Mick Ronson, the dashing young devil in the picture with the Rod Stewart hairstyle, is a protege of David Bowie. (To whom, incidentally, congrats are due for being voted one of the worst-dressed women of '73.)
Mick, Bowie's arranger and lead guitarist, is branching out on his own with solo records, public appearances, concert dates and the like. Pretty good too, we'd have you know.
Oh, but he has one of those deliciously Dickensian-type pasts: born in Hull, a most unlovely fishing port in England. Started playing piano when he was five. Though not encouraged by his parents (in Hull, it seems, it's generally considered unmanly for a chap to use his hands for anything other than a street fight), he had by the age of 11 added the recorder and violin to his list of accomplishments.
Mick, in time-honored fashion, made the pilgrimage to London when he was in his teens, in hopes of being discovered and becoming a rock star. To no one's great surprise, least of all his, stardom took its time to be aborning.
Meanwhile he worked as a garage hand, a laborer with a construction company and as a gardener at a private girls' school. 'This,' he says, 'was a lot of fun.'
We tend to believe him.
The Big Break, as they say, came when a chum took him over to David Bowie's house one evening and he wound up backing the master a few hours later on a British TV rock show. You know? Just like in the movies?
A lad of simple tastes, young Rono--as he's known to his intimes.
Likes to cook, watch the telly, swim and stake himself out on a California beach and--we quote: 'Watch my body bake in the sun.'