Look, if you ask a casual fan about the David Bowie first album, they’re probably going to start humming "Space Oddity." Can’t really blame them. That 1969 record is a masterpiece. It's got the folk-rock vibes, the Major Tom drama, and that unmistakable orange hair on the later reissues. But here is the thing: it wasn't his first. Not even close.
The real debut happened two years earlier, in June 1967. It was self-titled, just David Bowie, and it sounds absolutely nothing like the Thin White Duke or Ziggy Stardust. Honestly? It sounds like a guy trying to be a Victorian music hall performer while simultaneously tripping on the concept of a suburban apocalypse.
It's weird. It's theatrical. And it’s the record that almost ended his career before it even started.
The 1967 Debut: Why Nobody Listened
You have to imagine the scene in London on June 1, 1967. This is the exact same day The Beatles dropped Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band. Talk about bad timing. While the rest of the world was busy having their minds blown by "A Day in the Life," a twenty-year-old David Jones—now calling himself Bowie—was releasing a collection of quirky, orchestral pop songs on Deram Records.
The album was produced by Mike Vernon. He was a blues guy, mostly, but for Bowie, he brought in tubas, piccolos, and enough strings to make a chamber orchestra jealous. There were no soaring guitar solos here. Instead, you got "Uncle Arthur," a song about a 30-year-old man who still reads comics and follows Batman. It's charming in a "my-eccentric-neighbor" kind of way, but it wasn't exactly what the kids in the Summer of Love were looking for.
Breaking Down the Strange Sounds of Deram
Most people expect rock and roll when they dive into a legend's discography. If you go into the David Bowie first album looking for that, you’re gonna have a bad time.
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The record is heavily influenced by Anthony Newley. If you don't know who that is, think of a very posh, very dramatic theatrical singer who over-articulates every single syllable. Bowie basically spent the whole session doing a Newley impression.
- "Rubber Band": A jaunty waltz about a man losing his girl to a conductor.
- "The Laughing Gnome": Technically a single from the same era, but it defines the vibe. It features a high-pitched, sped-up voice making gnome puns. (Yes, really).
- "Please Mr. Gravedigger": This one is actually chilling. There’s no music. Just the sound of rain, thunder, and Bowie sneezing while he talks about a child murderer.
It’s easy to dismiss this stuff as "cringey"—a word Bowie himself used to describe these tracks later in life. But if you listen closely, the seeds of his future genius are all there. "We Are Hungry Men" is basically a blueprint for the dystopian sci-fi themes he’d later master in Diamond Dogs. "Silly Boy Blue" touches on Tibetan Buddhism, a lifelong obsession of his. He wasn't just messing around; he was world-building.
The Great Confusion: David Bowie vs. David Bowie
One reason the David Bowie first album stays buried is the naming convention. In 1969, he released another self-titled album. Because the first one on Deram had been such a massive commercial flop, his new label (Mercury/Philips) figured nobody would remember the 1967 version.
To make it even more confusing, that 1969 album was later renamed Space Oddity by RCA. So, when you go digging through record crates today, you might find three different albums that people claim are "the first one."
- The 1967 Deram Album: The true debut. Baroque pop, music hall, very British.
- The 1969 Mercury Album: The folk-prog transition. Often mistakenly called the debut.
- The 1973 "Images" Compilation: A double LP that repackaged the 1967 stuff once Bowie became a superstar.
Basically, if there isn't an accordion or a tuba on the first track, you aren't listening to the actual debut.
Why It Still Matters (Sorta)
Is it a "good" album? That depends on your definition of good. If you love 1960s "Swinging London" kitsch, it’s a goldmine. It’s got this weird, naive energy that feels totally authentic to a kid trying to find his voice.
Bowie and his bassist, Dek Fearnley, didn't actually know how to write orchestral scores back then. They supposedly bought a book called The Observer’s Book of Music to teach themselves the terminology so they wouldn't look like idiots in front of the session musicians. That kind of "fake it 'til you make it" attitude is exactly what fueled his later transformations.
Spotting the Future Icon in the 1967 Tracks
Even though the album didn't chart—it peaked at a dismal number 125 in the UK—it proved that Bowie was never going to be a "normal" pop star. He wasn't interested in writing simple love songs. He wanted to tell stories. He wanted to play characters.
In "She’s Got Medals," he tells a story about a girl who dresses as a man to join the army. In 1967! Long before he was blurring gender lines as Ziggy Stardust, he was already exploring those themes on his very first record. The world just wasn't ready to hear it yet.
Deram Records eventually dropped him in 1968. They thought he was a "has-been" at age 21. Imagine being the executive who let David Bowie go because his album about gnomes and gravediggers didn't sell.
What to Do Next If You Want to Hear It
If you're ready to jump into the deep end of the David Bowie first album, don't just stream the standard version. Look for the Deluxe Edition released in 2010. It includes both the mono and stereo mixes, plus a ton of extra tracks from that period like "The London Boys," which many critics actually think is his first true masterpiece.
Listen to "Join the Gang" and see if you can catch the sitar and the satire of the 60s club scene. It’s biting, cynical, and surprisingly mature for a guy who was also recording songs about gnomes at the time.
After you've finished the 1967 album, play Hunky Dory (1971) immediately after. You’ll be shocked at how much of that "theatrical" DNA survived the transition into rock stardom. The 1967 debut isn't a mistake; it's the foundation.
Go find a copy of the 1967 David Bowie on a streaming service or at your local shop. Focus on "Silly Boy Blue" and "Please Mr. Gravedigger" to see the range he was already working with. Compare the vocal style to his later 70s work to hear how he eventually stripped away the Anthony Newley "affectation" to find his own voice.