. When not drafting stories, he tinkers with vintage HiFi systems or hunts for jazz vinyl records in second-hand shops.

Watch the official film of David Bowie’s composition “Starman.” The song was released on the 1972 RCA album The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (often shortened to Ziggy Stardust)