Earl Slick
Plucked from obscurity at 22 to replace Mick Ronson as Bowie’s sideman guitarist, Earl Slick ’s life was never going to be quite the same again. Nor was his lifestyle.
Plucked from obscurity at 22 to replace Mick Ronson as Bowie’s sideman guitarist, his life was never going to be quite the same again. Nor was his lifestyle.
When David Bowie hired Earl Slick as guitarist for 1974’s Diamond Dogs tour, expectations were high. While Bowie’s star was cresting, Slick cut an enigmatic figure and, although virtually unknown outside of the clubs of New York City, was to replace Mick Ronson, the ultimate exemplification of the glam guitarist. Most UK fans became aware of Slick’s existence only after carefully scrutinising the cover of David Live. So who was this Earl Slick, and how did he become ennobled with such a charismatic title?
“I was about nineteen years old,” recalls whipthin Slick today, ebony locks casually Keefed, shades indoors, plugged-in guitar nestled in lap with which he punctuates salient points, every ounce the rock star, “playing in a covers band with a singer named Jack O’Neill. We did Stones, a bunch of blues, Jimmy Reed, Muddy Waters, five nights a week, and we’d get goofy some nights. Jack would give us all weird names when he introduced us. One night he called me Earl Slick, and it stuck.” It’s memorable, stands out on a record sleeve. “Yeah, that’s the best thing about it, you can’t forget that one, it’s so ridiculous.”
Rock’n’roll originally came into the life of the artist formerly known as Frank Madeloni on the evening of February 9, 1964. He was 11 years old, settled in front of the family TV in Brooklyn for The Ed Sullivan Show when The Beatles changed his life.
“I was too young to get bit by the Elvis bug, but when The Beatles came on TV it really hit a nerve,” he says. “Screaming girls, cool clothes, weird haircuts, the whole thing. Within a few months I got my first guitar. The Beatles got me playing, but what kept me playing was the Stones.”
As with so many nascent rock musicians of his generation, the Rolling Stones’ repertoire provided a portal into an entirely new world of R&B, blues and soul that shaped the player that young Frank became. Before too long he hooked up with “my first real band that did gigs”, Mack Truck.
“We had two drummers and one of them, Steve Marola, played great harmonica, so me and Steve were into the real bluesy Stonesy end of things while the singer, Jimmy Mack, and the rest of them were more pop. We started playing clubs in Manhattan, had different set-lists for different clubs, and that was the start of me playing continuously.”
Playing covers in clubs was an excellent proving ground, but its appeal rapidly waned. So when opportunity came knocking, Slick was more than ready to move on.
“There was an Italian guy in the neighbourhood, Hank DeVito, who was playing with Michael Kamen, who had part of Paul Butterfield’s band with him, David Sanborn on sax. They were catching planes and playing real gigs, and I was hating playing covers. So I asked Michael if he needed another guitar player. He said no, but he did need a roadie. So I figured I can either stay in Staten Island, faking my way through Crosby, Stills And Nash harmony shit, or take the roadie gig and hang out with Michael Kamen, David Sanborn and Paul Butterfield’s rhythm section. So I thought I’d rather haul their gear than play that other shitty music.”
Obviously, Slick took the precaution of packing his Gibson SG.
“I’d sit in with the band during sound-check, and eventually me and David Sanborn hit it off. He suggested to Michael I should be in the band, and Michael put me in the band. I still had to haul the gear, but I didn’t mind.”
It was at this point that things took a further turn for the fairy tale. David Bowie, newly split from Mick Ronson, was in need of a guitarist, and on arrival in NYC he asked Michael Kamen (who he knew through fashion designer Ossie Clark) if he knew of any likely candidates. Consequently, Earl Slick found himself summoned for a surprisingly unorthodox audition.
“I thought it would be Bowie with a band and I’d just go in and have a play. Which wasn’t the case. I had to go to RCA’s studios where they were at the final stages of mixing Diamond Dogs. David’s assistant walked me into the main recording room. The control room was blacked out and I couldn’t see anything but the lights on the gear. Then a voice came on the intercom – which I later figured out was Tony Visconti – and said: ‘Put
“Bowie walked in the room, said hello, and we noodled around on guitars for a little while.”