David Bowie and me

Five occasions when the 'Thin White Duke' left me gobsmacked
By Peter Lindblad

David Bowie - The Rise And Fall of Ziggy
Stardust And The Spiders From Mars

A rare shopping trip at Kmart used to be a big deal to a wide-eyed innocent living in the relatively isolated environs of northwest Wisconsin in the 1970s and '80s.

It was an opportunity to rifle through a bargain bin of cassette tapes to strike gold at the low, low price of three for $10, and on one particular day, there was one nugget that shined above all the rest. How David Bowie's The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and The Spiders From Mars ended up there I'll never know, but it was the deal of the century, at least to me. To an awkward teen struggling to fit in socially at a school that still seemed foreign, even though I'd been attending it for five years after moving from another state, finding it was a spiritual and musical awakening. Although at the time, the fact that it had "Suffragette City" on it was enough to warrant its purchase.

Hearing a preening Bowie at his bitchiest exclaim, "Wham, bam, thank you ma'am" was pretty suggestive stuff for a sheltered preacher's kid looking for a little excitement and finding loads of it in the glam rock glitter bomb that was, perhaps, the late musician's finest hour. It was a song that begged to be played over and over, at the expense of every other cut on the album, and every listen was a shocking encounter and a teasing invitation to explore worlds way beyond my understanding. It wouldn't be the last time Bowie, whose death the world is still grieving, did something that shook me to my core. There are at least four others that stand out:

Meeting Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars: Others might point to the "Berlin Trilogy" of Low, Heroes and Lodger as more innovative and groundbreaking, and the '80s commercial success of the stylish Let's Dance sparks warm memories, but The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars brought about, in me, a revolution.

It was the gateway drug to punk and new wave for an altogether unfashionable, shy, clumsy and risk-averse small-town boy scared, but also excited, by what that album represented. Not that I was at all aware of any of it at such a tender age (being around 14 at the time), but the sexual ambiguity, the gender-bending, the depressed rock star undergoing an existential crisis and the idea of a "Starman" wanting to come and meet us, " ... but he thinks he'd blow our minds" actually did blow my mind. It was all too much for someone weaned on '70s progressive rock and Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath and The Scorpions, and other tamer arena-rock acts.

Others obviously had a different experience, but it wasn't easy to fall for an album that challenged cultural norms so aggressively. It was audacious, arty and raw, with an androgynous, glam-rock swagger on the completely exhilarating "Suffragette City," which was raucous and fun. But, there was hard-bitten desperation and anxiety in the air of "Hang On to Yourself." A mental breakdown was coming in "Ziggy Stardust," and despair permeated "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide."

Nevertheless, the swooning beauty of "Moonage Daydream" and sweeping majesty of "Starman" – along with the the intoxicating resignation of "Five Years" – gradually eased the tension of the rest of the recording, and over time came acceptance, which grew into an undying romance with its overarching concepts, its incisive social commentary, its broad imagination and its wild, timeless vitality. I'm still madly in love with it.

Ashes to Ashes ... Major Tom's a junkie?!: Wading through hours of bad TV just to get to late-night music shows was a weekly ritual. "Friday Night Videos," anyone? The MTV generation had it so goddamn easy. Every so often, however, there was a reward for such perseverance. Bowie's video for "Ashes to Ashes" made the tough slog worth it. When it at first it popped up, it seemed disturbing, and surreal, but still utterly captivating. It was a continuation of the Major Tom story, and things had taken a very dark turn indeed for the intrepid astronaut. (Check out the behind-the-scenes making of the video below)

As skies blacken, Bowie, dressed as a French clown, walks along a deserted beach talking with an old woman. Joined by worshipers in orthodox religious garb, he leads a funereal procession ahead of a bulldozer and the scene is awash in solarised colors. Elsewhere, he's imprisoned in a padded room and plugged into a spaceship.

In a matter of minutes, the stunning visual feast had taught us all more about symbolism than four years of college-level literature and poetry classes. Innovative and artistically daring, the "Ashes To Ashes" video was breathtaking, a strange, melancholy dream world constructed by otherworldly creatures obsessed with themes of mortality and alienation. Or, maybe it was just being weird for the sake of being weird. Whatever the case, it left an impression and haunted my dreams for years.  

Glass Spiders: 1987 saw Bowie and his poofed-up pompadour attempting to pull off one of the biggest, most theatrical tours ever conceived, "The Glass Spider Tour." Initially, critics were not kind in their assessment, calling it pretentious and overblown. And it probably was. The costs associated with it were exorbitant. There were dancers, a dazzling array of colored lights, projected visuals and stage props, and the whole set-up was designed to look like a enormous spider.

Thanks to a high school and college friend, who was quick to buy us tickets, I was able to see one of the shows at Milwaukee's Marcus Amphitheater. It was the only time I ever saw Bowie, and it was an amazing, jaw-dropping spectacle. Completely over-the-top, the staging was ridiculous, and yet, it was also utterly brilliant. You couldn't take your eyes off it. Rarely have the worlds of theater and music collided in such an ambitiously artistic tour de force. It was a blazing supernova, accompanied by a great setlist. And it also revived the career of Peter Frampton, while confronting conventional notions of what a rock 'n' roll concert was supposed to be and spitting right in their tight, puckered faces.

"Saturday Night Live" – Dec. 15, 1979: Out in America's Heartland, nobody knew who Klaus Nomi was. David Bowie's appearance on "Saturday Night Live" on this particular date changed all that. A cabaret performer with an incredible, operatic voice, Nomi's legend was growing in New York City's underground, when Bowie plucked him from obscurity for a fiercely avant-garde coming-out party on national television that nobody expected.

With startling facial features, makeup and vivid costumes, Nomi and fellow New York performance artist Joey Arias were visually arresting backing up Bowie, who performed three songs. After a stirring rendition of "The Man Who Sold The World," Bowie dressed up in a skirt and heels for a "TVC 15" off Station To Station and when they closed with Lodger's "When You're A Boy," Bowie had morphed into a living marionette, with oversized arms that moved. Crackling with electricity, this outing was shock therapy, a carefully orchestrated attempt to cause the anesthetized masses some discomfort and make them squirm in their easy chairs. Mission accomplished.

The End: Blackstar came out two days before Bowie's death, a parting gift from one of the most influential and daring artists of this, or any, generation. It became Bowie's first No. 1 album, debuting at the top spot on the Billboard 200.

The video that accompanied "Lazarus," with a blinded Bowie levitating off what appears to be a hospital bed in an antiseptic, sparsely furnished room, is soothing and disquieting at the same time. The last time a video this affecting came along, Johnny Cash was reinterpreting Nine Inch Nails' "Hurt" with stark instrumentation and confessing to sins and mistakes with trembling sincerity, all in the hope that redemption and salvation lay ahead in the next life. Like Cash, Bowie seems to be looking for closure as he clings to life, and he does it in such an elegant, understated manner that you can't help but wish him well on his journey into the afterlife and wave goodbye (the video's director talks about Bowie's last hurrah below).

CD Review: David Bowie – The Next Day

CD Review: David Bowie – The Next Day

Columbia 

All Access Review: B+

David Bowie - The Next Day 2013

Nobody knows what The Next Day will bring, especially for the unpredictable David Bowie. His future uncertain, having turned 65 in January, Bowie has been adamant that his days of touring are behind him. And having reached retirement age, it begs the question: Is this Bowie’s last hurrah? From the title of his latest LP, it appears even Bowie has no idea. There is, after all, an incredible amount of ambiguity in those three little words.

Does it mean he plans on doing more recording and that he’s going back to work … well, The Next Day? Or, does it mean he’s moving on to another chapter in his life, one that doesn’t involve music at all? It could be he’s confronting his own mortality and wondering just how many “next days” he has left. Then again, maybe it’s simply a more artful and humanistic expression of that old Yiddish proverb that, when translated, says, “Man plans and God laughs.”

As far as the planning for The Next Day goes, Bowie and his co-conspirators had to chuckle at how successful they were in keeping word of this new record under wraps. The Conclave of Cardinals was conducted with less secrecy. When news arrived that a fresh Bowie record was imminent, it was met with expressions of shock and surprise. That it could possibly contain his most inspired work in ages was even more stunning, considering the parade of lackluster and unnecessarily difficult albums he’d released since Let’s Dance or Scary Monsters, the LP that seems to have provided the template of experimental accessibility for The Next Day.

Coming 10 years after 2003’s Reality – the successor to 2002’s Heathen – The Next Day finds Bowie as open and revealing about himself as he’s ever been, and that, in and of itself, is noteworthy for a man whose multiple personalities and masquerades – from that of the Thin White Duke to Ziggy Stardust – have played out on very public stages over the years. It should come as no surprise then that, amid the treatises on loneliness, regret and wrenching heartache, questions of identity should arise in the alien soundscape “Heat,” with its quiet, martial drums, mournful strings and melancholic acoustic guitar strum marching gently under wraiths of lightly corrosive feedback. Here, Bowie’s weary, confessional expression of confusion and despair mesmerizes, just as it does in the elegant, smoky torch song “Where Are We Now?” Gorgeously rendered with dark, lush piano and watery pools of electric guitar, it’s a number that’s wide awake at 3 a.m. contemplating the erosion of time and life’s little mysteries. Sleep is overrated anyway.

Darker and even more stylish, with seductive, irresistibly melodic contours and a streaming pace pushed along by smooth, taut bass, “The Stars (Are out Tonight)” shimmers like a glassy city harbor in the clear moonlight. And Bowie’s increasingly urgent vocals and voyeuristic, unsettling poetry heighten the drama and paranoia of an absolutely intoxicating song that could rank among his best, even if it does bear an uncanny resemblance to “China Girl.” Even Iggy Pop, however, would forgive the likeness. Like Scary Monsters, though, the classy, well-manicured The Next Day spikes its arty pop-rock punch bowl with the slightest traces of intriguing discord, the off-kilter vocalizing in “How Does the Grass Grow?” being one example and the slashing guitar playing off the melodic buoyancy of the title track being another. In “If You Can See Me” the track’s compelling stop-start funk movements and dizzying array of beats – straight out of Radiohead’s playbook – dive right into a rushing sonic flood, as Bowie’s delivery shifts from robotic malfunction and threatening aspect to an all-too-human pleading for salvation and recognition.

Rather clunky and clumsily executed, “Dirty Boys” and the dull, thudding “Love is Lost” are minor missteps, as is “Boss of Me,” with its sleazy saxophones and alarmingly low energy levels. The interminable sameness of “Dancing Out in Space” is hard to get though, as well. Nevertheless, even these flawed pieces have qualities that make them compelling. Essentially, The Next Day is a tour of some of the most interesting and exquisitely detailed aural architecture Bowie has designed in recent years, and when the serrated edge, swirling beauty and propulsive drive of “(You Will) Set the World on Fire” breaks through the door Bowie is redeemed. Bowie is fighting against the dying of the light, and he’s winning, despite any doubts he may have.

–  Peter Lindblad