DAVID BOWIE

David Bowie is a triumph of natural intelligence over actual artistic genius. Unlike the artistic milestones released by the likes of Bob Dylan, the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, and company nothing on Bowie's records really cries out "GENIUS!". Sure, he was a great songwriter, and wrote tonnes of songs incorporating catchy melodies into memorable arrangements but, still, the impression remains when listening to them that they are more the work of a man who has painstakingly learnt how to create great art (often through imitation) than someone who can just do so instinctively. They say someone like Bob Marley couldn't understand what it was like not to be able to just write a song on the spot. I never get that feeling when listening to Bowie. Of course he was good at it (often great), but it wasn't something "special" that really set him out from the rest. I also believe this intelligence-over-genius characteristic can be seen in the complete lack of any really pioneering work of art in his cannon. As opposed to his heroes like Dylan, the Velvet Underground, the Stones, Beatles and so on Bowie never really invented any kind of musical movement. Through his talent and prominence it might have seemed like he was the spear-head of the glam rock movement but, in actual fact, he was merely capitalising on what his peers had already started. Indeed, his whole career has been a tale of manipulating someone else's great idea into his own success. Of course, he hardly struck gold straight away and his attempts at beginning life as a sixties hippy singer-songwriter were laughably trite. Indeed, one almost wonders whether his "chameleon" persona was actually a tool of necessity more than anything else. He knew he was never sincere enough to forge a career off his own back and therefore he has been forced to change direction as fashions dictate to avoid falling into obscurity. After milking glam for what it was worth he jumped ship at just the right time but, unfortunately, it meant he had to renew his search for what was going to be popular. Philly soul wasn't (Young Americans) but arty albums with a smattering of hit singles were (Diamond Dogs and Station to Station) before he hit upon his best idea yet of getting one over on his rival Brian Ferry and riding the coat-tails of the multi-talented producer and composer Brian Eno. Two of the three resulting albums, thanks to Eno's artistic sincerity, rank as among the best releases Bowie ever put his name to and also saved him from the punk-rock lynch-mob of 1976/7. Nothing lasts forever, though, and even someone as intelligent as Bowie could not survive the dreadful coming of the eighties (if you can name ONE artist that started in the sixties and continued to release good albums in the eighties I'd be very impressed). His pop sensibilities took a battering, his songwriting muse deserted him, and trying to go with the flow in the nineties with techno albums didn't do him many favours either. It is no coincidence that 2002's retro-flavoured return-to-form, Heathen, came out after his back catalogue had enjoyed a favourable critical reappraisal. What better way to draw the plaudits than release an album that sounds like the old ones that everybody loves so much? If you can say one thing about him, he is certainly canny.

Bowie's intelligence is also illustrated, as already mentioned, through his canny knack of choosing uniquely talented "sidemen" to help with his music. Just superseding the fact that Otis Redding's albums are not credited equally to Booker T and the MG's when you pick up a copy of Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane or Low and "Heroes" you might be a little surprised to learn they are not credited to 'David Bowie and Mick Ronson' and 'David Bowie and Brian Eno' respectively. You might have thought joint songwriting credits, joint arranging credits and being responsible for most of the musical magic would deem joint album credits but, somehow, Bowie managed to fob them off. I guess that is the price you pay for supporting someone whose desire for fame was almost as great as his actual artistic sincerity. Of course, Bowie did like art for art's sake (he is also a painter, writer and a terrible actor) and I'm not suggesting for one minute he was a complete chancer that just wanted the wedge. David Bowie WAS a great artist. Furthermore, he WAS a great songwriter in his own right. Let us not forget the classics he wrote for other people (Mott the Hoople and Iggy Pop prominently). He clearly enjoyed being involved in the artistic scene and clearly did take a strong interest in all forms of art (let us also not forget his obsession with Andy Warhol - he even portrayed him in some duff film I once saw). The fact remains, however, Bowie did not possess the same natural gifts of the likes of Bob Dylan and so, instead, used his intelligence to hoist himself up to that elevated position. By following the trends and using the right people at the right times Bowie was able to forge a career greater than his actual natural talent quite deserved. In short, the mask itself is greater than the man behind it.

From: AndrewKemsley@aol.com

Having read your comments on various Bowie albums, and indeed Bowie himself , i just had to write to tell you ...YOU KNOW NOTHING!!
The fact that you declare Bowie not to be a genius , and the likes of Dylan and Hendrix are just says it all. While quite rightly hendrix could play guitar like know one else at that period of time, it hardly constitutes him as a genius, lets face it how many years was he around for?
And Dylan has always in my eyes been overated( i see him in concert and it was like watching paint dry while listening to the tumble drier going, the scene never changed and the drone of his voice remained the same throughout, Ha!, voice what am i saying?
Sure it could be argued that he inspired a generation, well Whoopy bloody do!!!! The man does'nt come near the sheer genius of Bowie, what albums can honestly be said of Dylans that dont sound the same as the last?
Trust me Bowie is about the only true genius that there is, and its because of his genius that there may be flaws in some records he has cut( never been scared to follow what he believes).
I dont know your age but you talk as if you are too young to be making judgements like that, dont get me wrong you are right to have an opinion, but you are badly mis-guided in your views.
As i said dont know your age but i am 46 and i have seen every concert that he has played in this country( including the farewell of Ziggy at Hammersmith) and i can assure you that he is by far the greatest live act that you are likely to see( and i have seen some big names live).
His constant push to find the alternative in itself qualifies him as a genius alone, because lets face it , He stands alone in the music industry!!

From: ddickson@rice.edu

Merle Haggard started in the sixties and continued to release good albums in the eighties. But that's country, unfortunately, and really really conservative country at that, for the most part. Are you ready to take the plunge, Jack? ARE YOU READY TO DIVE INTO THE ABYSS???!!! :)
Oh, and Bowie's a good lad. Ziggy Stardust rocks, haven't heard a single one of his other albums. I want to, though.

In an Orwellian stroke I'm sure Bowie is proud of this album is commonly regarded as his debut album and is, thus, the first release in the remastered series. Of course this simply ain't true. Bowie had been singer-songwriting unsuccessfully for most of the latter half of the sixties (cf. "The Laughing Gnome", although I've not heard it). As well as a glut of early singles (available in CD format) he released a full-length album called, naturally enough, David Bowie and (if the BBC Sessions material is anything to go by) it consisted of perfectly accessible sixties pop. By the time Bowie had his first proper success (with the single "Space Oddity") he had obviously decided to disown his original debut and so released this album, also calling it David Bowie. Of course the record companies knew better and renamed it Space Oddity to capitalise on the success of the single. As it happens I'm not really concerned with Bowie's early material as this is the first real artistic statement of his that counts but I don't want you thinking I've fallen into Big Brother Bowie's trap. Anyway, it won't shock anyone to learn that the single "Space Oddity" is the only real masterpiece on the album, but given it is one of Bowie's best ever songs it would have struggled to find similar company on all but the finest of albums. Again, it barely needs to be said but Bowie was still struggling at this stage to establish his chameleon-like persona. Indeed, you might view this as one of Bowie's most "honest" albums as it, more or less, suggests the type of artist he actually was: a struggling singer-songwriter with half-arsed hippy leanings. Most of the numbers consist of Bowie strumming away on an acoustic guitar with varying arrangements, from full electric band ("Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed", "Cygnet Committee"), to strings-a-go-go (the desperately overblown "Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud" and, of course, the title track), to understated sole acoustic efforts ("Letter to Hermione", "God Knows I'm Good"). To match the varying arrangements there are also a wide range of moods and emotions on here. The most notable extremes probably being the throwaway camp "Janine" (a poor song that sounds like it should be crooned by some 50+ Lothario) and the pompous epic "Cygnet Committee". "Cygnet Committee" is a full nine-and-a-half minutes long with some sort of pretentious narrative about the overthrow of a repressive dictator but the majority of it works well and it is only the "rousing" finale that causes a stink with its pompous pretension ("I want to live", etc.). At any rate, I doubt Bowie was ever quite as pompous as that again. And, although being a stand-out number, the clumsily-titled "Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed" is probably the most unlikely rocker I've ever heard. It begins with a nice understated acoustic guitar and melody before unexpectedly morphing into a bluesy harmonica-driven rock stomp. I guess the way the song changes so fluidly is testament to Bowie's skills for arrangement, even at this early stage in his career. The other most ambitiously arranged number is the drawn-out album closer, "Memory of a Free Festival", which features Dave at his most hippyish (apparently written about some London hippy festival he played). The switch from understated organ to the psychedelic finale is far less subtle than "Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed" and the closing refrain of "the sun machine is coming down, and we're gonna have a party" is pretty dumb. The album as a whole, though, is relatively enjoyable. It isn't a masterpiece and many of the songs are more pretentious than they are good but you could never say Bowie was a bad songwriter so this album only really suffers when his intellectual ambition gets the better of him. I'd say a relatively solid yet inauspicious start for Bowie except, as we all know, this wasn't the start at all.

Bowie's follow-up to Space Oddity (I daren't call it his second album) is often hailed as the real beginning of his career - his first album of a sufficiently high quality and the first where he really began to forge his identity (well, the early identity). In one sense they're right and, in another, I'm rather unfortunately called into dissent. There's no doubt, as opposed to the embarrassing anonymity of Space Oddity, that this album does show both Bowie's persona and musical advances in a clearer light. In the former respect there is the oh-so-controversial hint at sexual ambiguity (Man In Dress Shocker!) whereas in the latter Michael Ronson (competing with the treacherous Nick Barmby as Hull's greatest celebrity) provides his service for the first time and therefore, with his brilliantly jagged guitar playing, displays unmistakable elements of the edgy glam rock that Bowie would go on to excel at (albeit briefly). On the other hand, despite these advances, one cannot really get away from the simple fact this album is still short of superlative quality. As with a lot of these kinds of things (well Aerosmith's Get Your Wings, anyway) Bowie refined and improved his sound without actually writing refined or improved songs. Sure, this probably is a little bit more impressive than the previous album but not enough to get one hot-under-the-collar. Even with Ronson's superb guitar playing songs like "Running Gun Blues", "After All" and particularly "She Shook Me Cold" (great lead guitar but where's the song?) come across as exercises in the ordinary. Furthermore, Bowie rather obviously over-plays his newly-found subversiveness with the Syd Barrett-tribute "All the Madmen" being as corny as any as the previous intended hippy anthems on Space Oddity. And, of course, this album lacks a song as classic as the aforementioned's title track. Coincidently, it is the title track on here that also climbs closest to an exalted status but it is as much Nirvana's superb cover on their Unplugged album that grants it its legacy. Of course, it IS obviously the best track on here but the "mystical" arrangement muddles the experience and confuses the song when Cobain later showed clearer is better (particularly as far as Ronson's memorable riff is concerned). Naturally we hardly need the world's greatest detective (ie. Columbo) around to tell us the change in direction was presumably aided by Ronson's arrival as David on his lonesome on the previous album showed us, great songwriter though he is, he doesn't always come up with great musical ideas off his own back. The change is an instant one, too, as the most ambitious and forward-thinking track on this album is the very first one in the form of the eight-minute epic "The Width of a Circle". As a bare song it isn't really a shining jewel but, unsurprisingly, the guitar playing by Ronson and the resulting progressive arrangement succeed in transforming the song from a failed experiment into something all-together more appealing. Similarly, the guitar crunch of "Black Country Rock" helps to reinforce what is one of the few catchy melodies Bowie actually delivered on this album. His personality is further revealed with the closing "Supermen" with its lyrics quoting Nietzsche and drawing him closer to his flirtation with Nazism (which culminated with an ill-advised Nazi salute at Victoria station in the mid-seventies). Of course, as an ex-Philosophy student I am obliged to point out that Nietzsche (one of my favourite philosophers and writers) was categorically NOT a Nazi but unfortunately had his radical and extremely forward-thinking ideas manipulated into propaganda by wholly unsavoury sorts. In any case, "The Supermen" kind of sucks so it isn't worth the bother. Besides, old Dame David Bowie has got a lot of nerve to rant about his superior intellect and mental capacity when he owes what moderate success this album achieves almost solely to his partner-in-crime Mick Ronson. In historical terms, this is a fairly interesting album but it was only what developed from it that really achieved the quality desired. Ironically, though, such developments were momentarily put on hold while Bowie paradoxically achieved his first real taste of success.

Although Hunky Dory is widely and rightly hailed as one of Bowie's all-time great albums (and arguably his first) its stylistic developments from The Man Who Sold the World is nothing short of incredible. I'd place good money on the fact that if you mixed up Bowie's early- to mid-seventies albums and asked an ignorant record-listener to arrange them in the order they came out The Man Who Sold the World would be placed directly before 1973's Aladdin Sane which displays an obvious development of Bowie and Ronson's acerbic, decadent glam rock. In other words, this album is one of the most bizarre interruptions in musical progression that I've ever come across. It shares basically nothing in common with The Man Who Sold the World, although one might argue the combination of the pop melodies on here with the glam rock of the previous release represents an accurate overview of Ziggy Stardust. Anyway, to cut a long story short, this album reverts back to Bowie's modest singer-songwriter persona with the majority of tracks being either piano-based pop tunes ("Changes", "Oh! You Pretty Things") or piano-based ballads ("Life on Mars?", "Quicksand"). The omnipresent (in the then musical scene, as opposed to his current status on day-time television) Rick Wakeman was drafted in to play the piano (due to David's self-attributed inability) and although Ronson was still playing the Jeeves role he plays the guitarist role less, although he did have a hand in half of the arrangements. Although the apparent abrupt switch in direction is superficially unfathomable I think it can be reasonably explained. Although it wasn't as unheard-of as it is now this album only came out a year later than the previous release and, as the BBC Sessions show, David was actually sitting on the material for both albums at roughly the same time. Therefore, although this album came out subsequently, it is fair to assume most of it was actually written at the same time as The Man Who Sold the World. Therefore, David consciously decided to release two different albums at roughly the same time by splitting the relevant material over the two LPs. Of course, there was some gap in the recording and that presumably allowed David to increase in confidence and ability and therefore put out a far more polished and impressive album. Although an instant classic like "Changes" can only be put down to great songwriting skills a lot of the power of this album lies in its impressive and epic arrangements. "Life on Mars?" is an ambitious epic ballad powered along by an equally grand string arrangement as, to a lesser extent, is "Quicksand". The latter continues and makes explicit Bowie's delusions of Nietzschian grandeur with an incredibly arrogant and self-satisfied set of lyrics. Still, when he did go on to establish himself as one of the giants of twentieth century music it is hard to really knock him for it. He would no doubt say modesty is overrated, anyway. Which is ironic, actually, as the poem-in-song "Eight Line Poem" is about as modest as he got, with echoes even of the self-depreciative Nick Drake. Of course, Bowie's ego cannot be kept under wraps for long and within a few songs he is lambasting Bob Dylan for not writing era-defining albums every year (as he did in the mid-sixties). Now, I've respect for Bowie but you'd like to think Dylan sent Bowie a copy of Blood on the Tracks a few years later with a "shut the fuck up" note contained within. It is not even as if this album is that far removed from Dylan's contemporaneous New Morning. Of the songs for his idols, though, (the atmospheric "Andy Warhol" being another) the best is clearly the Velvet Underground tribute "Queen Bitch". Marrying their decadent lyrics of early albums to the infectious rock'n'roll of Loaded it is the only real rocker on the album and all the better for it. Unlike the previous two releases this album is refreshingly free of failed experiments and clueless filler, even if the kitsch "Kooks" (written for his new son Zowie) and "Fill Your Heart" (the first in a series of one-cover-per-album) are slight and forgettable. The album ends with another epic ballad (the last four songs all prefer acoustic guitar over Wakeman's piano, though) "The Bewlay Brothers" which is a reassuringly impressive and confident way to close proceedings. Due to Bowie's ever-restless search for the next big thing his career is more one of peaks and troughs than one recognised consistent peak but there's little doubt that this album along with its successor is the first real zenith of his career.

Finally, after five years of trying, David Bowie made it big. And, to be perfectly honest, he's never looked back. Everything his fame and fortune is based on can probably be traced back to this album. And, you know what, this ain't the worst album in the world to make one's name with. Bowie did all kinds of over-the-top glam-rock, androgynous posing to make people take notice (including infamous on-stage homoeroticism with Mick Ronson) but, the fact remains, all he really needed to do was release this set of songs. In true seventies style (and another example of Bowie ripping off the trends of the time) this album is a concept one, loosely revolving around an alien coming to earth, becoming a rock star and eventually having to sacrifice himself to save mankind (therefore with obvious and grandiose nods to the second coming). The fact is, though, these days no-one really gives a shit. It must have been fun to do the whole Ziggy/Bowie confusion for about, say, five minutes but it can't have come as much of a surprise when Bowie tried to jettison the whole Ziggy persona a year or so later. Anyway, in short, there's a whole lot of baggage surrounding this release but it should not obscure the fact this is clearly the strongest set of songs Bowie ever penned and almost certainly his best album overall. The glam stuff can seem a little dated (particularly when compared with Low or "Heroes") but quality is timeless and, by God, this album is quality. The fact is, though, not only had Bowie finally developed as a songwriter but he had also, finally, tapped into exactly what would make him a star. Nothing on here is as anywhere near as acerbic as The Man Who Sold the World and the melodies are easily as strong as those on Hunky Dory plus the arrangements are more commercial and more focused than the kitsch rambling of the previous album. Indeed, given that it was this album that really made Bowie a pop star it is not unsurprising to learn that it is pretty much a pure pop album. The pretentious indulgences Bowie occasionally allows himself are kept under wraps and the arrangements are kept as polished and as uncomplicated as possible. "Starman" represents the peak of his pop sensibilities with a chorus borrowed from "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" whilst even the rockers - "Moonage Daydream", "Ziggy Stardust" and "Suffragette City" - make sure the listener is captivated by the sheer melodicism of them, rather than the power and energy of pure rock'n'roll. That's not to say they aren't great rock songs, of course, but, as opposed to an artist like Led Zeppelin they were obviously primarily written as great pop songs. Furthermore, reinforcing the conceptual nature of the album, the set begins and ends with gradually-building power-ballads - "Five Years" and "Rock'n'Roll Suicide". Both songs are clear stand-outs and make sure the operatic overtones of the piece are at least made explicit at the rise and fall of the theoretical curtains. They also show the extent to which Bowie had grown in both confidence and ability as songwriter and arranger (obviously with Ronson's help) when compared to the similarly-styled ballads on the previous album. Given that this is Bowie's perfect pop album, though, one can see why fans often turn to some of his later, more adventurous works to get their kicks. Like many great pop/rock crossovers the sting in the tail comes with the fact that in order to completely ensnare the pop market the artist is forced to reign in his more adventurous artistic ambitions. It would be ridiculous to engage in a lengthy criticism of such a magnificent album but despite being Bowie's strongest set of songs it fails to win the title of being his most interesting release. Still, as a document of how to achieve pop perfection it is practically peerless.

So Bowie finally achieved his sought-after commercial success and secured his pop icon status and, unlike more fragile and sensitive souls, he was not immediately shocked and disgusted by all the fuss. David Bowie, of course, has never been one who has been particularly shy of the spotlight and is almost refreshingly honest in his avaricious pursuit of riches and rewards (few people could have been as unabashed as Bowie in promoting his shamelessly exploitative 'Bowie Bonds' a few years back). Anyhow, Ziggy Stardust's manic success left Bowie content to bask in his self-made glory and, therefore, in looking to follow up such a popular album he did not venture far beyond it. Of course, it would be a little unfair to suggest this is just Ziggy Stardust rehashed and David is at least decent enough to invent a new, marginally different persona from Ziggy in the form of the ginger mulleted 'Aladdin Sane' (as in 'a lad insane' - see what he did there?). I gather the screaming Top of the Pops crew were not altogether fussed about Bowie's brilliantly post-modern tinkering with fame and the public perception of an artist's personality vs. their art and, instead, continued to confuse Bowie with 'Ziggy Stardust', much to his intellectual chagrin. Anyway, the main point to press home is the fact that stupid ol' glam rock was still all the rage and therefore Bowie saw no reason to jump ship just yet. Therefore, for at least half this album he just repeats the old dog's new trick. The singles "Drive-In Saturday", "The Prettiest Star" and the classic "The Jean Genie" were mostly just more of the same, satisfying the public's demand but hardly pushing Bowie-the-artist into new and unexplored territory. To be fair to the little man (apparently one of the shortest men in showbiz, along with best mate Marc Bolan) this album does return somewhat to the edgier, more acerbic hard rock that he experimented with way back on The Man That Sold the World and, as a result, Ronson again jumps to the fore with his scintillating guitar playing. I would not want to speculate too much as to how far artistic considerations went in influencing the production of this album but, at any rate, it also retreats past the unashamedly commercial sheen of Ziggy Stardust with Bowie's vocals being buried in the mix a little more, and with Ronson's acidic guitar sound more prominent and more powerful than on the previous album. I guess it seems in many ways that Bowie was trying to make up somewhat for his plunge into popular music by wrapping his songs up again in an artier, more esoteric sound. Indeed, his love of early Velvet Underground is again restated with the sheen scraped off the production, even it is still a long way from the unlistenable majesty of White Light/White Heat. David also gets his pretentious hat on again with the intriguing and decidedly uncommercial title track which sees the pop melodies washed away by a pulsating rhythm track and discordant piano tinkling over the top. He also flexes his campest muscles (oo-er!) with the ridiculously kitsch, vaudeville "Time". The pair of them are obviously intended to provide evidence of Bowie trying to re-assert himself as the risky artiste but, swamped in the company of glam rock pop songs, they show little more than Bowie half-heartedly wrestling with his conscience. Not that a lot of this glam rock stuff isn't rather good, of course, as one was hardly complaining about the quality of the previous release. The Rolling Stones-inspired romp "Watch that Man", the sleazy "Cracked Actor" and the suggestive ballad "Lady Grinning Soul" all ooze class, and provide a semblance of sophistication to a music scene that, led by the likes of Mud, Slade and Wizzard, did its best to divorce itself from good taste. The more generic glam numbers mentioned earlier clog up the track-listing somewhat but, thankfully, only one true atrocity of popular music is committed on this release. The atrocity (not to mention monstrosity) of course being the truly, truly awful cover of the Stones' classic "Let's Spend the Night Together". I've got plenty of time for Bowie but, for God's sake, he should never have been allowed near the sheet music for the sixties classics (a point unfortunately and needlessly borne out by the following release). Still, I've got a whole review to lay into Bowie's 'art' of covering classic songs so, for now, I'll simply end by making the fairly obvious comment that this is a really good album, without being a massive divergence from the aesthetics that made the previous one so great. Still, Bowie never sat still for long so a little bit of water-treading here and there can be forgiven; particularly compared to some of the real disasters he was unfortunate enough to put his name to.

As has just been said above, the one thing David Bowie was never any good at all at was covering his favourite songs from the swinging sixties. It is therefore with extreme trepidation that one encounters Pinups - an album solely consisting of glam rock-styled covers of the classic tunes of London's r'n'b scene in the mid-sixties. Most of the stars of the era get the tribute treatment from David - including Them, the Pretty Things, Syd Barrett's Pink Floyd, the Yardbirds and the Who, with a few one-hit wonders along the way. Sadly but wholly unsurprisingly, the whole album is offensively ham-fisted, ill-conceived and just plain lazy. Bowie had finally established himself as a great original songwriter and, give or take, a great artist. The fact that he felt the need to rush out an album as inexcusably poor as this one, just for a bit of coke-money, deservedly highlights just how his financial greed did sometimes obscure his true talent. As I've said, he was never one to be overly troubled by insecurity and, surrounded by a bunch of 'yes' men, I guess this must have seemed like a really sound idea. How utterly, utterly wrong he was. Although thankfully marking the end of his glam period it also sadly marks the last time Bowie was to work with the tireless and underrated Mick Ronson and, to that end, one wishes he had signed off with a far more significant release. Of course, Mick does not do much wrong and he obviously has fun imitating his guitar heroes of yesteryear and, indeed, often escalating them. On the other hand, as if to reinforce the sheer laziness with which Bowie approached this project, the vocals are pretty much terrible throughout. David camps up ridiculously, thereby robbing many of the original songs of their grit and bite that made them so popular in the first place. The gay ejaculations of "Here Comes the Night", for instance, are a disgrace to the memory of Van's original anguished roar on the chorus. The Village People backing vocals present exactly the same problem and one can't help but wish if Bowie was having such a great laugh over all this he could have kept the joke private, instead of making his increasing legion of fans shell out for it. Some of the lesser known songs are a little less reprehensible than his treatment of the classics with "Rosalyn" and "Sorrow" almost seeming like real songs, as opposed to the rantings of an alcoholic cabaret artist, and, when all is said and done, his cover of the Who's "Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere" does not disgrace itself (probably due to the fact Daltrey was not much of a vocalist himself during the sixties). The Who unfortunately get soiled twice with a lethargic and, frankly, horrifying rendition of their peerless classic "I Can't Explain". To take a song as great as that and to make it sound as truly terrible as he does I guess is no small feat. Indeed, the whole album is not so much like looking at a car crash as being forced to watch one take place. As the album slithers from disaster to disaster the dread and disgust only increases and the first time the distinctive chords of "I Can't Explain" belatedly drift into being the immediate thought is "oh Christ, he didn't... did he?". Unfortunately, he did. "See Emily Play" is an absolute fucking disgrace, the Yardbirds' classic "Shapes of Things" is raped and pillaged and closing with a limp run-through of the Kinks' "Where Have All the Good Times Gone" MUST be a knowing wink at the tortured listener. Where, indeed, have the good times gone? Thankfully, this aberration proved to be just a blip, rather than a sign of things to come, but that does not make it any more acceptable. I'll go for a pint with David Bowie if he wants but I expect a full and frank apology for this offence first. It truly is a crime against music and good taste and it is just as well he redeemed himself several times over with prior and following releases. What a ted.

Thankfully, the rotten failure of Pinups did signify an end of an era in a way and with glam rock losing its gloss and Mick Ronson moving on as a result David was forced out of complacency and into thinking exactly which way his career was to go. In truth, he did not truly settle upon a second niche until a few years later but, in the meantime, he was able to release one further classic album that all-too-often escapes notice as, probably, his most underrated release. Furthermore, the fact that he did so almost entirely single-handedly serves as excellent evidence of just how much talent Bowie had as an artist (when he chose to exhibit it) and that one should never be too hasty to pass the compliments of his career unto his collaborators' shoulders. Instead of diving straight into the market to find a replacement for Ronson Bowie retained the skeletal remains of his original backing band (bass, drums and keyboards) and, instead, took it upon himself to contribute everything else himself including, as well as all lead instruments, arrangement, production and, of course, songwriting. Therefore, even if one is quick to stress Ronson and Eno's responsibility for the likes of Hunky Dory and Ziggy Stardust, and Low and "Heroes" respectively one simply cannot overlook the talent Bowie personally utilised in making this album so successful. Perhaps tellingly, though, this is not an album full of musical innovations and, as I've already said, I still hold that Bowie usually relied on the help of others to succeed in that field. In the main, this album retains most of the dynamics of the old glam rock scene, with rock'n'roll riffs and perky saxophones, only with the campness toned down and an increased seriousness sharpened by the odd stab at something a little more adventurous. What Bowie was always best at was simply writing great songs, something he does on here with an almost complacent ease. Anyone already in the least bit familiar with Bowie will of course be familiar with the two classics contained herewith - the sleazy, six-minute title track "Diamond Dogs" (which initially suggests yet more glam rock, before the album slinks away into more unexpected territories) and the timeless rock'n'roller "Rebel Rebel" which showcases at least one great guitar riff that Ronson didn't write for him. Bar the bizarrely impressive proto-disco of "1984" the rest of the album concentrates mainly on dark, brooding ballads that display a new seriousness to Bowie's work that is more-than-welcome after the reprehensible flippancy of Pinups. A near-perfect first side of vinyl (beginning with "Diamond Dogs" and ending with "Rebel Rebel") is fleshed out with the brilliant "Sweet Thing"/"Candidate" medley which excellently cranks the tension, flawlessly segues into a whole new song, before the dramatic climax is finally released with an operatic overture. The conceptual theme of a totalitarian futuristic society originally came about as an intended musical appropriation of Orwell's classic novel '1984' but apparently licensing issues put paid to that - although "1984" and the superlative ballad "Big Brother" remain as obvious relics of the original intention. Instead, Bowie's futuristic world rests on a bizarre concept of diamond dog poachers who poach rats the size of cats and the like. Have I mentioned the fact that David Bowie used a lot of drugs yet? Well, he did. For whatever reason, however, unlike so many others he was still able to keep his mind on the ball for long enough to have a prolific and successful career (probably mostly due to keeping away from the brown). Besides, it is not as if Ziggy Stardust was the most sensible concept album in the world ever, is it? Obviously, his songwriting was not quite up to that standard (in truth, it never was again) but there is little doubt that, even acting on his johnny tod, Bowie was brilliant enough to rack up another superb album. It might be tucked away during a bit of a wilderness patch but there is no reason to overlook it as a result. Arguably, his most underrated album.

With the tide starting to turn in the mid-seventies the one thing that Bowie did not want to do was get left behind in a sea of irrelevance. The stalwarts of the British rock scene like the Rolling Stones, Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, Yes and even the mighty Led Zeppelin were starting to sink and, as David had already correctly identified, glam rock also had nowhere to go but down. However, Bowie's cocaine use had started to reach Scarface-style proportions and his desperation for a new sound became ever more intense as a result. Therefore, in what is generally considered one of the strangest moves in his entire career, David decided he'd leap on the gravy train of the emerging slick soul scene that was forming from the ashes of Motown and Stax, which would later go on to become what is now unfortunately forced upon as the vapid and insufferable "modern" r'n'b. David Bowie was not some cool black dude, though. The Thin White Duke might seem pretty hip doing drugs-fuelled Euro-influenced art-rock but when trying to impersonate the likes of Isaac Hayes and Marvin Gaye he is so far out-of-depth it is not even offensive, just hugely, hugely amusing. Of course, as I've constantly stressed, David Bowie was not a stupid man and there surely can be little doubt (or at least benefit of) that he knew that what he was attempting was not done so with unerring seriousness. I realise that I gave Pinups a severe dressing-down for essentially just being a David Bowie in-joke at the expense of his fans but at least for this album he wrote his own tunes. As a result, given his still impressive songwriting skills, most of this album is actually pretty passable and it does, of course, contain two of his greatest hits, albeit two of his silliest, in the form of the opening title track and the closing "Fame". As the keener rock historian amongst you might already be aware, "Fame" was co-written with a certain John Lennon of Gerry and the Pacemakers fame (although it is surely Carlos Alomar who deserves the most credit for his song-making funky guitar line). After the take-them-on-on-your-own heroics of Diamond Dogs David obviously felt he fancied a bit more help this time around and therefore the cast-list is boosted considerably including, as well as Yoko Ono's lesser half, none other than Luther Vandross who, in trying to boost David's soul authenticity, co-wrote the hilariously funky "Fascination" with him. In a way it is probably the key track on the album as it is so utterly silly and utterly inappropriate to Bowie's style that one can't help but be won over by the fact that it is actually, at the end of the day, a pretty nifty little number. Likewise, the title track is just so ridiculous one forgets that the reason it does not run out of appeal once one has stopped laughing at the initial hilarity is because, actually, it is a pretty good song. The other three original soul numbers are slow, sombre efforts that see Bowie moving the distraught listener to tears with his emotive vocals perfectly capturing the pain of heartbreak. Or, on the other hand, they're also rather amusing, with his whiny cockney vocals not so much making the likes of Sam Cooke and Otis Redding turn in their graves as sit up and wonder what the hell is going on. Still, "Win" has a neat waterfall-esque saxophone line (that Beck put to appropriate use in his own superlative white-boy soul parody "Debra") and the opening vocals to "Can You Hear Me" almost makes one forget the joke with its crooning sincerity. Still, despite being a good laugh, the songs are hardly first-rate and the overall quality is weakened further with his typically but no less unfortunately terrible cover of the Beatles' classic "Across the Universe" (with Lennon gleefully adding to his tarnished memory). Thankfully, within the context of an album that one cannot take seriously to begin with, such a crappy aside hardly ruins the overall experience. It is utterly pointless, of course, but then so is the entire album. That doesn't mean it ain't rather amusing, though, and, unlike with Pinups, at least the songs themselves are OK. For someone who tried so hard to be as cool as possible at every waking moment it is rather amusing, and probably quite predictable, that Bowie spectacularly failed so often. As far as those lapses go, this is almost certainly the funniest.

Of course the good thing about Bowie's intelligence was that when one of his experiments did not work he did not dwell on it but instead pushed ahead with a new idea instead. And once he struck upon something successful he was usually canny enough to pursue it for just the right length of time. Thus, the two highlights of his career are based around a little run of consistency he put together with two highly successful stylistic adaptations - superlative glam rock for the former peak and intelligent European art-rock for the latter. Thus, after a bit of unsuccessful but nonetheless amusing arseing around in the mid-seventies Bowie rediscovered his muse and set off on another run of form, beginning with this album. His excessive cocaine use again dominated proceedings with him physically shrinking into the Thin White Duke and his judgement again clouded by the intense transparency of the white stuff. Thankfully, though, it was an ill-judged Nazi salute in front of his fans upon returning to London that showed his messed-up mind and not an inappropriate dalliance with a musical genre that was never meant for cockney fairies like himself. Indeed, the musical style of this album is about as fitting to Bowie's talent as it could get with him retaining the soul elements of his crooning but with sharpened seriousness which results in a far weightier body of songs. It lacks the progressive electronics of his Eno work but the technological ambience is still present, making Bowie resemble some kind of cabaret crooner from outer space. It is surely no coincidence that around this time Bowie played almost that very same character in 'The Man Who Fell to Earth'. Due to his chronic drug-use it is actually quite hard to discern exactly how far Bowie believed in his grandiose claims of his all-powerful invincibility but, on the title track at least, his ego knows no bounds as, over ten minutes, he paints himself as some sort of semi-deity, walking aloof from mere mortals, reflected by the omnipotent grind of the endless arrangement. Still, as with a lot of his more arrogant excursions, the fact that it is so great means one can hardly be too hard on him for not putting on an exterior of false modesty. The ego-boosting cocaine can hardly be helping matters in that respect, of course, and the song perceptively, but unsurprisingly, captures the intense lightness and illusory sharpness of coke, without the subsequent feeling of your skin trying to crawl off your body that the dirty stuff brings with it. In a similar vein, is the ludicrous sci-fi lounge-core of "TVC15" which is an infamously off-kilter tale of Bowie's TV eating his girlfriend. Again, to reiterate, even with such an absurd premise one is still not entirely convinced that Bowie is just having a laugh with such shenanigans. The third classic on the album is also, handily, one of his many, many Greatest Hits in the form of the mutated doo-wop of "Golden Years" which again sees Bowie in crooner mood but with far more success and authenticity than his tomfoolery on Young Americans. Indeed, you can tell this album is one of his best by the fact it includes one of his very, very few covers that is actually a best track. The crooning classic "Wild Is the Wind" completes the set with Bowie again revelling in his serious cabaret act with one of his few genuinely emotional vocal performances. Of course, like most of his albums that were not overly influenced by a prominent collaborator Station to Station is far from a wildly innovative album. Carlos Alomar provides the usual slick funk with his guitar-work and the piano is again prominent, particularly on the ballads but, as I've said many times over, Bowie is such a great songwriter that musical innovation barely seems to matter. Besides, he obviously knew the time was right to branch out again and with the old rear-guard of seventies rock on their last legs and about to face a bloody purge Bowie slipped away through the back-door and returned as the triumphant leader of the new wave.

With punk successfully waging its war on both sides of the Atlantic, David Bowie came up with another of his great decisions in skipping the battlefield altogether and relocating to a poverty-stricken Berlin, which was reverting back to its morbid decadence of the thirties. Taking drugs-buddy Iggy Pop with him and hooking up with fellow British art-rock legend Brian Eno Bowie succeeded in achieving what so many fellow singer-songwriters fail to do, in regenerating his career with another peak of artistic inspiration. As is often the case, Bowie's artistic restlessness was pre-empted and generated by personal strife with the fall-out from his drug dependency and his final split from the even-more-insane Angie Bowie. Whilst in Berlin the artist in him was re-awakened, after the detached unreality of his mid-seventies period, and he embraced the bohemian life once again (as well as apparently subsisting on a diet of raw eggs). Luckily for Bowie, whilst those terrible young oiks were disparaging the previously unassailable giants of the music scene such as Led Zeppelin, Yes, Deep Purple et al, the slightly more intelligent crop of new bands were singing his praises. Joy Division began life with the name "Warsaw", taken directly from this album, and the textured keyboard-layered new wave acts like Magazine and The Cure were clearly and unashamedly indebted to Bowie. Of course, it could have gone either way following Station to Station as the songs were still five to six minutes in length each and it is not that hard to envisage a man so demoniacally enraptured in his own cocaine-fuelled ego disappearing into the gulf of worthless self-indulgence. Instead, Bowie brilliantly stripped everything away. The songs-with-vocals on here are all three minute blasts of Euro-pop perfection. The melodies are the best he'd produced since Ziggy Stardust and, aided by Eno's wonderfully intelligent and forward-thinking arrangements, the songs come across as altogether more interesting to boot. The desperate gulf left by Angie's departure results in some of Bowie's best and most personal lyrics as the likes of "Be My Wife" and the absolutely peerless "Always Crashing in the Same Car" reflect his troubled mental state and, for the first time in a while, show a real human being experiencing a few problems - rather than the indestructible Thin White Duke breezing through the world in a whirlwind of white powder. The album is, of course, famously split into a stark and unexpected dichotomy with the first side containing those brilliant Euro-pop tunes (bookended by two melodic instrumentals) and the second consisting only of four atmospheric instrumentals. Although, "Warszawa" apart, the latter are all credited solely to Bowie the cynic among us should be deservedly sceptical of such a claim. It seems more than likely, on the balance of probabilities, that Brian Eno was at least as responsible for such a superb suite of music. Part of the brilliance of the album is in the way it runs so smoothly from up-beat pop to sinister atmospherics. Indeed, this is surely one of the most remarkable albums to have been released at any time but the fact that it stands out in a year when so many great musical innovations were being pioneered only makes it even more impressive. Furthermore, such is the quality of this exercise it becomes hard to discern which side is the greater. The pop tunes are obviously more instantly appealing, particularly the classic "Sound and Vision" (the perfect combination of a textured arrangement and unforgettable hooks), but the ambience generated with the four instrumentals is impressive on a whole different level, drawing the listener in with its subtlety but refusing to present any answers as to why one keeps listening. Eno's synths are the key, with their eerie ambience bringing to mind the other-worldly contradiction of 1930's sci-fi reflecting, for instance, Fritz Lang's 'Metropolis'. In other words, some far-away future place but still somehow rooted in the desolate depravity of 70s Berlin. As a result, it is not difficult to see that relocating to Berlin was the best possible move Bowie could have made. The resulting inspiration served to re-ignite his artistic sensibilities and, with a little help from his friends, helped to produce at least his second finest hour and almost certainly his greatest artistic achievement. And, more importantly from David's point of view, it meant he was still down with the kids.

With his career revitalised Bowie was once again able to revel in a musical style that befitted his ambitions and in double-quick time released a follow-up to the critically-acclaimed Low that was similar in style, content and, above all, quality. With the general set-up unchanged (Bowie, Eno, Berlin, raw eggs, etc.) there was no reason to change the approach so again Bowie penned half an album of electronica-influenced futuristic pop tunes and half an album of avant-garde instrumentals. Of course, there were changes afoot and the pop songs feature more of an industrial slant than before and the instrumentals also take off in a different direction, being less homogenised than the suite on Low and therefore seeming more like tracks in their own right. It is certainly easier to distinguish each instrumental from the others, although there is no reason to immediately suppose they are superior as a result. The smooth, unobtrusive flow of Low was a telling factor in its success and the fact that this feels more like a set of independent tracks could lead one to suppose it lacks the same level of coherency. That would probably be an unduly harsh criticism, however, and the reason for the marginally lower rating rests only on the fact that of the songs-with-vocals two, "Sons of the Silent Age" and "The Secret Life of Arabia", are slightly less impressive than the other tracks on here and, indeed, the gems on the previous release. If we're talking great pop tunes, of course, then one should not be too surprised to learn the title track pretty much corners the market in that respect. I simply cannot conceive anyone is not already familiar with it as it is probably, at a push, Bowie's most famous ever song. And, of course, deservedly so. Furthermore, the superficially trite lyrics ("we could be heroes, just for one day") lose their cheesiness when one realises they document a doomed romance between two lovers caught either side of the Berlin wall - excellent evidence of the extent to which being in such a fucked-up city served to heighten Bowie's artistic vision. He also tackles the Californian performance artist who used to nail himself to his car in the superb "Joe the Lion" whilst the album opener "Beauty and the Beast" exemplifies his industrial Euro-pop with a superb introductory climax and a storming melody. In terms of changes in personnel for this album, the most debauched icon of the seventies (Iggy Pop) says his goodbyes and the most unpleasant (Robert Fripp) clocks on with a begrudging hello. Still, it is the Frippster's unique guitar style that helps to elevate "Blackout" to a status beyond mere synth-rocker so his contribution is not an unwelcome one. Of the instrumentals, the first two - "V-2 Schneider" and "Sense of Doubt" - continue the cold, futuristic atmospherics of the Low suite whilst "Moss Garden" wonderfully recreates an authentic Japanese ambience with its sitar before seamlessly merging into the sparse Ornette Coleman-esque free jazz histrionics of "Neukoln". As you can see, the very fact that one is able to easily distinguish between them suggests a more diverse bunch than the subliminal wall-paper surroundings of Low and the fact that the album ends with a final song-with-words ("The Secret Life of Arabia") brings the individuality of the tracks into even sharper contrast. In sum, then, pretty much the same shtick but with more emphasis on the tracks themselves rather than a seamless suite of music. Of course, the inevitable lack of originality second time around means it loses the power of surprise that Low thrusts upon us but more of the same up to roughly the same quality should never be sniffed at. Proof that when Bowie actually fancied playing at being a real artist he could still pull it off with aplomb.

Although usually referred to as the third instalment in the Berlin trilogy Lodger can actually be distinguished from the previous two releases with a few key distinctions. Although Eno was still collaborating (and co-writing a lot more, apparently) the album consists of ten "normal" songs (ie. with vocals) and was actually recorded in Montreux in Switzerland and not crummy old Berlin at all. Of course, due to Eno's influence, this has still got plenty of crazy Euro-synths on the go but calling the songs "normal" was a deliberate mis-statement. In contrast to the impressively melodic numbers on such challenging albums the tunes on here are, in fact, mostly rather odd. It is almost as if in wanting to continue making artistic albums without the avant-garde instrumentals Bowie decided to make the songs themselves weird and esoteric instead. It is a shame, really, as his pop tunes were so good on the previous two releases that the prospect of an album just concentrating on them would normally have one salivating in excitement. That said, there are some people that insist that this is actually the greatest of the trilogy, usually based on the fact it does not contain any instrumentals, but it seems more like wishful thinking on their part. Like I said, it would be nice to think pure pop songs from the Berlin era would be a fantastic album but, on Bowie's behest, that was sadly not the case. Some of the off-kilter arrangements are still pretty interesting, such as "Move On" and "Red Sails", but the really strange ones just seem, well, really strange. I feel almost guilty as a lot of thought obviously went into "African Night Flight" but I find the irregular rhythms and atonal spoken-word vocals simply incomprehensible. It is the classic sort of song that the artist himself regards as the greatest track on the album whilst the average listener just shrugs his shoulders and presses skip. Further evidence of Bowie's artistic intentions come with the lyrics and song titles themselves with 'travel' obviously the key-word as most songs narrate tales of movement and relocation. I guess the writing was on the wall insofar as Bowie's Berlin period was at an end and the ever-restless pursuer was off to pastures fresh yet again. Surprisingly, given the seriousness of the first two chapters of the trilogy, the two best songs on here are ones that obviously aim at the funny side of things. "Boys Keep Swinging" re-runs the dynamics of "Heroes" but with ridiculously homo-erotic lyrics ("you can wear a uniform/other boys check you out") that make a mockery of the anguished romantic sentiments of its fore-father. "D.J." is a superior effort, the only real stand-out on the album, with its accurate and droll put-down of holier-than-thou club DJ's. Of the rest, nothing really hits the heights of the previous albums although the opening "Fantastic Voyage" sees Bowie back in crooner mood and the low-key "Repetition" is a rather clever account of a frustrated wife-beater. Still, it was clear that the initial inspiration of the Berlin move had started to wear off and it was little surprise that Bowie should come to the realisation that it was time to "move on". It is sad, though, that he was already starting to descend from his second artistic peak and moving into the cheesy keyboard-dominated pop market that he had originally inspired did not serve to increase his stock much further. There was still a few more years to go, of course, before he finally sold-out in the proper sense but it is interesting that trying to be esoteric for the sake of it, as on here, did him little favours either. His prolonged period in the sun was not quite over yet but, with this release, it was becoming clear that his grasp on the cutting-edge was starting to weaken with the gaping abyss of disposable pop music all too eager to swallow him up and with him the remains of his artistic credibility.

David Bowie's last stand and (apparently) his last really good album for twenty years. As predicted, he quit loitering around the Iron Curtain and headed back to London, in full continental clown garb if the art-work is anything to go by. Although he severed his ties with Brian Eno the tips and tricks of the trade he had picked up over the previous few years left him in good stead and, in many ways, this album succeeds where Lodger degenerated into a curious but nonetheless tiring mess. Bowie still aims at producing some kind of Euro-influenced art-pop but this time with sounder melodies to back up his still pretty intriguing arrangements. Bobby Fripp (as I'm sure he loves to be called) re-registered his interest and, as a result, Bowie gets plenty of crazy guitar parts to call upon, as well as, of course, retaining his cheesy synths. It is always easy to criticise an artist for getting old (as if it is something they can prevent) and the waves of washing up are making faint echoes. Bowie's vocals sound a little tired for once and despite the unconventional new wave-esque arrangements there is a touch of the motions being gone through. This is of course knowingly reflected in the classic "Ashes to Ashes" which refers back to the song that originally made Bowie a star all those years ago with its depressing update of "Space Oddity"'s Major Tom. Although Bowie obviously does not see himself as over-the-hill in the same sense there is a certain poignancy with the two characters (one fictional and the other barely factual) reflecting on their careers so far. You'd certainly hope Bowie does not identify too closely with the lyrics as the lines "I've never done good things/I've never done bad things/I've never done anything out of the blue" are some of the most depressing he's ever written. Certainly, the thought of someone reaching middle-age and realising their whole life has been a waste of time does not get much more maudlin. As I've said, Bowie has never appeared to be the sort of person to have a crisis of confidence and with good reason, given the influence he's had on twentieth century music (he was voted most influential artist EVER by other musicians in NME a few years ago). Although the songwriting is stronger than Lodger it is clear that he was really re-treading the same ground again here with "Fashion" being another satirical dance song a la "D.J." and the epic "Teenage Wildlife" again recycling the dynamics of "Heroes". Both are good songs, of course, but the message of "Fashion" certainly grates a little as surely it is a little hypocritical for a man who has spent his whole career trying single-mindedly (often desperately) to be at the fore-front of cutting-edge fashion to denounce those obsessed with fashion as vacuous and brainless. Other than the three famous songs the title track deserves a mention for successfully recalling the industrial grooves of "Heroes". It is worth stressing that although this album does not really tread any new ground, and the hint of selling-out first arises, it succeeds in delivering what Lodger initially promised in the form of a pop album full of solid melodies and interesting new wave arrangements. Indeed, the lipstick traces of this keyboard-orientated pop music crop up throughout the rest of the decade in the form of New Romanticism. Any album that is directly responsible for bringing Duran Duran into existence MUST deserve serious respect. The album is wrapped up with Neil Young's favourite party trick (whose legs were also starting to wobble around this time after an even more consistent career in the seventies) of beginning and ending an album with the same song in different forms. "It's No Game" is actually one of the more interesting numbers to boot as the opening Part 1 features a Japanese woman speaking over the top of some of Bowie's more, erm, unconventional vocals whilst the closing Part 2 runs through the same song but in more refrained mood. Bowie also repeats his camp cover concept for the first time in a while, this time offering a passable version of Tom Verlaine's "Kingdom Come" which all-too-obviously tries to reinforce Bowie's cool credentials. Unfortunately for him, it only partially succeeds and one is left with the impression that, after his Berlin period, Bowie's restored coolness was again ebbing away. And when you're no longer cool what's left to do but sell out? Yet again that sly dog David Bowie was way ahead of us...

From: Denis Morgan

Reading through your piece on Bowie I think this is the underlying point. One never gets the impression with Bowie that the melody was effortless except the extent that when he nails a good melody, you can almost sense the artist's relief.
Take for example - "Heroes". Its a good enough melody that Bowie can't resist coming back to it, especially in Scary Monsters.
But I would disagree on artistic genius - it may have taken effort but he spectacularly overcomes - finesses, his limited melodies.
Fascinating isn't it that melody so accurately predicts the demise of an artist - much like putting in golf - when the putter goes the end is in sight.
Madonna's time in the wilderness was predicted by the Sex album when a previously sure sense of melody deserted her. Ditto Dylan. Ditto The Stones. Ditto Ditto
In Scary Monsters, the melodies are starting to fray a little around the edges. David brings "Heroes" to the rescue, including on the title track.
Nevertheless giving SM less than 9 looks, well, silly - just about everyone else would make it firm 10.
I doubt that though, that many Bowie fans however fanantical, would describe David as a genius of Melody.
So we may agree on that atleast.

It is a comment I make regularly and therefore not one I will dwell on too much here but every artist that I can think of that started their career in the sixties went on to completely lose the plot in the eighties. For Bowie, Scary Monsters had represented a final success of sorts but it is obvious in hindsight that he was also soon to be sucked into the void of mediocrity that also temporarily swallowed up Dylan, Neil Young, Pink Floyd and their ilk. Even with the emerging legion of new wave and New Romantic pop bands singing his praises Bowie was struggling to keep pace with their youthful exuberance and new ways of thinking. Before he slipped into cruise control, however, and ran through the motions for the next ten years he succeeded in one final and wholly surprising hurrah. Instead of putting out an album of any old shit, trying desperately but unsuccessfully to ride the coat-tails of the new pop stars, he put out half an album of such tripe but beginning with three immensely successful commercial pop songs that had his students still trembling in his wake. Indeed, such is the paradoxical nature of this release it is - amazingly - his biggest ever selling album. Despite the success and popularity he had fashioned as a dashing young pop star in the early seventies he actually achieved his greatest commercial exposure as an ageing rock relic in his mid-thirties. I know in the grand scheme of things thirty-six is not really that old but it is a little odd to think that this man, whose big break came almost fifteen years ago with the sixties classic "Space Oddity", was strutting his stuff on Top of the Pops alongside the new breed of disposable pop bands. In any case, although Ziggy Stardust is the perfect pop album in Bowie's cannon it is perhaps fair to say this is his quintessential pop album. Three massive hit singles to draw the fair-weather punters in only to discover the rest of the LP consists of forgettable filler pretty much sums up the raison d'etre of most successful pop albums. The title track was, of course, the biggest hit but I'd wager it is the weakest of the trio. The sterile electro-rhythms combined with the retro flavour of the lyrics and melody is actually quite clever but I'm still not convinced it really deserves a status any higher than being lumped on 80s School Disco Classics! compilations along with "Girls on Film" or "Don't You Want Me Baby". Sadly it still seems like another "Heroes" or "Rebel Rebel" when compared to the rest of the mediocre dross on here. Still, the lesser two hits are actually the greater two songs with the opening "Modern Romance" being a fairly catchy 80s pop tune and "China Girl" (originally written for Iggy Pop) being the closest to a classic as it gets. The little oriental musical fill is pretty cool and Bowie's refrained vocal performance is perfectly fitting for the song, meaning he actually sounds cooler when sounding his true age. It also contains the best guitar solo on the album, all of which are inexplicably supplied by blues legend Stevie Ray Vaughan, who elevates the album as a whole with some decidedly superlative guitar playing on a decidedly unsuperlative album. You do not need to know much about the rest of the album as 99% of its owners surely turn it off after track three, although it is at least rather amusing to see Bowie collaborate with the true shark-jumper of cheesy eighties synth-pop - Giorgio Moroder. Still, Eno he ain't and, as a result, "Cat People (Putting Out Fire)" sounds much like most of the disposable pap Moroder was responsible for in the eighties. It is a sadly common occurrence for artists' greatest commercial successes to come completely out of synch with their artistic peak but is kinda fitting that someone who trod the line so extravagantly finely should produce such an extreme example. From "Heroes" to zero in a short space of time but with it the fame and fortune that true art so rarely achieves.

As we all know, the stars of the sixties and seventies did a lot of live material for the BBC, either on the radio or, later on, on excellent TV programmes like 'The Old Grey Whistle Test'. David Bowie was no different. David Bowie, however, great talent though he undoubtedly is (/was) is not necessarily the first person you would think of in terms of being a great live performer. Sure, his shows were famously daring and controversial but that was nearly all based on his visual androgyny and sexual ambiguity. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that sort of thing is not exactly made for radio. Most of the best BBC Sessions come from the great improvisers - Hendrix and Zeppelin primarily - and Bowie was certainly not one of those. Sure, it is great to hear Ronson playing at his peak again but, even so, only for the odd exception does Bowie allow him to stretch out beyond the studio originals. Thankfully, though, the BBC (or EMI - I'm not exactly sure which chooses the material for these compilations) are wise to the limitations of David Bowie in concert and therefore split the material on the two CDs into a rather clever double act. The first CD concentrates only on his pre-fame career (and pre-pre-"Fame") with the then-unheard-of Bowie playing through his fresh material, displaying his coy charm (he almost flirts with John Peel at times), and palpable in his desperation to succeed as a bona fide pop star. Thankfully for him and us, Bowie of course succeeded in his aim, and the second CD essentially documents his success in this field with Bowie and the band running through all his glam classics with showbiz panache and cocky swagger. It is a shame the material only covers the early period (1968-72) as there is plenty of live material from his late-seventies peak that could also make up a similar compilation. Still, as I've said, this is not meant to be a complete career retrospective and, instead, is a historical document perfectly capturing him during the formative years of his career. The first CD feels just like listening to a full-length radio broadcast with all the DJ banter and chat left in (although is sadly depressing to learn that Peel was an insufferable self-indulgent windbag even when he was still allegedly young). Sadly, much of the worth of the first CD comes in the historical aspect rather than the actual music. Bowie still sounds charmingly modest and often woos the listener with his self-depreciative wit (as opposed to his now arrogant wit). Most of the material from his debut (sic) album Space Oddity is played and it all sounds much the same, although the actual single is conspicuous by its absence (he claims he couldn't play it because it would require a full-scale orchestra but then goes on to contradict himself by saying he usually plays it live, albeit on just a 12-string). There are remnants of his pre-Space Oddity career with the fun sixties pop of "In the Heat of the Morning" and "London Bye Ta Ta" although he is quick to alter his singer-songwriter persona into his more serious shtick. In contrast to the first CD, some of which is essentially exclusive (including the undisputed highlight - a powerful appropriation of Jacque Brel's "Amsterdam"), the second CD plays mostly as a greatest hits collection. There is no studio banter at all and we get fairly faithful semi-live renditions of all the best songs from his three best albums in the glam period. The only surprises come with two tributes to his beloved Velvet Underground with "I'm Waiting for the Man" and "White Light/White Heat" stripped of their feedback-drenched intensity and with Ronson polishing both off with magnificent guitar pyrotechnics. As with all of the BBC Sessions one would have to have a pretty negative agenda to find significant fault, such is the win-win nature. If one wants to analyse the historical side of things one gets the first CD as a bona fide historical document whilst if one just wants the hits one is treated to all of the glam-era ones on the second CD. Of course, Bowie was not the most interesting live performer ever (excluding the impact of his visual aspect) but one can hardly blame the BBC for that. As long as one is content to only concentrate on one period of Bowie's greatness (which is where the only serious complaint arises) then one really cannot do much better than this compilation. Indeed, this compilation is near-essential if only to remind us Bowie was once a charming, modest, and struggling singer-songwriter and not always a cocaine-guzzling wealth-reaping ego-monster.

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