An Echo of Departures: The Painful Familiarity of Leaving
The mod movement of the mid-1960s was a dizzying kaleidoscope of style, speed, and sound, a time when British youth were forging identities with sharp clothes and louder music. Into this vibrant, competitive world stepped a young man known then as Davy Jones with his band, The Lower Third. Their August 1965 single, “You’ve Got a Habit of Leaving,” became a minor, yet historically significant, footnote in the unfolding story of one of music’s greatest chameleons: David Bowie. While today we know the song as a vital piece of his early career, its initial commercial performance was, sadly, nonexistent—it failed to chart upon its release on Parlophone. It was a disappointment for a young artist trying to break through, yet the song itself held a gritty energy that foreshadowed the genius to come.
The story behind the single is one of determined ambition and shifting musical gears. By 1965, Davy Jones had already released a couple of singles, largely in an Americanized R&B style, with previous backing bands. Seeking a heavier, more contemporary sound, he teamed up with The Lower Third and secured the legendary producer Shel Talmy, who was at the time sculpting the sounds of both The Who and The Kinks. The single, recorded in early July 1965, marks Bowie’s pivot into this distinctly Who-style mod music. It was a deliberate attempt to capture the zeitgeist, evident even in the band’s cheeky attempt to generate publicity by having bassist Graham Rivens (writing as Jennifer Taylor) submit a letter to Melody Maker that claimed The Who were only “bordering on this new sound” and urged listeners to check out Davy Jones and the Lower Third. This confidence, this relentless self-promotion, speaks volumes about the drive of the 18-year-old songwriter.
The meaning of “You’ve Got a Habit of Leaving” is one that hits close to the heart for anyone who has watched a loved one repeatedly walk away. It’s a bitter, resigned meditation on a partner’s emotional inconsistency—the constant, painful cycle of departure and return. The protagonist is at once frustrated and hopelessly tethered, acknowledging the habit while seemingly unable to sever the tie. Lines like “Sometimes I’m so glad, so glad / You leave me on my own” betray an exhausted relief, quickly undercut by the underlying agony of knowing that this is just one pause before the next inevitable goodbye. For older listeners, this theme resonates with a deep, nostalgic ache—a flashback to those formative, tumultuous relationships where drama was a currency and permanence seemed impossibly far away. The frantic, almost aggressive musical backing—complete with Nicky Hopkins’ forceful piano work and an abundance of feedback—perfectly captures the youthful turmoil and emotional noise of the subject matter. It’s a primal scream wrapped in a driving mod beat.
This single is also historically important for being the last one released by the future Starman under the name Davy Jones. Shortly after, in late 1965 or early 1966, to avoid confusion with the rising Davy Jones of The Monkees, he adopted the now-immortal moniker David Bowie. This early track, a snapshot of an artist still figuring out his sound and his name, is a beautiful piece of the mosaic that became his career. Hearing it today is a moment of reflection, recognizing the spark of genius in a piece that was, at the time, just another failed attempt at pop stardom. It’s a testament to the decades of work and reinvention that followed, allowing us to listen to this early mod thrasher with a profound, knowing melancholy.