← DISGRACELAND
DISGRACELAND
David Bowie: The occult, cocaine, orgies, arrests, exorcisms, a weird flirtation with fascism and a dead body.
00:40:04
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- [00:05]
Jake Brennan
Double Elvis. I think the last time I spoke to you guys about Quints, I told you about the transit quilted duffel bag that I got for my wife. Well, I got myself a Napa leather duffel bag from Quince as well, and I just used it. We used both our bags on this family trip that we took out west. I love this bag. Okay? It looks cool, it looks casual. It looks way more expensive than it is. Not that I care about that, but it just, it's good quality and you can kind of tell when you just look at it. I stuffed it with my new double brush stretch jacket from Quince. You know, when you're, you're going out to dinner, it's summertime, it's too hot to wear a jacket, but you're going somewhere kind of dressy, but you don't want to wear a blazer. You're kind of in that sort of formal fashion. No man's land. That's where the double brushed stretch jacket from Quints comes into play. It dresses you up casually and smartly and you can rock it out around town as well if you're just, you know, running errands and you want to look good. This jacket is my new favorite addition to my wardrobe. And like I said, it along with my Go to Quince Merino all season base tees fit perfectly in my Nappa leather duffel bag from Quince. The best part of all this, everything with Quints is half the cost of similar brands. Okay? That's important. That matters. And they can do this because they work directly with top artisans. They cut out the middlemen and Quints gives you luxury pieces without the markup. So keep it classic and cool with long lasting staples from quints. Go to quints.com disgraceland for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns. That's Q-U-I-N C E.com disgraceland to get free shipping and 365 day returns quints.com disgraceland ready for a new way to play? Champa Casino lets you spin and play your way to fun anytime, anywhere. Enjoy classic slots, blackjack and live casino games all with just a few clicks. Have fun with no fuss. Simply sign up and receive your free welcome bonus plus daily login rewards to keep the fun going. Let's chumba. No purchase necessary. VGW Group voidware prohibited. Bylaw 21/TNCs apply. Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about David Bowie are insane. He was obsessed with the occult with Aleister Crowley and The Golden Dawn. It drove him to near madness, down a dark, excessive wormhole with cocaine, narcissistic rock star excess, orgies, arrests, exorcisms, a weird flirtation with fascism and a dead body. No musical art has better personified the hedonism of the seventies than David Bowie. He captivated the imaginations of music fans all over the world, not to mention fellow artists, some of whom he confounded, alienated and annoyed. Andy Warhol, Paul McCartney and Bob Dylan among them. Bowie was unlike any singular rock star before him. He was more than just David Bowie. He was a dizzying meld of creative alter egos. Major Tom, Ziggy, Stardust and the Thin White Duke among the few he gave voice to with his great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called Showdown at the OK Space Corral MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to love. Theme from Romeo and Juliet by Henry Mancini and why would I play you that specific slice of star crossed lover's cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on July 11, 1969. And that was the day David Bowie released the single Space Oddity, launching into the public consciousness his first truly great artistic vision. The first of many that would significantly alter the future of rock and roll. On this episode, orgies, exorcisms, creative alter egos and David Bowie, Jake Brennan, and this is Disgrace. David Jones made his way through the crush of fans and press up the front of the stairs to the public safety building at Rochester City Court in upstate New York. He was up early on this March morning in 1976 and had arrived early for his arraignment. A lucky fan nabbed an autograph from the accused outside the courthouse doors. Once inside, one of the most recognizable rock stars in the world at the time was ushered into the courtroom and passed half a dozen prostitutes awaiting their own arraignment in the hallway. The pros erupted into cheers when they saw him pass. He gave them a polite smile from under his fedora. Ever the gentleman inside the courtroom, he settled in. The proceedings got underway. David Jones, 29, and his fellow defendants, James Osterberg, 28, and Dwayne V. 22, were asked by Judge Alphonse Cassetti how they pleaded to the charge of fifth degree criminal possession of a controlled substance. Marijuana. About half a pound of it. David Jones in his dapper three piece suit, hat in hand at his side stood alone, still and politely answered in his proper English accent, not guilty, sir. The judge agreed to a $2,000 bail bond for Jones and an additional $2,000 for his security guard, Dwayne Vos, as well as for his other friend James Osterberg, who was popularly known by at least some of the record buying public as the Notorious Iggy Pop. One time frontman for the late 60s punk rock archetypes, the Stooges, David Jones kept such interesting friends because he was, of course, not only David Jones, he was David Bowie. He was also most famously Ziggy Stardust, the androgynous bisexual rock star. Prior to Ziggy, Major Tom, the junkie astronaut strung out in heaven's high, constantly trying to avoid the all time low. Before Major Tom, he was the laughing gnome bent on bringing to the masses some sort of Jacques Brell psychedelic baroque. And before that, he was Davy Jones, another blue eyed soul singer shuffling through London doing his best. Bobby Blue Bland, via Brian Jones, Mick Jagger. But as of late, while on tour in support of his 10th album, Station to Station, he was the thin White duke. And his mugshot for the arrest proved it. It's possibly the greatest rock star mugshot ever. There he is. And he is indeed thin, white and with an air of nobility to him. If you learned he ruled over a duchy, you would not be surprised. His eyes are two different colors. He's skeletal, haunting, almost transparent. Sticking out of his starched collar and wide lapels. You get the sense that at one point, point in the evening, a tie was definitely in the mix. Something wide, a double Windsor knot perhaps. His blond hair is slicked back, but there's one strand slightly askew. It suggests a long night. Nothing out of control, just long, most likely tiring. If he's put out, you can't really tell. His expression is dead serious, but not mean. He is beyond handsome. In a word, the mugshot is compelling. If you knew nothing about the photo or the man in it or his fame, you'd still want to know more. Who was this dude and what was his deal? Which was why one of the non arresting officers working the station house that night he was arrested pulled the mugshot from the trash. When he saw it lying there on top, it was too compelling not to give it a second look, to not wonder. David Bowie had that kind of image and his image had that kind of power. And he knew it. It was all by design, all part of the creative package. It wasn't all about the music, it was about so much more. There was A theory that one creates a doppelganger and then imbues that with all your faults and guilts and fears, and then eventually you destroy him, hopefully destroying all your guilt, fear and paranoia. And I often feel that I was doing that unwittingly creating an alternative ego that would take on everything that I was insecure about. That's a Bowie quote given to journalist Tony Parsons some years after the drug arrest in Rochester. But back in 76, Bowie was coming to the end of the road with the Thin White Duke and was contemplating a move to Berlin to dry out, clean up, and get his head out of the fame and into the art. The drug charge would eventually be dismissed by a grand jury coming to nothing. He was in need of new inspiration, a new use, hell, even a new canvas. And creatively, he'd get what he needed, no matter what. He'd steal if necessary. It wasn't beneath him. He'd done it before. Authenticity didn't concern him like it did Iggy Thievery was part of the game, and he learned by watching one of the greatest art thieves of all time Foreign this modern world of digital transaction. I'm assuming that you guys are like me and you've run into the problem of waking up one morning and looking at your checking account, your credit card bill, and you're saying to yourself, what? What are all these costs that are going out? What's coming in? Wait, did I sign up for this? From which account? What's happening here? Or maybe you're doing okay and you just opened another account. You've been shoveling money into your 401k for years, but you've got no idea how much you've saved. Maybe you have other investments. My point is that keeping track of all of this, keeping track of what you're saving, of where your money's going, it's not easy. It's why I use Monarch. Monarch helps me understand exactly where my money is, how much there is in which accounts, where it's going and when. And Monarch does the heavy lifting. It links all of my accounts in minutes. I get clear data, visuals, smart categorization of my spending, and real control over my money. I've learned exactly how much I have. I've learned how my accounts are either working for me or how they're costing me too much. If you use Monarch, you're going to feel organized and confident in your finances. Monarch Money has an all in one personal finance tool that brings your entire financial life together in one clean interface on your laptop or phone. And Right now, guys, just for our listeners here, monarch is offering 50% off your first year. Don't sleep on Monarch Money. They've been named best budgeting app of 2025 by the Wall Street Journal. No joke. Don't let financial opportunity slip through the cracks. Use Code disgraceland@monimal money.com in your browser for half off your first year. That's 50% off your first year@monimalmoney.com with code DISGRACELAND.
- [11:43]
Unknown
Every week on the Moth podcast, real people tell their stories of heartbreak, humor and crime live on stage.
- [11:50]
Jake Brennan
This identity theft was different because this person had messed with the most dangerous type of person that exists, which is someone with limited options and a lot of free time.
- [12:01]
Unknown
For mysteries big and small. Follow and listen to the Moth on the free Odyssey app or wherever you get your podcasts.
- [12:13]
Jake Brennan
What's up guys? I'm headed out for a short vacation next week. There is a beach involved, so for the past month or so I've been doing my best to get the dad bod in beach shape. One of the things that I do to stay healthy, as you all know, is I take groons daily. I love the taste, I love how they give me energy, make me feel more balanced, which is tough to explain, but you guys know what I'm talking about. When you're just going through the day and you're just like, I feel right, I feel good. Groons help me achieve that. They're not your average vitamins, grunts, packs, greens, prebiotics 20 plus essential vitamins and minerals plus 60 plus whole food ingredients into eight gummies a day. Gruen's ingredients are backed by over 35,000 research publications because Gruen's ingredients get you serious results. If you guys are interested in feeling better and getting your nutrient levels right, getting that gut health right, getting more energy, better immunity, better recovery, get in on the new Raspberry Lemonade flavor Groons that just launched. This flavor is only available through August and like I said, tastes great. But honestly, the green gummies that I usually take, they taste great as well. You can't go wrong with grunds. Grab your limited edition Raspberry Lemonade Groons now and get up to 52% off. Use the code. Get Disgraceland. In 1964, Yayoi Kusama was on her way to becoming the highest paid visual artist in the world. She was an innovator in pop art, sculpting with soft materials and working with repetition of images and symbols. Her pieces now go for an estimated $7 million each on average. Her net worth is estimated somewhere north of 20 million, and naturally, her work is highly sought after. In 1964, it wasn't just collectors and curators who had their eyes on Kusama's. Art thieves were circling too. One in particular. He cased the gallery where Kusama's show was happening that evening. And the open minimalist space of the Gertrude Stein Gallery was buzzing with women in mod fashions and and thin men suited up in thin ties. Cigarette smoke spiraled through the air. Downtown hipsters and major art critics zigzagged between gallery rooms, taking in the latest work from the newest movement in the art world, pop art. Yayoi Kusama's work was staggering. It knocked the thief out. It overtook his senses. Kusama's artistic philosophy of self obliteration, as she called it, was on full display. As a child, Kusama suffered from hallucinations, the result of which was a traumatic overtaking of her own senses that she now channeled into her art through an applied perspective of what she believed the 1960s would bring. A Technicolor vision of cultural subversion, celebrity and fame. Her work exploded off of the gallery's walls, its floor and even its ceiling. Her piece, entitled Aggregation 1000 Boat show, was immersive and all encompassing. Yayoi Kusama had papered the gallery with the same tiled image of a rowboat over and over and over again. A larger sculpture of a rowboat anchored the piece in the gallery. It was covered and stuffed in sewn phallic protrusions. The value of the thief's heist would be infinite. He knew it. He had a plan, a way to procure the goods without damaging or devaluing them. He wasn't like some other thieves, wasn't about to slash a painting from its frame with a razor and then clumsily roll it up. He wasn't brazen or stupid enough to grab a sculpture in his arms and risk dropping and damaging it on escape. No, he had a different method. Creative appropriation. It was safer to just steal another artist's ideas than it was to steal her work. So that's what andy Warhol did. Five months later, in April 1966, Warhol's exhibition at the Leo Castelli Gallery featured a room completely tiled with only one image, that of a cow's head in pink and yellow. Colorful, playful. Warhol's own borrowed contribution to the fast developing Technicolor cultural subversion of the 60s. When asked where he got the inspiration for such a quote, unquote unique exhibition. Warhol credited an art dealer friend who suggested he play it safe and paint some pastoral cows, but that he himself took the suggestion to this shocking and now celebrated endless. Andy Warhol's thievery didn't stop there. Like all great artists, Warhol hardly appropriated into his work the influence of others. This was not lost on David Bowie. In 1972, Bowie set London on fire with the release of the Rise of Ziggy, Stardust and the Spiders From Mars, which was a dizzying, up to that point, incomprehensible and seemless endless melding of a multitude of influences that included Pink Floyd, Elvis Presley, composer Claudio Monteverdi, and French musical fabulous Michael Polnarev, among others. But one year before Ziggy, David Bowie released what is to my ears, nothing less than another masterpiece, Hunky Dory. On it, he paid tribute to Andy Warhol with the far out acoustic driving, impossibly original track directly titled Andy Warhol. And Andy Warhol was not impressed, which is ironic, given that the song and the album it appears on are as original and compelling as any Warhol creation before or since. Like Warhol, Bowie appropriated the works of others. And also like Warhol, Bowie funneled that appropriation through a thoroughly unique point of view into something original. And again, like Warhol, Bowie originality was not limited to his music and disappearance. His whole approach was unique. Bowie was obviously eager to meet the man who sold the world, the man from whom he appropriated his habit of appropriation. At his side that night at Andy Warhol's famed factory on Union Square west in Manhattan was his manager, main man, Tony DeFreeze. DeFreeze wasn't an ordinary rock and roll manager. He demanded his star climb client live up to his aspiration of becoming the greatest rock and roll star on this world or any other. So David Bowie did what he was told. He wasn't dressed in alter ego Ziggy attire that night at the Factory, but he was affecting the Persona of a super famous pop star, which of course, at least in America, he had yet to become. His records were selling and there was an awareness of who he was and what he was doing. But he was far from the international music sensation he would become a few years later. And in the States he wasn't even yet approaching the star status he'd already achieved in London. Nevertheless, he traveled everywhere by limousine and apart from his band, refused whenever possible to avoid leaving his hotel during daylight hours. And when he did, he did so dressed to the hilt. He avoided restaurants and other public places at all Costs. He never picked up a bag, bag, an instrument, or even opened his own door, instead adopting a tactic of simply standing in front of every door he encountered, awkwardly until someone offered to open it for him. He was privately doubted by Bob Dylan, who, upon seeing Bowie once enter a party, snidely asked George Harrison, who the does this guy think he is? And he was iced out by Paul and Linda McCartney, who, upon a visit to their hotel suite from Bowie and a female guest, did all they could to avoid eye contact and conversation until it was very clear that they'd rather the up and coming space crooner take his freaky presence elsewhere. Didn't matter. David Bowie was undeterred by the old guard. He had a vision of this new decade, the 70s, and it didn't involve Bob Dylan or Paul McCartney. It involved him and his multitude of creative personalities. Foreign as a young adult, David Bowie watched his older brother, a schizophrenic struggle to navigate this cruel world with multiple personalities. And he'd of course, witnessed firsthand his own struggles as an artist throughout the previous decade, the 60s, where he'd bounced from one musical style and image to another as a folk artist, a blues frontman, a crooner. None of it worked. Nothing worked until he synthesized it all into the supernatural multi image artist named David Bowie, whose first real creation, the Ziggy Stardust Persona, would allow Bowie the space to conquer the 70s with an even greater array of creative characters. Unlike the rock stars born from the previous decade who valued authenticity over all else, David Bowie would be a vessel. And he would serve that vessel everywhere, all the time. An act that would also distinguish him from the theatrical rock artists to come. Alice Cooper and Kiss, who wore their characters on stage but took the makeup off when the lights came on. Bowie didn't impersonate. Bowie became so even at a time when he couldn't afford it. He and his manager kept up the rock star ruse and lavishly spent money they did not have, record label money. He seldom spoke in public unless there was something in it for him. And when he did speak, he summoned the most proper of British accents. He may not have been an actual alien, but compared to the rough trade avant garde melding of high and low art at Andy Warhol's factory in 71, David Bowie was clearly not of this world. He glided across the dance floor. Edie Sedgwick noticed him. Lou Reed didn't care. Flash photo, pulse bulbs popped, glittered against the tinfoil wrapped silver walls. Andy Warhol, the ultimate blank slave, listened to the conversation of others in the crowd, dressed in black with his slack silver hair cutting an unimpressive figure compared to, well, everyone, but still radiant as a disco ball in his role as center of gravity for the night's downtown carnival. Tony de Vries was there that night to lock down Warhol. Actor Paul Morrissey, for a film was producing. David Bowie was there to kiss the ring. When he met Andy, Bowie awkwardly played him his song Andy Warhol. It was clear from the silence afterward that Andy hated it. David Bowie, if he was affected by the diss, didn't let it show he was going to make it in America with or without Andy Warhol's blessing. Eventually, Ziggy Stardust was broke through in the States, and with it, a mainstream cult of Bowie fanaticism. Fans would come to shows dressed as Bowie's alter ego, faces painted with lightning bolts, hair teased or covered with flaming red wigs to mob their idol in a sea of imitations of this version of himself. Packed arenas sang along to Ziggy tunes en masse. And the image first philosophy of Tony de Frise was finally paying off. In the summer of 1970, 1972, the album had peaked on the US charts at a respectable 75 on the Billboard 200. But by the fall, the massively successful Ziggy Stardust tour had come to the US for the start of its North American leg, and Bowie was playing Carnegie hall and inviting Andy Warhol in his famed Factory entourage to come visit his show. The success, of course, came with perks. To call David Bowie sexually adventurous would not be an overstatement. But more than that, he was a sexual opportunist. The conquests of his wife, Angela Bowie, were as notorious as her rock star husbands and sometimes even too much for him to handle. Despite their open marriage, their home on Oakley street in London had what Angie and David's friends refer to as the Pit. A sunken room with a big bed covered in furs, plush carpet, perfect for sexual exhibitionism and voyeurism. The orgies of Mr. And Mrs. David Bowie were the stuff of legend. There it was, all 12 inches. John Bindon, the infamous London gangster's famous penis. It was every bit as prodigious as Princess Margaret had described. For her, John would stack five pint glasses on top of it, using its strength and girth to keep the glasses from falling for Angela Bowie. He'd take on five women for the viewing pleasure of her and her friends, until, of course, they could no longer stand the sight of it and be forced by their own lust. To join in on the fun inside the pit. But for David, there was no upside in this particular orgy. It was all spectacle, lacking in opportunity. There was nothing to gain from sex with John Bindon. There was no magic and therefore no power. Bowie knew of sexual magic and he knew of the power it was rumored to summon. The type of power you couldn't find in smart set orgies or in Andy Warhol's factory. The type of power that brought you closer to the golden dawn. The type of power that frightened drew you into the ragged hole that tore you between light and dark. The type of power that was found in the occult, specifically the in the writings of Aleister Crowley. Dark power. We'll be right back after this. Word. Word.
- [25:23]
Unknown
Word.
- [25:25]
Jake Brennan
So I try to stay disciplined with work and I try to do my creative task, mainly the writing of the podcast in the morning hours. But you can't always control when inspiration is going to hit. So last night I'm up until about midnight researching and then I start writing, which I didn't want to do, but I had to go with it. I'm in the flow. I stay up way later than I want to. I still gotta get up early in the morning and I'm bone tired. Coffee isn't helping. So thankfully I've got my stash of five Hour Energy and they've got this new Confetti Craze flavor that I love. It's fantastic. Tastes great. Great. Tastes like a party in a bottle. Which when you're dragging in the morning, believe me, is much needed. Fantastic flavor with this new five Hour Energy confetti. Great. It's just vanilla y buttery. That's my jam right there. One of the things I Also like about 5 hour energy, the bottles, as you probably know, they're tiny and resealable. I can take em anywhere I want. So if I'm gonna hit a wall later in the day, I'm prepared. I just tap into my five Hour Energy stash and I am good to go. Wherever I go, this is a little party in a bottle. It's going to pump you up. It's going to get you rolling into your day, whether it's the morning, whether it's the afternoon, whether it's nighttime. Five Hour Energy Confetti Craze flavor is available online. Head to www.fivehourenergy.com or Amazon to order yours today.
- [26:52]
Unknown
You know how it goes. Getting super into something that can lead to watching it, listening to it, reading about it, maybe even picking up something to go with it. That's where prime comes in. Amazon prime isn't just fast free delivery, though to be honest, that's a lifesaver. It's also prime video, Amazon music, and so much more. Whatever the interest, it's on Prime. Lately there's been a dive into new recipes, catching up on lifestyle documentaries, and building the perfect playlist to match. And prime has been part of it all. It's like a one stop shop for any passion, whether it's fashion, food, family, or discovering the next favorite show. So for anyone always exploring something new or rediscovering something meaningful, prime is right there. Whatever you're into, it's on Prime. From streaming to shopping, it's on Prime. Visit Amazon.comprime to get more out of whatever you're into Amazon.comprime I've never felt like this before. It's like you just get me. I feel like my true self with you. Does that sound crazy? And it doesn't hurt that you're gorgeous. Okay, that's it. I'm taking you home with me. I mean, you can't find shoes this good just anywhere. Find a shoe for every you from brands you love like Birkenstock, Nike, Adidas and more at your dsw store or dsw.com.
- [28:24]
Jake Brennan
Of all the drugs readily available for rock stars in the 1970s, none gave more of a false sense of self than cocaine. The drug gave you a blast of energy only to have you crash for days. It filled you with confidence before hollowing you out with paranoia. Nothing felt more real than the way one felt during nights spent hoovering Escobar's finest, yet made you feel like more of a fraud the next morning. Cocaine. It's a hell of a drug. So real, but so phony. This conflict was very much on the mind of David Bowie when he set out to record the album. Young Americans. Having grown up around musicians as a teenager and a young adult, I have regrettably been on the wrong side of 5am in some stranger's kitchen, listening to some stone talentless moron blather on about the new record they had conceived of that was gonna blow your mind, man. Bowie's Young Americans is what happens when that stone moron actually has talent. And just as important, ambition. Young Americans is the 5am cocaine concept album come to life. And it's fucking glorious. The album is unlike anything Bowie had attempted before, and in typical David Bowie fashion, it sounded like nothing the world had ever heard. It was Bowie's concept of plastic soul, a modernized, unapologetically Anglo solo version of 70s soul in poppy Is All Hell. And for the recording session, Bowie brought together a murderous row of emerging talent to record in Philadelphia. With Tony Visconti's trusted production tying it all together, Bowie was in search of that Philly soul sound. And to that end, a baby faced 23 year old Carlos Alomar held down the guitar while a co writer and vocal arranger named Luther Vandross was overheard singing along in the control room room and hired as an additional backup singer in one of his first big breaks. Bowie had a nose for talent. Among other things. Of course, calling his version of soul plastic gave the white musical interloper cover provided a stylish sleight of hand misdirection to obscure the appropriation. But appropriation aside, the album truly doesn't sound like anything before it. The songs are so classic now that we take them for granted. Fascination, fame, young Americans. We are so accustomed to hearing these songs as part of our rock and roll lineage, staples of the 70s, that we, especially if we were born after their release, are denied the context from which those songs first hit the airwaves. Nothing sounded like them before. Now they just sound like David Bowie songs. But in 1975, on the radio anyway, they sounded as alien as Ziggy Stardust had looked in 1972. And we have cocaine to thank for this album. It fueled Bowie during the conception and creation of young Americans, just as it fueled one of Bowie's fascinations at the time, occultist Aleister Crowley. The prolific 19th century writer, Crowley had declared himself a prophet of a new religion that glorified the self in the pursuit of individual will. Crowley's deep belief in occult magic meant his vision of freedom and enlightenment included ritualistic orgies and mind expanding drug experiences. And for Crowley, the most tempting drug was cocaine. Give cocaine to a man already wise and if he be really master of himself, it will do him no harm, Crowley said before warning. Alas, the power of the drug diminishes with a fearful pace. The doses wax, the pleasures wane. Side issues invisible at first arise. They are like devils with flaming pitchforks in their hands. Bowie sought to explore the mystic depths of Crowley's teachings. He began attending seances where he saw clear evidence of the activation of the dark arts. It freaked him out. And the cocaine fueled his paranoia. David Bowie wanted to know where the guns were. He was scared. The cocaine had him wired up tight in fear. Paranoia brought on from the not just the coke, but some twisted sense of guilt. At least it did during that dark year 1975. Holed up in a drug stupor in Los Angeles. 75 LA fame beyond his wildest dreams. The future was bright, but his head was dark and stuck. Back in 72. After Carnegie hall, after Springsteen at Max's, after the aspect Asbury park pilgrimage, mining the Boss's truly unique American gold. It was Philadelphia. The Benjamin Franklin Hotel. Talk of Freud, Holden Caulfield, Picasso and the pedophiles. It was before Lori Maddox on the west coast and there was no excuse for that one. It burned in retrospect. She was 15, a baby groupie. He was a man. He took her virginity. She willingly obliged. If it wasn't going to be him, it was going to be Paige or Plan or Rod or Todd. So gross. A different time, but still so gross. But not as gross as the Ben Franklin in Philly back in 72. Caruso, that jersey Shore goddess, straight out of Wild Billy's back seat. Greasy sheets, greasy lake down on the dark side of Route 88. City of Brotherly love, generosity, freak show. A true walk on the wild side. Lou would approve the hotel's sweet doorbell bell rang. His security answered. He went to see what the fuss was about. And there it was. His security guards were shocked into silence. So was he. They just stared at it. The fan who brought it up to the suite stood wild eyed when the fan spoke. He filled the room with a dark insanity that was palpable. See what I did for you? You deserve this. You're Bowie man. This is yours. Take it. It's for you. For sex. David was immediately nauseous. There in a suite just inside the door. A gurney on it, a dead body, still warm. He quickly retreated back to his hotel suite bedroom to hide under the covers with Caruso. It was horrifying. He asked her, why would someone do this? Who do they think I am? The memory still gripped him. It was a bridge too far. A bridge that he was still connected to through the dark power of Crowley. Cocaine and sex magic. He tripped some invisible wire. He knew it. And now his whole world was unraveling. Dark power, conjured haphazardly or neglected, can run amok. It can consume you, become you. David Bowie's cocaine induced obsession with Crowley and the occult led him around some dark corners. Particularly to fascism. He stayed up into the early morning hours getting high and viewing old reel to real Nazi propaganda films. He was fascinated by the imagery. The narcissism, the occultish symbolism, the pageantry. It had little to do with the politics. It was all style, gall, hubris. The theater of it all gripped him. This around the same time he'd recorded and released the Black Inspired Young Americans, an album widely accepted by the black record buying public. An album that led to him being the first white musician to appear on Soul Train. Magic power. They work in strange ways. They can consume you, yes, and propel you, sure, but they can also defeat you. Bowie knew this, and it's what had him freaked the fuck out. In his Los Angeles home back in 75, David heard his name whispered at night from out of nowhere. He saw things in the sky that weren't there. Ghostly visions of Aleister Crowley. He felt cold air blow through the sweltering summer nights. Tasted nothing. Sustained himself almost entirely on milk, jalapeno peppers, cocaine and cigarettes. He had lost touch with himself. Whoever that was anyway. Who do they think I am? The power was clearly in the hands of someone else now. David knew this. So again, he wanted the guns. His friend, bffatonic lover, sometime roommate, coke buddy, Glenn Hughes of Deep Purple was no help. Glenn was smart enough to not tell Bo he was where he kept the guns. But Bowie needed something to fend off the demon. The very real demon living among them, possibly within him, along with his many other alter egos jockeying for position within the vessel that was David Bowie. His ego, his super ego. Major Tom, the Laughing Gnome, Ziggy, the Thin White Duke. All battling it out in subservience to his unfettered id, without guns. Another solution was needed. So Bowie commenced to have an exorcism in his backyard to rid the demon who'd taken up residence in his swimming pool. Glenn didn't believe him at first. Who would? It was crazy. But he saw it with his own eyes. Or at least he saw what he believed to be the work of the devil. There they stood. Bowie, Glenn, a priestess, another witness in Bowie's backyard. Be our protection against the the wickedness and snares of the devil. The water in the pool was still. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray. Then a ripple. And do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host. The water started to roll slowly. Bowie's stomach churned with fear. Glenn felt his jaw come unhinged by the power of God, thrust into hell, Satan. Now the water in the pool began to boil, to thrash. Small waves crashing into and around each other. And all evil spirits who wander through the world for the ruin of souls. And with that, an intense thunderclap, a blinding flash of light. Instinctively, they covered their ears with their hands, ducked, and looked away. They turned back to the pool and it was once again, still calm. A sense of relief washed over them all. David Bowie knew it. But then he needed to pull his head together, pull himself together, regain his sense of self, clean up, dry out and exercise his own demons, or he be dead before the end of the decade. The Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn, a late 19th, early 20th century secret society, set up shop in Great Britain toward the end of the 1800s. Their influence was so great that members of the golden dawn could be found in every class of Victorian society. Celebrities of the day included poet William Butler Yates, actress Florence Farr, and of course, the occultist Renaissance man himself, Aleister Crowley. Strong, dynamic personalities, all their writings, rituals and transgressive behavior would come to dominate the imaginations of many. The allure of a new kind of power, attainable through occult magic drugs, particularly cocaine, and gloriously hedonistic sociosexual ritual that encouraged bisexuality and polyamory was, to put it mildly, wildly subversive for the time, which is kind of the point. Subverting conventional society and norms. It wasn't all that dissimilar to popular thinking in the 1960s. England's progressive pull from the establishment that began in swinging London in America's new hippie utopia that sprung from beatnik coffee shops and college campuses, started with the best of intentions. But by the time the 1970s rolled around, that idealism had been obliterated by excess nihilism and narcissism. And David Bowie was most definitely aware of the Hermetic Order. He explicitly spoke of the golden dawn on Hunky Dory's Quicksand. And his dedication to the philosophy and its focus on the needs of the individual over all else nearly broke him. Do what thou wilt is all well and good when you are servicing one individual. But in Bowie's case, it was many. Ziggy, the Thin White Duke, little Davy Jones, etc. What began as a creative assortment of alter egos had become a schizophrenic secret society run amok in his own mind. Fueled by cocaine, mad for sex, and completely subverting his sense of self, it propelled him toward madness. We all answer to many masters, or what one guru called the Many Eyes. We think we are one, a singular being charting our course in life or our daily rituals, as innocuous in comparison to David Bowie's or Aleister Crowley's as those rituals may be. But the reality is we are many people at once. We think of ourselves in the singular I am, I want, I do, etc. But the reality is we are constantly conflicted by our true desires, our true selves, our many true selves. You go to bed at night and pledge to get up at 6am to exercise. You not only set your alarm, you even lay your workout clothes out and get your coffee maker ready. But that alarm goes off and despite your best intentions the night before, the morning version of you hits snooze, grabs that extra hour of sleep and pledges to work out the next day. You commit to reading more nonfiction to educate yourself. But 20 pages into that new Eric Larson book on Churchill and you're reaching for the remote to binge the floor is lava on Netflix. Are you a hypocrite? Are you weak minded schizophrenic? No, of course not. You're human. We all are. And we are not singular beings. We are many eyes, all with competing agendas. It's our great challenge to unify our desires, our thinking, our beings, and attain some sort of conscious peace. A proposition that was nearly impossible for David Bowie, for his many eyes were incredibly strong manifestations of his wild imagination and creativity. Next time you're struggling to get out of bed for a 6am run, imagine trying to do so with Ziggy Stardust in your head, telling you to give it another romp with the two models lying next to you while the Thin White Duke chimes in that in order to do that, more cocaine is needed stat. And oh, by the way, the Tin man is calling and Lazarus refuses to be ignored and Major Tom is floating around your bed in his tin can. But David Bowie eventually silenced them all. He ended the 70s by drying out with his friend Iggy Pop in Berlin and completing a trilogy of great long players, Low Heroes and Lodger. He then conquered the age of video in the 80s, a medium he was uniquely suited for, and continued throughout the 90s and early 2000s to release compelling music up until his passing in 2016 with the release of his final album, Blackstar. But before passing from this world to the next, David Bowie had some unfinished business. He knew his death was coming, but it wasn't the end. It was the beginning. Transcending this life to the next passage on the astral plane is not a given for any and definitely not for many, unification was necessary. Major Tom had ascended some years ago, untethered, yes, but forever bound. To Bowie, Ziggy Stardust had descended, not of this world, too charismatic to ever fully fade. And the Thin White Duke had pillaged his way to control, only to be excommunicated, but forever capable and ruling in exile via proxy, they were still all there with him in the end, despite their diminished capacity and influence on his life and career over his last few decades, they were all still there. And so too was Crowley. Encanting an occult ritual on the title track from Blackstar in the first verse from David Bowie's final creative contribution, Bowie sings about the Villa of Ormond in a solitary, solitary candle, Solitary, singular. David Bowie was tying together loose ends, unifying the symbolism of Blackstar in its lyrics and its video, released two days before David Bowie died, is filled with references to Bowie's many eyes, not to mention to the occult. It was directed by self proclaimed Crowley fanatic director Johan Renk, and the Black Star title itself a reference to the occult concept of the midnight sun or the spirit of man shining through the darkness. Bowie sings about something happening on the day he died and about meter traveling through light Meter the length of the path traveled by light the midnight sun, man shining through the darkness, The Black Star Major Tom way past 100,000 miles, 47 years later, finally located dead in a spacesuit on a distant planet, as portrayed in the Blackstar video, the skull in Major Tom's helmet is no ordinary skull. It's ornate, a gift from the royals, a parting acknowledgment of defeat from the Duke, the thin white Duke, a priceless artifact of the gods, of one God in particular, the rock God Ziggy, a God whose influence on his subject of one had finally ceased. Bowie emotes near the song's end that it was somebody else who took his place. He sings, I'm a black star, I'm a black star. Finally, David Bowie had reconciled his alter egos, unified one absolute or as he said, I'm the great, I am, I'm the black star. A conscious peace at last, unity, fuel for the astral plane. Far from this world, far from disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credit credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page@gracelandpod.com if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com Membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month weekly unscraped to bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on YouTube@YouTube.com Disgracelandpod Rocka Rolla He's a bad, bad man. 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