Top 100 Albums - #34: Hunky Dory (1971)

David Bowie's highest entry on the chart is Hunky Dory, the album which preceded his commercial breakthrough.
After recording a number of forgotten singles under the pseudonym Davy Jones, Bowie signed to Deram Records and released a self-titled album in the autumn of 1967. The album synthesised contemporary psychedelia with his love for music hall, and sold poorly, as did his cult-novelty single, 'The Laughing Gnome'. Bowie spent 1968 writing songs for established artists of the day, only resurfacing (so to speak) with the release of 'Space Oddity'. Recorded and released to coincide with the Moon landing, it became a UK Top 5 hit and made Bowie an overnight success. The resulting album, Space Oddity (1969), took on a much more psychedelic twist, to the extent that commentators saw it (and the single) as an allegory for taking drugs, and Tony Visconti dropped out of producing it. The more rock-heavy The Man Who Sold The World (1970), which followed shortly afterwards, showed the first hints of androgyny emerging in Bowie's image.

We begin with a well-known classic. 'Changes' manages to be whimsical, eccentrically English and a pop song all at the same time. The minute you first hear that eight-note riff on the piano (at 0:12), a series of happy tingles run up your spine. With the intro over, Bowie is free to play around with his words, throwing away amazing lines like So I turned myself to face me in the first verse. But despite this rushed style - and the lyrics tripping over the ends of lines, à la Paul Simon - this is amazingly catchy. The chorus with its Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes takes off The Who's 'My Generation' as Bowie sets out the manifesto for his chameleonic personality, the true magnitude of which was only just becoming clear.

We then go from strength to strength as we move on to 'Oh! You Pretty Things'. The piano remains, and once again we are given a treat with the riff. The lyrics are bizarre, but for all their surrealism and obscure references, they all seem to make sense. Like 'Drive-In Saturday' from Aladdin Sane (1973, #56), they pick up on the theme of a bleak future, where on this occassion the youth have allied with aliens to take over the world. But like 'Drive-In Saturday', you have no real need to understand all these undertones or plot points in order to either enjoy the song or find something meaningful in it. And while the piano dominates the mix, the drums of Woody Woodmansey are perfectly timed and unobtrusive, allowing Bowie to roam freely in his own little world, to the utter delight of everyone listening.

Sadly, however, the run of good luck soon ends. We interpolate straight into 'Eight Line Poem', intended as a sequel of sorts to 'Oh! You Pretty Things'. But this is completely different in feel. With its countryish guitar and more washed-out piano, it has a more American feel. That serves to completely spoil the mood of the album, which so far had immersed itself in late-1960s folk and psychedelia. And even when you lay the lyrics out in front of you, you still have no idea what they mean.

If you can weather this let-down, you will come to one of Bowie's most famous creations. 'Life On Mars?' features Rick Wakeman on keyboards and came indirectly from Bowie's work as a commissioned songwriter. In late 1968 he wrote 'Even A Fool Learns To Love', placing his lyrics over a French song 'Comme d'Habitude'. A year later, in 1969, the same French song had been re-written as 'My Way' for Frank Sinatra; 'Life On Mars?' is Bowie's parody of the Sinatra hit. But although it is underscored by a feeling of bitterness for missing out on that level of success, the overall mood of the piece is one of surreal grandiosity. It was later described by BBC Radio 2 as "a cross between a Broadway musical and a Salvador Dalì painting"¹, and that's not far off. Either way, it's a brilliant song.

'Kooks' is a lot easier on the palate, if Northern accents are your sort of thing. Or French horns, for that matter. Bowie wrote this song for his then-newborn son Duncan Jones (also known as Zowie Bowie). The piano is straight out of music hall and Bowie seems completely relaxed, almost jubilant. The lyrics speak of his growing acceptance of his zany nature; an indicative example is the opening lines of the second verse: And if you ever have to go to school/ Remember how they messed up this old fool. This is very repetitive, but in a hooky, catchy way rather than an irritating one.

While 'Kooks' was droll, laid-back and comforting, 'Quicksand' is full of brooding and wailing. It's Bowie at his most impenetrable yet, with references to Greta Garbo and Friedrich Nietzsche which often don't make sense. But while this is heady and bleak, on the plus side it features some very well-executed string arrangements, the work of guitarist Mick Ronson. These seemingly indistinguishable background features come into their own in the second half of the track and it all appears a little clearer.

Of all the songs on the album, 'Fill Your Heart' is most typical of the mood Bowie tried to create. Which is ironic, considering he didn't write it, and tragic, considering it's rubbish. Crossing flaired-trouser folk with jaunty music-hall piano, this is a cover of a b-side by US novelty act Tiny Tim. But as with 'Life On Mars?', this song has gone through many motions before Bowie got his hands on it, and the result is nearly a complete mess. Bowie shrieks the closing lines of each verse in an effort to sound new and interesting, but in truth this song, like so much rubbish from the 1960s, is cheap, rigid and completely forgetable.

It is good to know, then, that Bowie has chosen his influences more wisely with 'Andy Warhol' and 'Song For Bob Dylan'. The former fades in from the end of 'Fill Your Heart'. For the first 50 seconds or so, we are treated to reverberating saxophones, studio chatter and distant laughter. From then on in, the guitars becomes flamenco and Bowie goes all tongue in cheek about one of his greatest idols. Warhol reportedly disliked the song because it made fun of his physical appearance², but when you actually listen, it comes across a whole lot more endearing, and has a great chorus. 'Song For Bob Dylan' is slightly more serious and respectful about the man with a voice like sand and glue. The guitars are more sneering and snarling than on the previous tracks, and the drums are back with a vengeance, cleverly pandering to Dylan's late-1960s work with The Band and his classic album Nashville Skyline (1969).

The penultimate track is a real belter. 'Queen Bitch' begins with one of the best double-tracked guitar riffs in rock music; it begins on Bowie's acoustic, and then a few seconds later Ronson's Fender barges in on top of it and kicks up the whole piece. Everything about this tribute to The Velvet Underground feels miles, miles better than anything before it; even 'Oh! You Pretty Things' struggles to match it. Trevor Boulder's melodic bass line ripples through the mix beneath the guitars, titillating you throughout, while Woodmansey returns to his best, dynamic yet restrained. At 3:19 this isn't the shortest song on the album, but it has the punchy nature of a motown jive. It's the best track on the album by far, and a cut above anything he created as Ziggy Stardust.

How disappointing it is, then, that we finish on a real bum note. By Bowie's own admission, 'The Bewlay Brothers' was only written to confuse Americans.³ Its garbled, twisted lyrics are specifically designed to have no meaning whatsoever. As a result, once the obvious irony has worn off - which it will very quickly - there is no point to this track. Commentators have read into this being about Bowie's schizophrenic half-brother, or pedalling a homosexual agenda, but you will come away from this feeling that they have wasted their time.

The best Bowie albums are always unpredictable; they change intention and direction when you least expect it, so that you end up with a collection of very different songs, often at the cost of overall consistency. On these grounds, Hunky Dory fits the bill as a great Bowie album. Not all the songs on here are brilliant - some in fact are quite below-par - but each is so charmingly different from the next that there is something for everyone. But unlike a lot of Bowie's albums, here the eclecticism and variety actually serves as a cement to hold it all together. Whereas subsequent albums took a certain style and pulled it in many different directions - as on Young Americans (1975, #73) - on Hunky Dory there are many strange and wonderful genres at work, all blending together to produce something wonderful. This is Bowie's best album without a shadow of doubt, capturing him on the brink of superstardom. It is a fitting testament to his abilities and it remains his most endearing work.

3.91 out of 5

References
¹ BBC Radio 2, 'Sold On Song - Top 100 - Life On Mars', http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio2/soldonsong/songlibrary/lifeonmars.shtml. Accessed on July 18 2008.
² Jon Howell, 'David Bowie FAQ: Hunky Dory (1971)', http://www.teenagewildlife.com/info/faq/57.html. Accessed on July 19 2008.
³ David Buckley. Strange Fascination - David Bowie: The Definitive Story (London: Virgin Books, 1999) pp.114-115 - cited in 'The Bewlay Brothers', http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Bewlay_Brothers. Accessed on July 19 2008.

Top 100 Albums - #56: Aladdin Sane (1973)

Bowie's sixth and penultimate entry is Aladdin Sane, the follow-up to The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars (1972) and the closing chapter of his glam rock phase.Ziggy Stardust, both the album and the personality, had turned Bowie into a glam rock superstar. Having had some small flirtations with fame in the three years preceding - 'Space Oddity' and 'The Man Who Sold The World' being singles highlights - he had until now remained a kooky figure, sought after by producers but on the commercial sidelines. Ziggy Stardust changed that, producing five hit singles and a series of extravagant, sell-out tours, featuring Bowie in his now-trademark red hair and androgynous, flared outfits. Between tours, Bowie turned producer on Transformer (1972) - Lou Reed's solo breakthrough - and The Stooges' Raw Power (1972), both artists being icons of Bowie. After frenetic touring, the Spiders from Mars finally returned to the studio after Christmas.

'Watch That Man' kicks the album off. It's a great guitar-driven glam rock song in the same vein as 'Suffragette City'. It sounds very similar in its pattern of verses and choruses, and Bowie's delivery is almost identical. Then again, it is supposed to, being the sequel to Ziggy Stardust (albeit without a storyline). Plus, there is some stylish piano from guest Mike Garson, and the female vocals stand very well with the harder, rockier sound.

Having disposed in a single track of all the folk-induced whimsy he had acquired over the past two years, Bowie changes gear on the title track. 'Aladdin Sane (1913-1938-197?)' may have one of the strangest (full) titles in the business - outside of psychedelic music, that is. The dates in the title refer to Bowie's belief in an impending World War III (the character is 'born' before both WWI and WWII). This is slower, more piano-driven and features some lovely saxophone, played by Brian Wilshaw. In the instrumental section, both combine alternately to produce an excellent piece of avant-garde jazz. The witty title disguises the increasingly unhinged nature of Bowie's lyrics, to the extent that you feel like he is singing about himself.

However masterful these changes of direction may be, they are put to shame by the next track. 'Drive-In Saturday' is a tribute to Bowie's taste for strange concepts driven by the lyrics. The words depict a world where people are having to learn to have sex again by watching old pornography. It's a piece of 'futuristic nostalgia', that is, people in the future longing for the past (presumably, it was an influence on ELO, whose album Time (1981) addresses the same themes). But the success, or brilliance, of this song, does not have to come with an understanding of the lyrics; you can sit there and not comprehend a word Bowie is saying, and yet the chord progression will reel you in. It's a staggering song, jazzy, pop-worthy but also of so much substance.

'Panic In Detroit' is a big step backward on the album. As its title suggests, it is much closer to American rock of the time, and as a result all of Bowie's English charm is drowned out by distortion. The lyrics are as indiscernable as they are uncompelling. Sure, it manages to create a nice rhythm, leading to you to nod your head: but it's bottom heavy, there is nothing coming from Bowie to bolster and conflict with the armour-plated Spiders From Mars.

'Cracked Actor' is, to be perfectly honest, rubbish. It's a combined rip-off of The Rolling Stones (guitars and boring drums) and Bob Dylan (terrible harmonica), while Bowie gurns his lines about an ageing film star having a homosexual encounter. If you can bear this long enough to peer through the pea soup, you might be surprised by its quality. Most, however, will be too frustrated to care because of this song's complacency.

Such blemishes aside, 'Time' is a good way to get the album back on track. While perhaps not as famous as its namesake (released a month earlier by a certain band), it does feature some great lyrics. The most celebrated, Time... falls wanking to the floor serves to intrigue only, while in general they provide a beeline to Bowie's motivation, desiring to change with mind of his impending end. The sniper in the brain/... incestuous and vain provides a fairly good example of this. Where the music is concerned, Garson's piano is thunderous and atmospheric, and Mick Ronson's guitar tragedian, producing a song that would have sat just as well on Diamond Dogs (1974).

'The Prettiest Star' is a trashy, thrashy, self-indulgent piece of nonsense. It's a relic of 1960s doo-wop with its 'bah, bah' backing vocals, with contemporary guitar shoved over the top in an attempt to continue the album's style. Not only that, but it's not original to the album - the single was an unsuccessful follow-up to 'Space Oddity' in 1970, which featured Marc 'T.Rex' Bolan on guitar. It's as if Bowie was so short on time that he just picked the most convenient sounding item out of his back catalogue and shoved it inbetween two throughly decent songs. (The stripped-down acoustic version, found on The Platinum Collection (2005), is a mild improvement).

Maybe "thoroughly decent" is underdoing it. 'Let's Spend The Night Together' is a cover, from The Rolling Stones, so it already has the flavour of the album. But this is miles better than the Stones version. While that was just a snail's-pace R&B workout with lazy work from Mick Jagger, this is a high-speed, high-octane rampage which tears apart your ears and then reassembles them as you jive away. It throws you around the room with the jaunty piano, Ronson's loud distortion acting as a plunger on a stack of dynamite. Mike Woodmansey's work on the drums is brilliant, and with Bowie on the best of form the four-piece create a piece of musical ecstacy.

'The Jean Genie', the first single to be culled from the album, is billed as a combination of the R&B hooks of The Yardbirds with the "stylised sleaze" of The Velvet Underground.¹ It features a great riff, executed to perfection by Ronson, and for once the harmonica part on the record doesn't make your toes curl so much that they end up on the other side of your heels. It's a great, thundery piece of pop rock, including a very melodic bass line, something which most pop is without.

What a shame then, that on this most divisive of albums, Bowie chooses to end with something as stupid as 'Lady Grinning Soul'. This song's comparison with a Bond theme (and the similarities are obvious) don't serve to elevate it; instead it is reduced to cult status for some, mediocrity for the rest. It drags Bowie down to the same level as Duran Duran and, for heaven's sake, Madonna. Who the hell wants to bracketed alongside them?! To take a more objective criticm, the production is terribly skewed towards the Franz Liszt-induced piano, drowning Bowie out at almost every turn.

Bowie described Aladdin Sane as "Ziggy goes to America", on account of the fact that all the songs were written while the band was on the road.² That might help to explain both why the album was very popular in America, and why the press have always been in two minds about it. For some, it is a great departure from the glam rock era; for others, it is an album with style but no substance, the musical equivalent of David Cameron. The best way to pass judgement on it is to compare it with its predecessor. The character may be effectively the same, but Aladdin Sane has no overlying concept - it's not a rock opera. But it's better than Ziggy Stardust because musically it has a lot more substance and variety, even at the cost of being a more united album. It may not have a concept, but then the storyline on Ziggy Stardust was so convoluted that it became lost in the melody. Here, the melody is within set boundaries which allow the lyrics to burst forth and create something a lot more memorable, and a lot more enduring.

3.80 out of 5

References

¹ Roy Carr & Charles Shaar Murray, Bowie: An Illustrated Record (London: Avon Books, 1981), p.52 - cited in 'The Jean Genie', http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Jean_Genie. Accessed on December 9 2007.

² Nicholas Pegg, The Complete David Bowie (London: Reynolds & Hearn, 2000), pp.281-3 - cited in 'Aladdin Sane', http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aladdin_Sane. Accessed on December 8 2007.

Top 100 Albums - #57: Scary Monsters (1980)

David Bowie's fifth appearance is in the form of Scary Monsters, the album which ended the 'classic era' and which is often called his last great album.¹Having reached the apex of his cocaine-induced madness on Station To Station (1976, #100), Bowie relocated to Berlin to dry out and live with Brian Eno. Over the next three years Bowie produced a series of albums with Eno as producer which became known as the Berlin Trilogy. The first offering, Low (1977), was a introspective onslaught, showcasing Bowie's fears of addiction and repeating himself ('Always Crashing In The Same Car'). "Heroes", which followed later in the same year, combined jagged rock songs with unhinged, edgy soundscapes, utilising Eno's love of ambient music. The final album, Lodger (1979), was more pop-friendly and combined the innovations of the last two records with the pop edge which would be embraced by the New Wave in the early-1980s. Having battled his demons and won, Bowie sought to draw together this new, edgy sound with the modified glam rock which had made him a star.

If, then, this album is supposed to epitomise the best of Bowie in every way, we begin by getting the full brunt of his strange(st) side. After a serious of strange noises, 'It's No Game (Part 1)' screeches into life with frenetic Japanese. Bowie, too, is screeching, screaming the lines from beyond the top of his range in what amounts to a failed Roger Waters impression. It's an off-putting start to the record, chiefly because of the horrible vocal delivery, but then because the rhythm section is so good that you realise that he's really ballsed it up.

Having set through the self-indulgent guitar solo at the end of the last track, we are rewarded for our patience in leaps and bounds. Not only is 'Up The Hill Backwards' miles more focussed, working in harmony with the rhythm section instead of straining against it with every chord. It is also a much better effort from a lyrical perspective. The beginning of the second verse - While we sleep, they go to work/ We're legally crippled, it's the death of love - does not make the most sense, but like all of Bowie's best work it's not so much that it is easily comprehendible, but it has a poetic, philosophical quality to it.

The title track, 'Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps)', corrects the self-indulgent guitar of 'It's No Game (Part 1)' by imprisoning it behind simple but aggressive acoustic guitar, just as he had done on Hunky Dory (1971). Bowie channels into his voice all the paranoia of the Berlin era and then uses the cow bell to create a heightened sense of alarm - all the while producing a more-than-adequate pop song. Wait until 3:12 and you will hear the beginning of a great siren guitar. The only problem with this song is, unless the radio edit, it comes equipped with an annoying, self-reverential guitar solo and some irritating vocals to boot.

But fear not, for already we have reached the album's best track. 'Ashes To Ashes' is, quite simply, amazing. It's splendidly produced: everything is tight and in proportion without feeling artificial - there are no drum machines, noise gates or looped soloes here. The guitar and keyboard parts manage to be incredibly kooky and yet are insanely catchy. And lyrically, this is Bowie at his best. He is pouring out his soul, dressed as a clown to hide his inner uncertainty. The best lines are found before the second chorus: I've never done good things/ I've never done bad things/ I never did anything out of the blue, woo-oh/ Want an axe to break the ice/ Want to come down right now. The words are laced with irony and yet are so tender, they perfectly portray the tortured genius, shapeshifting from one personality to another and still haunted by his past.

'Fashion' is a much more overt pop song. Just like Pete Townshend did on 'Slip Kid', Bowie takes an unusual rhythm and them, against prediction, sets the guitar and drums on the off-beats. It's brilliant, compromised only by some flatter lyrics from Bowie - you shout it while you're dancing on the-he dance floor has never sounded right and never will. Again, there's an annoying outro, but at least this one has the courtesy to have some structure, as well as a New Wave edge.

'Teenage Wildlife' sees Bowie finally getting the guitars properly reigned in, with multiple and layered parts. At first listen, it's a meandering ramble through Bowie's anxious subconscious. After a few spins, however, the lyrics begin to unravel themselves and leap out as you. Again, we find Bowie in a combined state of anxiety and self-reverrence, passing himself off as, in his own words, same old thing in brand new drag. This is a stand-out track for the reason that it doesn't stand out - unless 'Fashion' it has no pop preachiness to it, it rests in the background and lets you examine it for yourself with open minds and ears.

So far, then, Scary Monsters, has been an album of very few genuine slip-ups. No sooner have I said that, however, than we come to the turkey that is 'Scream Like A Baby'. It's roughly the same length as 'Up The Hill Backwards', but it's no way as accessible. Beginning like a ZZ Top B-side, it can't decide what it is - the bass is heavy enough for it to be lite punk, but there are pop rock keyboards and obnoxious harmonies. It's a land of confusion for Bowie, almost as much as 'Kingdom Come' is. At the outset, this would appear to be better - but it isn't. Bowie's delivery is so nasal you could have sworn it was Dylan. The backing vocals are clichéd and serve little purpose except to remind us of the lesser side of Young Americans (1975, #73). Definitely one, or two, to skip over.

'Because You're Young' features Pete Townshend on guitar (hence the link earlier), overlaid with a strange kind of falsetto organ and fairly standard drums. Bowie's delivery on this one is graver, more formal, and a lot less nasal, thank heavens. Unlike the others, this is a toe-tapper which sustains your interests despite the lack of a heavy beat or prominent guitar hooks (Townshend's role is reduced, either by the song itself or his substance abuse). And yes, hearing Bowie holler A millions scar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ars is well worth it.

The album is wrapped up with 'It's No Game (Part 2)'. Here the Japanese vocalist and high-pitched screeching have been removed, leaving behind a pop rock song with a relaxed feel to it. Bowie almost mouths the lyrics, with hardly a care in the world. During the verse, at least. The chorus feels a lot better for these production changes, the lyrics have more time to resonate, and we get an extra verse in there as well - even if it is bookended by more strange tumbling objects.

Scary Monsters is one of Bowie's more consistent albums, mainly because it takes the best bits of everything he had done previously and layered them into new creations. Because of this it could be seen in turn as a greatest hits-in-kind, the first 'neo-classical' album, and a brilliant record in its own right. It doesn't just take all the best riffs and beats and reassemble them into something resembling a song - this is not the album equivalent of 'Los Endos' (see my review of A Trick Of The Tail (1976, #76)). Instead, it takes the best elements of the old and reinvents them to create a new sound, a welcome, if uncertain, departure from Lodger - in that respect it's quite close to Genesis' Duke, released the same year. But perhaps Scary Monsters is best viewed in its context - as the closing chapter to an extremely innovative decade of music, with a Bowie poised on the brink of another reinvention.

3.80 out of 5

References
¹ Stephen Thomas Erlewine, 'Scary Monsters', http://wc05.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&token=&sql=10:0vfwxq8aldhe. Accessed on November 29 2007.

Top 100 Albums - #73: Young Americans (1975)

David Bowie makes his fourth appearance on our chart with Young Americans, the album which brought him great success in the States for the first time, and the record which created the genre of 'plastic soul' - that is, soul music done tongue-in-cheek by white musicians.After breaking up the Spiders from Mars on stage in July 1973 and completing the cover album Pin-Ups, Bowie rekindled his earlier interests in the stage by attempting to create a dystopian musical based loosely on George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four (1949). But problems with Orwell's estate meant that neither the musical nor the film that he planned got far. With clarion calls for a new record, he combined the music that he had produced thus far to create the fragmented Diamond Dogs (1974), taking on the character of Hallowe'en Jack. But as the following tour progressed - producing the live album David Live (1974) - Bowie began to be more interested by the 'Philly Soul' sound, to the extent that he both moved to Philadelphia, and suspended the tour so that he could write some soul numbers to include in the second leg of what became known as the Philly Dogs tour.

Young Americans, then, is the culmination of Bowie's fascination with so-called 'plastic soul'. The title track, which kicks us off, begins with a very finely orchestrated combination of drums, piano and saxophone. We are coated in a luscious layer of American soul sound before Bowie comes in for the first time. And this is a different kind of Bowie voice. While his work in the early-1970s - from Hunky Dory to Diamond Dogs - had cast him as an edgy, slightly awkward rocker, here he comes across as a suave, sensitive and sophisticated performer with no room for vocal error. With a delivery more reminiscent of The Man Who Sold The World (1970), and very witty lyrics, this is a very worthy introduction and a smooth departure from his previous incarnations.

'Win' seeks to consolidate this new, luscious and textured feel, and does so in the clever use of bass, saxophones and the ever-present female harmonies. This is more laid-back, allowing Bowie to croon and slide over the guitar parts. The chorus is perfectly executed, and there is some clever question-and-answer - almost banter - between Bowie and the saxophone by the time the second verse is running its course. At the same time, it retains the Bowie motif of changes in time signature and strange choice of notes.

With its darker, more brooding sound, 'Fascination' opens like a cross between a Peter Frampton live album and an offcut from "Heroes" (1977). Still, Bowie's delivery and the female vocals quickly transmute this into a more complex soul workout than the other two provided. Bowie seems here to be singing about himself and his inability to stand still when it comes to music. Lines like I know that people think that I'm a little crazy and the chorus (Fascination/ Showing off/ Takes a part of me etc.) are a clear message to his earlier fans, still distressed at the 'retirement' of Ziggy Stardust and confused by Bowie's choice of direction.

'Right' is the first track on the album to fail to complete justify its place. Coming at the halfway point, it finds Bowie experimenting with his vocal ranges and being increasingly irritating in the process. The quickfire sections of the song barely make any sense, and the tempo is too regular to half-justify them. Add in some underused alto sax and some equally pointless female vocals and you have a big let-down on your hands.

It doesn't take long for Bowie to pull himself together, however, and 'Somebody Up There Likes Me' is a sparkling return to form. The joint graft of piano and sax is great, and there is a firm bass part to underscore it all in true soul style. Admittedly, this does take a bit longer to reach its objective than some of the songs on the album, but when it does, you're instantly hooked. 'Across The Universe', with its acoustic opening, turns back the clock to the days of Space Oddity (1969) and Hunky Dory, and is littered with wonderfully ironic lines like Nothing's going to change my world. Bowie is faintly pre-Ziggy in his choice of registers, and this has a rockier feel to it - not least in the distinctive hi-hat work, which has a Buddy Rich feel to it.

'Can You Hear Me' takes the successful formula of the title track and attempts to replicate it while slowing the tempo down quick drastically. Cynics may scoff at this, but in fact it's one of the better tracks on the album. Not the best, mind - that honour goes to 'Fascination'. In its favour, the lyrics on this song are much easier to pick up, without rendering them vacuous; and Bowie's voice has rarely sounded better when strenched over such as a range. It's a great song, a little long perhaps, but the extra space is amply filled by Bowie's improvisations.

Critics raved about 'Fame' when it was released as a single, describing it as an accurate portrayal of the life of an artist stretched to the brink, working relentlessly just to avoid bankruptcy. With all this reputation to live up to, it is a little disappointing. It will grow on you, particularly as you explore Bowie's later efforts of this period, but its main flaw is that it jars with the rest of the album. While the rest of the record has been a homage to the Philadephia sound, with some tongue-in-cheek stuff thrown in for good measure, this is pure introspective, albeit in a funky sort of way. On any other album, this would have been a great song - just not here.

Young Americans came as a shock to Bowie's fans: even those who saw him move towards R&B in the Philly Dogs tour found the transition a little hard to stomach. Critics were equally unsure about the album, although there came an eventual consensus that it was not enough of a departure from any given sound to warrant the title of a Bowie masterpiece. As AllMusicGuide.com puts it, "even at his most passionate, Bowie sounds like a commentator, as if the entire album was a genre exercise... Young Americans is more enjoyable as a stylistic adventure than as a substantive record."¹ And yet, this is a deeply sophisticated record. It hangs together like a soul record, it sounds like a soul record - but the difference is that Bowie has peppered this with his own charm, wit and pretension. The result is an erudite, educated and informed effort which is highly enjoyable. At the very least, it's a damn-sight better than Diamond Dogs.

3.75 out of 5

References

¹ Stephen Thomas Erlewine, 'Young Americans', http://www.allmusicguide.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&sql=10:0ifixqq5ld0e. Accessed on August 18 2007.

Top 100 Albums - #74: Heathen (2002)

David Bowie's third chart entry is Heathen, the second record of his 'neo-classical' period and the darker follow-up to the comeback effort 'hours...' (1999). It became Bowie's biggest chart success of recent years and was nominated for the Mercury Prize.Despite the departure of his guitarist Reeve Gabrels - who described the music on 'hours...' as "too soft"¹ - Bowie was on a bounce after abandoning the electronica and drum and bass he had dabbled with in the mid-1990s. His next project, entitled Toy, was scheduled as an album containing new editions of old classics plus three new songs - perhaps like a self-referencing version of his cover album Pin-Ups (1973), or a studio album with a live setlist. Recording began in 2000 but was quickly abandoned. In 2001 Bowie appeared in the Concert for New York City following the 9/11 attacks, before returning to the studio once again under the successful eye of producer Tony Visconti.

The album begins with 'Sunday'. The choral harmonies and eerie guitar create the atmosphere before Bowie's ageing voice counterpoints it perfectly. The lyrics are not as distinct as you might expect, but their delivery is thankfully absence of the sentimentality that plagued 'hours...'. Lines like Nothing has changed/ Everything has changed manage to sum up his predicament: he is still producing what the fans want, but the rest of the world has moved on, leaving him in what could be called the musical graveyard. Bowie sounds depressed, almost despondant, and it works very well, even with the odd-fitting drums at the end.

'Cactus', a cover of the song by The Pixies, begins with some irritating cymbals and continues with Bowie being even more so. Being a cover, it doesn't fit well, and being a alt-rock/ pre-grunge song, it is of a style that Bowie has so far been unable to master. The lyrics are almost unlistenable, especially with Bowie's tinny drawing out of the refrain. Before long, we return to sanity in the form of 'Slip Away'. Also called 'Uncle Floyd', this is more minimalist and again features some eerie guitar. With piano reminiscent of Hunky Dory (1971), the production at the start has a vinyl-ish feel to it - much like Kanute (#77) - and features some nice, if underused, strings in the background. Bowie delivers the cloudy lyrics in a cross between despair and desperation, until he has you by the scruff of the ears.

'Slow Burn' brings both bass and guitar to the forefront while maintaining the brooding atmosphere. Pete Townshend (The Who) and Tony Levin (King Crimson) add an aggressive edge to Bowie's vocals, which as before betray despondency and uncertainty about the future. It's a fine vocal performance which serves, if nothing else, to silence critics claiming that Bowie's voice had deteriorated. The prominent guitar continues on 'Afraid', another ornate string piece made complete with some strong drums. There is a mild sense of paranoia apparent in this song, although the lyric I'm still so afraid/ On my own may be a hint at his marriage to Somali model Imam.

'I've Been Waiting For You' is another cover, this time of Neil Young. It's one of the shortest tracks on the albun, and also the slightest. There are some interesting rhythms, for sure, but it sounds like Bowie is fumbling around for an alternative to Young's Canadian brogue. Generally it's a less impressive effort, which tries to be atmospheric and yet tries so hard that it is destined to fall short.

'I Will Be Your Slave' is a return to the standard we have come to expect. It's a song of submission and acceptance of one's fate, which may sound a little hollow to the untrained ear. On closer inspection however, there are some decent strings and synthesised effects. For the really careful listener, one can detect some deeply pitched pedal steel guitar murmuring in the background.

'I Took A Trip On A Gemini Spaceship' is the third and final cover on the album. Considering the insipidness of the other two attempts, it doesn't have much going for it - especially when we discover that it was originally done by the a-melodious drawling that is The Legendary Stardust Cowboy, an American one-'hit' wonder who lent his name (more than anything else) to Bowie's most famous incarnation. The song opens like a standardised dance song, the kind of rubbish that graces inner city clubs. We are then forced to listen to Bowie mumble along while the background noise dominates. This song is awful because it doesn't do justice on two counts. One, it doesn't sound remotely like the original (though, one could hazard a guess, that would be worse). And two, it is not of the kind of quality Bowie should be giving his fans.

Rant over. Bowie's favourite song on the album, '5:15 The Angels Have Gone', is a thousand times better. It's focussed, comprehensive and has a clear sense of emotion. Where the previous track adopted the dance philosophy (deafen people so much that they don't care and become irrationally happy), this doesn't force you to feel anything; it merely sets the appropriate atmosphere to hint at how you should feel. There is some wonderful drumming on this, not because it is especially impressive on a technical level, but because it's inobtrusive, unlike a lot of modern rock.

'Everyone Says 'Hi'' is the last real slip-up on the album. It's begins like a cheapened version of one of the instrumentals of "Heroes" (1977). But then it transforms into a tinny outtake from Hunky Dory or The Man Who Sold The World (1970). No, wait, it's a Berlin era piece with the background synthesisers. Or is it a middle-of-the-road pop-rock song? It just can't make up its mind, and as a result this is a piece of aimless cacophony.

'A Better Future' sets out to be a new piece in the style of the Berlin era, only with lighter touches, and of course modern production. Lyrically speaking, this is a repetitive effort from Bowie, and his delivery is relatively timid. Nonetheless, this is a very good song depending on how you read it. Lines like I demand a better future/ Or I might just stop needing you good be about his family or, more likely, his career. Maybe this is a statement to his new label to get things right from the start.

After all this tossing and turning, we come to 'Heathen (The Rays)'. This is a superlative composition. This has a funereal feel to it, not in the sense that it is dirgeful, but in that it is steeped in melancholy (not unlike Wish You Were Here (1975)). Bowie is at his most exposed for a long time, delivering lines like Waiting for something/ Looking for someone/ Is there no reason?/ Have I stayed too long? with an almost galling amount of deadpan. It's a brilliant song, no question.

Heathen is a good effort from Bowie. 'Good' is the word, because neither is this magnificent on the scale of his work in the 1970s, nor is it an insipid shot at commercial success like in the mid-1980s. It's a two-faced album in many ways: it's a document both of Bowie's sentimental, at-ease feelings at this stage of his career, and his feelings of despair at the modern world and towards himself. At ease with the past, uncertain of the present. That is not to say that this is a desperate album; unlike Low (1977) this is not forceful and brooding, and where there are Berlin-era influences that are counterbalanced with washes of electronica. If nothing else, Heathen is testament to Bowie's lasting talent as a songwriter - proved, ironically, by the direness of the covers. Let's just hope that he gets the message for his next comeback, which is, incidentally, long overdue.

References
¹ 'David Bowie', http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/David_Bowie. Accessed on August 10 2007.

3.75 out of 5

Top 100 Albums - #92: 'hours...' (1999)

Bowie's second entry marks the dawn of what can loosely be called the 'neo-classical era' in Bowie lore. 'hours...' finds himself coming to terms with old age and his multiple identities which shaped his albums and with them the face of music.

The 1990s had been a tough time for Bowie. Although his first foray into mainstream dance-pop, Let's Dance (1983), had received positive reviews and produced a No. 1 hit, its follow-ups, Tonight (1984) and Never Let Me Down (1987), had been slated, all-but-bringing Bowie's career to a grinding halt. In response, he formed Tin Machine, a band whose first album set the tone for what would become guitar-oriented grunge; but with Bowie feeling creatively stifled the band only produced one more (inconsequential) album before disbanding in 1993. Bowie spent the next six years jumping from genre to genre, but rather than setting the trends as he had done in the past, he was now ironically impersonating them to regain popularity. But from the hip-hop soul touches on the now-rare Black Tie White Noise (1993) to the industrial Outside (1995) to the drum-and-bass techno of Earthling (1997), his efforts received mixed-to-negative reviews and all sold poorly.

'hours...' sees Bowie settling down and realising that his golden-age work could not be topped. We begin with 'Thursday's Child', a song which encapsulates Bowie's feelings completely. In the first verse he addresses his chameleonic past with humour - All of my life I've tried so hard/ Doing my best with what I had/ Nothing much happened all the same - and considerable irony - Something about me stood apart/ A whisper of hope that seemed to fail/ Maybe I'm born right out of my time/ Breaking my life in two. We are beingh introduced to a Bowie which, although he still 'has far to go', is increasingly comfortable about his path and his legacy. It is often said that Bowie's multiple changes in personality and identity were down not to a desire to be pioneering but rather fundamental insecurities - in either case it would appear that these are now being laid to rest.

'Something In The Air' and 'Survive' both continue this theme of coping with the past and growing old. On the first track, we are treated to some interesting guitar effects which sit brooding in the background under the verses, only to rear their sinister heads in the chorus. Bowie's voice is electronically distorted which gives the feeling of anguish and distress, adding to the theme of desperation and despair that doubtlessly dogged him throughout his 1990s turmoil. 'Survive' switches tone, being a more relaxed, acoustic number (initially). Here Bowie sings in reassurance that this is not the end; while he may no longer be in his prime or the most pioneering musician around, he will stay around if only for those that love him. Though one feels that the distorted, elongated guitars don't really add anything, this is a very assured number and a good listen.

'If I'm Dreaming My Life' is more drawn-out and a great deal less compelling. As on all his albums, Bowie has by habit taken a great series of songs (in this case the first three) and thrown in a wierder track to throw the audience - and on 'hours...' as with the rest, it doesn't always pay off. Bowie's voice is a bit drawly, the drums are flat and lifeless, and the lyrics are quite forgetable. As part of the album this fits nicely, but if it attempted to stand alone it wouldn't work.

Focus and quality both return in 'Seven'. The opening is reminicent of a Lightning Seeds song - most likely 'Punch And Judy' off Jollification (1994). This, like all the tracks, is introspective, but is the only track thus far to equal the heartfelt appeal of 'Thursday's Child'. The lyrics speak of death - I got seven days to live my life/ Or seven ways to die - but these could also be about luck and of course his various incarnations (though I think there were way more than seven). 'What's Really Happening?' attempts to sustain this quality with Berlin-era guitar work at the start to set a dark tone, but Bowie's voice is too high-pitched and the harmonies too out-of-kiltre to support this rather humdrum work, whose lyrics are the weakest on the album.

'The Pretty Things Are Going To Hell' is a great rocker which even non-Bowie fans will enjoy. At last, drums achieve some form of prominence thanks to great combell work and a catchy under-rhythm. The guitar effects here are again dark and the lyrics sharply despondent - You're still breathing but you don't know why/ Life's a bit and sometimes you die - referencing Les Misérables of all places. This sounds like a synthesis of lite metal and hard rock - and it works. It really, really works.

'New Angels Of Promise' is the last track on the album to fall short of expectations. There are two reasons for this. First of all, the opening is bad, sounding like a flautist's rip-off of 'Misty Mountain Hop' (itself an awful song). And second, Bowie's lyrics are both uncaptivating and are delivered in his most grating, irritating voice. On a song designed to expose the agonies of his soul, a nasal sneer - interlaced with rubbish crooning - is usually uncalled for.

Thankfully, the closers both restore faith in Bowie's abilities and the message of the album. 'Brilliant Adventure' is a marvellously well-constructed 2-minute instrumental which restores the tone to one of brooding, unpredictable introspection. So often the use of repeating riffs sounds formulaic and tired - here it is the perfect way to add tension to the piece, which in itself acts as the perfect lead-in to 'The Dreamers'. This song could be best described as 'the grower' - the more you listen to it, the more you like it. Its opening is dark, industrial and has a Berlin-era feel in the use of synthesisers. Bowie has adjusted his voice to suit the mood perfectly - here he is stricken, anxious and despondent. The catchy guitars make up for the completely absence of a discernable bass line, and though the drums are again underused, this does not matter because lyrically this is one of the strongest efforts on the album. The chorus seems to sum up Bowie's attitude towards himself - So it goes/ Just a searcher/ A lonely soul/ The last of the dreamers. He may well be right.

Bowie's neo-classical period is characterised by him taking the best parts of his back catalogue and using them as a mould for his new records. If this is true, then 'hours...' is a perfect example. It is a great effort to synthesise the lyrical whimsy of Hunky Dory (1971) with the atmospheric textures of Low (1977), with the introspection and contemporary themes overlayed, producing an album that is both contemporarily interesting and that his ageing fanbase can enjoy. This may seem cynical, but Bowie devotees may spot this in the music at least. The efforts don't always work - in many places the lyrics are a little flat, and throughout the rhythm section is underused. But while this is not one of Bowie's great works by any standard, it serves as a useful time capsule on his career as it was at the end of the 20th century. If nothing else, it would begin the much-deserved rehabilitation of his long and variegated career.

3.70 out of 5

Top 100 Albums - #98: Live EP (2005)

The first of four live albums on the list, Live EP was recorded on September 9th 2005, on the UK/US TV special Fashion Rocks. Arcade Fire, riding the crest of new-found fame, were joined by a recuperating David Bowie to perform three songs for a live (and enthusiastic) audience.

By late 2005 Arcade Fire were becoming massively successful in North America and Europe. Their debut album Funeral (2004) - which appears later on in the chart - was released to critical acclaim and commercial success, prompting their record label to re-release their minimalist self-titled EP (2003). After appearing on Later... with Jools Holland in May 2005 they broke into Europe and became the rock band of choice for students. At the same time, David Bowie was taking time off, recuperating from heart surgery after feeling chest pains in 2004 during the Reality tour in Germany. Just as he would later do with David Gilmour in the On An Island tour of 2006, Bowie in this period confined himself to guest appearances.

The first sound you hear on the EP (in this case 'record' is a little stretched) is Régine Chassangne, the keyboard and xylophone players and wife of vocalist Win Butler, whom she married during the recording of Funeral. She introduces their guest with the words: 'He sits the pace, and we just try to keep up. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage our good friend, Davie Bowie.' Cue piano and rapturous applause. This, I would hedge a bet, is partly because of the obvious prestige of Bowie, but is suspect is also a sign of support for the band. It was after all Bowie who spotted the Montreal seven-piece on tours and effectively got them a record deal, so this seemed the ideal way to pay him back.

The first track is 'Life On Mars?', Bowie's classic from Hunky Dory (1971) which helped to both break him into glam rock and lay the foundations for Ziggy Stardust. Like the original, the sole instrument is the piano (violins feature later on the '71 version), and as such it could easily pass off a track from an ordinary Bowie tour. Bowie's voice is very different; even singing in the same genre or timbre as the original, it has aged a little and is a little deeper, but on the other hand it is not wearisome, at least not enough to seem passé. Bowie can still hold the long notes and the audience laps it up.

After the audience is faded out, we rejoin the gig with Arcade Fire performing 'Wake Up', a track made famous as it was played before the start of every U2 gig on the Vertigo tour of 2005-07. Having said that, I have always been rather underwhelmed by this song, and for all the energy of an Arcade Fire concert this recording doesn't do anything to change this, both because the recording is too polished and produced to capture the raw energy and because the song is clunky. Even if the lyrics are good - as they all are on Funeral, but more on that later - Bowie doesn't do the song complete justice, and I am not the biggest fan of Butler's voice live. Since his singing voice is weaker and even 'thuggish' (as many indie singers are - case in point Hard-Fi's Richard Archer) he is more suited to the studio than the stage. That doesn't compromise the live set to any great degree, but it can get on your nerves.

Finally comes 'Five Years', the short yet sprawling track opener of The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars (1972). Bowie holds his own - as he has always done - and with only light guitar and soft drums to accompany him at first, he rambles through the unusual lyrics. Butler joins him on the chorus and it sounds good; and as if by magic, the rest of the band slowly joins in until, at the very end of the album, the screeching violins fade out on a very good show.

This live album has a very polished feel, to the point at which it feels overproduced and tweaked in places. The middle track is the weakest, for the reasons discussed before. This is an indie rock record, and as such comparison with albums like Live At Leeds (1970) and Frampton Comes Alive! (1976) would be unfair; nevertheless, being a live record, even not on the same scale, it will be group with these (and every other live album conceivable) almost be default. While this is a good occassional listener, it is designed a little for cultists - if you're a casual fan of either Bowie or Arcade Fire and want to look further, this is not the place to start.

3.67 out of 5

Top 100 Albums - #100: Station To Station (1976)

Well, we have to start somewhere on the countdown of my Top 100 albums. And we begin with David Bowie's lowest entry on the chart, Station To Station (1976).

By the time Station To Station came along, Bowie's career had taken many a turn for better or worse. After 'retiring' the Ziggy Stardust character - present on both The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars (1972) and its follow-up Aladdin Sane (1973) - Bowie had sought to branch out into theatre. He intended to produce a musical version of George Orwell's Nineteen Eighty-Four, but Orwell's estate blocked him from changing the book into a filmscript. The resulting album, Diamond Dogs (1974), sold poorly, both because of the quality of songs and the fans' backlash from 'killing off' Ziggy when glam rock was still going strong. Bowie responded by relocating to America, where he became fascinated by soul music. In 1975 he delivered the highly-praised and transitional Young Americans, creating the genre of 'plastic soul'.

Station To Station saw the debut of a new Bowie character, the Thin White Duke. Unlike Ziggy, the flamboyant, bisexual, androgynous transvestite, the Thin White Duke was straight, suave, sophisticated - and fascist. Bowie by this time was heavily dependent on drugs; living off a diet of cocaine and milk caused him to lose a lot of weight, giving him a skeletal appearance similar to that of a dying Freddie Mercury. The cocaine caused him to become paranoid, culminating in a PR disaster: on his return to England in late-1976, he gave the expectant crowds a Nazi salute. It did so much damage that it persuaded Bowie to clean himself up. He moved to Berlin(?!) to live and work with Brian Eno, which eventually produced the acclaimed Berlin trilogy - Low (1977), 'Heroes' (1977) and Lodger (1979).

The epic opening/ title track begins with the sound of trains. Eventually we hear one pulling into the station, at which point the first traces of guitar and piano kick in. We are treated to several minutes of scene-setting, layered riffs before Bowie croons the opening lines: The return of the Thin White Duke/ Throwing darts in lovers' eyes. The 'return' implies that this side of Bowie has been present all along, which can be put down to the liberal drug culture of 1970s and Bowie's vocal style, which he honed on Young Americans. But before long, the song changes drastically, with a greater urgency shown through the time signature Bowie's voice which becomes more screechy.

'Golden Years' is more feelgood and feels like a cabaret track, precisely the stage that the Thin White Duke needed. The song is bright, rhythm and an easy dancer - as proved by its (of course anachronistic) use in the Heath Ledger film A Knight's Tale (2001). The song also benefits from quick lyrics counterpounted by simple, subtle bass lines which leave you feeling relaxed, like you're lounging in a Los Angeles club without a care in the world.

'Word On A Wing' switches back to stricken. Despite the jarring piano opening, this is Bowie at his best when it comes to emotive songwriting. His voice is pleading yet reassuring, drawing you in. Going against persona by the song's close, what starts as another polished cabaret number along the lines of 'Golden Years' turns into a spiritual plea with him on his knees. It's a deep love song and very powerful when taken with a pinch of salt, considering Bowie's ever-surreal influences and unexpected changes in direction.

'TVC 15' is probably the strangest track on the record, sounding as it does like a B-side from Young Americans with the technical prowess of Hunky Dory (1971). It's too jazzy to fit perfectly, with the prominent saxophone backing to the vocals, and yet you come away highly satisfied if a little clueless to the song's meaning. 'Stay', the penultimate track, also has a 'plastic soul' feel to it, especially in the chorus, but like the opener it tries to be clever with a lengthy introduction - the difference is that this time it feels like excess material.

The closer, 'Wild Is The Wind', finds Bowie at his most sombre until the soundtrack item 'Drowned Girl' from 1982 (both the videos are, interestingly, shot in black and white and features an actual recording of the studio performance). Bowie's lyrics are a cry for help - Love me, love me, love me, love me, say you do - , the cries of a man falling apart with his only salvation in love. Overall, the song is a little too repetitive and the ending is too long, yet it has a special quality to it.

Station To Station is by no means Bowie's best album, of the golden age or overall. It makes an important bridge between the commercialism of his glam rock days and the introspective technical fascinations of the Berlin era. It is a show case for Bowie burdened by a fame he never sought and, like Pink Floyd, he didn't know how to deal with it. The latter two songs are the lesser tracks musically, but lyrically this is generally a strong effort. The problem is either that Bowie cannot sustain the quality of the openers throughout, or that his emotional problems become a drag. Nevertheless, an interesting effort which set things up for albums to come.

3.67 out of 5