I wasn’t let go; they simply didn’t reach out to me again. “I never even received a message from David indicating it was time to move forward”: The surprising tale of George Murray, the David Bowie bassist who turned into a school superintendent.
George Murray, a highly mysterious character in the frequently recounted saga of David Bowie, was chosen from relative anonymity in September ’75 to lend his unique bass-playing talents to Golden Years.
Serving as a crucial sonic link between the polished Philadelphia soul of Young Americans and the more rugged rock-infused funk of Station To Station, Golden Years marked Bowie’s twelfth UK Top 20 hit single. Over the following four years, Murray played an essential role in Bowie’s rhythm section (known as the D.A.M. Trio alongside drummer Dennis Davis and guitarist Carlos Alomar), providing the foundation for Station To Station, the subsequent Berlin Trilogy of Low/‘Heroes’/Lodger, Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps), the ’76 and 1978 Isolar and Isolar II world tours, and Iggy Pop’s groundbreaking, Bowie-produced ’77 post-Stooges ‘comeback’ album The Idiot.
By this time, Bowie was arguably at his zenith, welcoming countless new sounds and styles, absorbing and transforming previously unfamiliar musical genres into innovative, punk-related, timeless pop. Intriguing – along with Brian Eno – ambient electronic music into the mainstream, and taking on the character of Thomas Jerome Newton in Nicolas Roeg’s film The Man Who Fell to Earth.
Nothing seemed out of reach for Bowie in the late 70s. However, as George Murray discovered to his final detriment, Bowie had one significant character defect: he was somewhat lacking in human resource management skills. In particular, the recruitment and termination of employees.
Murray starts by saying, “The captivating essence of early rock’n’roll is what attracted me to the bass.” “I began to cultivate a passion for music during my early teenage years.” I was captivated by it. However, when I initially began, my aspiration was to become a drummer.
Murray enrolled in drumming lessons but “couldn’t possibly afford the types of kits that the Dave Clark Five and The Beatles used on television. There’s absolutely no chance that I could ever obtain one of those by clearing snow and mowing lawns. Thus, I purchased a bass.
Assembling a setup featuring an early Hagstrom short-scale bass and a Guild Thunder bass amplifier “with two twelve-inch speakers and a small head on top that resembled a robot,” George (transported by his parents) practiced and performed throughout New York City with different band configurations, steadily refining his skills.
Ultimately, as is commonly the case in these tales, fate arrived at the door. During a conversation with an ex-colleague from Western Union, he was inquired: “Are you interested in a gig?” Soul singer George McCrae, who had just sold 11 million copies of his 1974 debut single Rock Your Baby, required a touring band. Murray tried out, was chosen, and in less than 48 hours hit the road. Starting with a Toronto debut, moving through two European tours in a Volkswagen bus, and traveling to South America, Murray, “behaving like a brat,” gained his touring experience before ultimately being cast back into the mundane reality of home.
Now residing with his parents in Queens, he chose to return to school. After a failed audition for the Manhattan School of Music on upright bass, he registered at Bronx Community College. There, a classmate suggested he connect with Dennis Davis, a drummer he knew who was supposedly “fantastic… You have to jam with him.”
“Murray continues, saying, ‘Thus, Dennis and I began playing alongside each other.’” “Dennis introduced me to Carlos [Alomar, guitarist], with whom I collaborated in his band Listen My Brother.”
Listen My Brother was significant, frequently featured on the widely-known children’s educational television program Sesame Street, and Alomar was linked to it; he had played in both The Main Ingredient and the house band at the Apollo in Harlem. “Murray recalls being captivated by both Davis and Alomar.” “I enjoyed playing with them; they were great people and we had a good time.” I was also aware that they had collaborated with David [Bowie]. This was just about the period of the Young Americans tour [1974].
When Alomar and Davis came back from the tour (both having contributed to Bowie’s Young Americans album), “I was jamming with them in lower Manhattan and enjoying myself, attending Bronx Community College and driving a yellow cab part-time to earn some extra cash. In September of ’75, I got a call from Dennis. He said, “David Bowie is searching for a new bassist, would you be interested?” Sure, he only needed to ask me once.
After three days and one long flight, Murray met Bowie in a rehearsal studio on Cahuenga Boulevard in Los Angeles, and they promptly began working on Golden Years.
“It was an in-person audition.” I was only given the chance to come and do a few recordings, and that was the beginning for us. Golden Years remains one of my preferred songs. It has an enchanting quality that subtly captivates you; it draws you in effortlessly and flows seamlessly.
“The next song we practiced was Station To Station, the actual track, which was entirely distinct from Golden Years and made up of various sections.” When he introduced the initial section, he performed the piano chords for approximately eight measures and provided me with the rhythm and timing of the bass line.
When we ultimately went to lay down its rhythm track [at Cherokee Studios in LA], it was Carlos, Dennis, and me, possibly with David on piano.”
Was Earl Slick present?
“I can’t recall… Regardless, we captured the entire performance as a single segment since that’s how we practiced it.” It was a combination of three or four movements crafted into a single piece, a ten-minute track that begins slowly and then accelerates. It established the mood for the entire album and the 1976 tour, which it likewise initiated.
“I recall seeing spectators with their jaws dropped as David nailed his performance.” Creating an atmosphere with an extended introduction, during the second movement – ‘Drink, drink, drain your glass, raise your glass high’ – then, when it reached the line ‘It’s not the side-effects of the cocaine,’ the bright lights flooded you. “It was an incredible musical composition.”
Guitarist Earl Slick disclosed that chemical stimulants played a crucial role in the creative process of the Station To Station album, so can we suggest that the song was a byproduct of the cocaine?
“My encounter with cocaine happened much later, but to be truthful, some instances did appear occasionally.” I’m unsure of anyone else’s experience, but it certainly took a considerable time for David to complete those rhythm tracks. Prior to my work on Station To Station, my encounters with rhythm tracks involved coming in, recording them, and then progressing onward. You would have a limited budget and accomplish as much as possible within the given time. So, five weeks to complete six rhythm tracks? That was something I had never experienced.
Indeed, there were some celebrations happening, where cocaine was easily accessible, but my issues with cocaine began somewhat later, still during the period I was collaborating with David, though not while I was performing alongside him. I don’t remember ever performing under the influence of drugs or alcohol. The tasks he needed from me, whether to reproduce or invent, demanded my full focus and creativity.
As the Station To Station sessions neared their end, Murray continued to exhibit exemplary conduct.
In my view, I remained engaged in a live audition until nearly the album’s conclusion, so I focused on ensuring the bass sections aligned with the rhythm, making sure David was satisfied. “I wasn’t causing any disturbances anywhere.”
It appeared that nobody would ever clarify for him if he was truly the new Bowie bassist or just a handy session musician for one specific project.
“Murray continues, saying it ultimately became evident that David was pleased with the product, and he began discussing a world tour.” “He had talked to everyone except me. I hadn’t received any information, neither from him nor through his business manager, and I feel anxious about this.
One evening, I found a chance to ask Carlos. I had known even before collaborating with David that Carlos practiced Buddhism, specifically Nichiren Buddhism, a sect that chants ‘Nam-myoho-renge-kyo’ to seek happiness, personal and global peace, and he said to me: ‘Chant these words – “Nam-myohorenge-kyo” – and something will shift.’ Therefore, I agreed, and in my alone time later that night, I began chanting for a few minutes, which made me feel better, so I decided to stop there.
Nothing occurred the following day, but on the day after that, I was heading one way while [Bowie’s day-to-day manager] Pat Gibbons was going the opposite, and as we crossed paths, he asked: ‘George, are you free at all from January to June next year?’ I replied no, and he responded: ‘Great, David is interested in having you on the tour. I’ll catch you later. I was astonished.
“Thus, I began to practice increasingly, and I’ve persisted through the years.” I must say that among all the advantages I gained from working with David Bowie for six years – two global tours, amazing albums, critical recognition, a gold record – the greatest benefit of all stemmed from that discussion I had about chanting ‘Nammyoho-renge-kyo’ with Carlos. “I have persisted all through my life, which has led me to this moment.”
What was life like while touring with Isolar during the peak of Bowie’s popularity? What was the experience within the chaos? Perhaps not as crazy as one might anticipate.
“It was organized; you must accomplish this today, then rise again tomorrow and repeat the process.” It doesn’t matter what you engage in during that time, but you must reach your targets. David wasn’t traveling by plane then, so the main source of stress was the uncertainty regarding whether the Thin White Duke would arrive at the show promptly, as David would frequently instruct his driver to halt the vehicle whenever he spotted any roadside attraction.
Murray, in the meantime, welcomed the tour as a fantastic chance to showcase the more extravagant side of his clothing, donning a personally designed stage outfit that included a top hat and high-heeled snakeskin boots.
“Those were genuinely my performance outfits from George McCrae,” he confesses. And what response did Bowie have when he first set eyes on this nearly seven-foot-tall, disco-inspired sight? “He froze completely in place.” He was indeed on stage, and he simply halted and stared. He ultimately continued on, but indeed, I do recall that expression.”
After the ‘organized’ excesses of the tour, Bowie’s inner circle (with Murray now being a fully embraced member) headed to Hansa studios in Berlin, stopping at Château d’Hérouville, France, where the work first began on Iggy Pop’s The Idiot.
“We completed the trilogy that David aimed to create with Brian Eno, which included Low, ‘Heroes,’ and Lodger, but honestly, I don’t recall recording anything for The Idiot with Iggy Pop.” I recall collaborating with him occasionally on a few projects that David was involved in, but I don’t remember that whatsoever.
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