David Bowie—Let's Dance

David Bowie—Let's Dance

Let's Dance—For traditionalists, Let's Dance marks the point where David Bowie began acting in bad faith. Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) (1980) was a succinct coda to his post-glam era, so the need to move on came as no surprise. What didn't seem to cohere was the choice to go with straight-up dance music, which was and continues to be a move seen as tacky, especially for any artist that mingles with supposed higher forms of art. That's not to say Bowie was never into soul, R&B, or big band—Diamond Dogs (1974), Young Americans (1975), and Station to Station (1976) are proofs against that—but all through the 1970s, Bowie rarely brushed with disco. His tendencies as an innovator perhaps led him to leave that music alone, preferring to touch it only once the pot had cooled. In this case, Bowie is less a progenitor as he is a necromancer: appropriating the dregs of disco with his own essence and alterations. Let's Dance has been hence referred to as "post-disco": an improbable brand.

The lyrically despondent, musically uplifting "Modern Love" kicks off the album with the waking guitar of either producer Nile Rodgers or special guest Stevie Ray Vaughan. The song consciously retrofits rock and roll with the trappings of then-current dance music, hence the joke: "There's no sign of life/It's just the power to charm ... Never gonna fall for/(Modern love) walks beside me." It's worth noting at this juncture that Bowie had been flirting with pop and new wave since Lodger (1979), though this is obscured by the pervasive notion that Lodger fit best with the Berlin narrative (Low and "Heroes" [1977]). Furthermore, Scary Monsters was markedly sinister in tone, which makes the disco-neutering all the more puzzling until it becomes apparent that Bowie attempted, at least in part, to convey this same sentiment with Let's Dance. If not, it's strange that he would decide to remake "China Girl" of all songs, the spasmodic centerpiece of Iggy Pop's The Idiot (1977), co-written by Bowie. "Let's Dance" hit #1 or #2 in most countries as a single, which was released both as a 7" in an abridged version and a 12" in its full album length of 7:38. It can either be interpreted as a love song or, given the album cover, a metaphor for pugilism. Its success is the reason why Let's Dance may also mark the point where David Bowie became truly accessible; it opened his music up to a whole new audience, much as atypical singles like "Fame" did before.

It's tough to regard Let's Dance as anything less than a smash success, given this onset of hits. Even from a traditionalist's mindset, they're worthy songs, if tumid in their way, much as the extended cuts of Station to Station were. The only problem was the supporting repertoire. Side closer "Without You" is a repetitive, bland piece of work. "Ricochet" has an uncanny quality but ultimately comes up short, never climaxing. Requisite cover "Criminal World" (Metro) neither adds nor subtracts from the experience. "Cat People (Putting out Fire)," with music written by Giorgio Moroder, was recorded originally in a more sparse, haunting arrangement for the 1982 film Cat People. Its inclusion either signaled Bowie's simple satisfaction with the song or was symptomatic of a larger problem: he was hitting a lean period in terms of songwriting inspiration (the follow-up album Tonight [1984] would feature a roughly equal number of truly new songs). "Shake It" is the definition of filler.

Let's Dance earns the dubious honor of being interesting on its own merits—"Modern Love" is one of Bowie's best songs in any era—but also a portent of substandard work by Bowie in the years to follow. Even apart from the history, however, it's one of his least challenging records, and some of the songs are flat-out unnecessary or monotonous.

Bob Dylan—Self Portrait

Bob Dylan—Self Portrait

Self Portrait—The first phase of Bob Dylan's early career—1962–1978, for the purpose of this writing—was marked with a number of controversial periods. From 1963–1964 (The Freewheelin' Bob Dylan and The Times They Are a-Changin'), Dylan became an unwitting spokesman for liberal values and civil rights, most notably for his song "Blowin' in the Wind." When he decided he'd rather sing songs of a more basic and personal nature (Another Side of Bob Dylan), he was met with scorn from his purist folk fanbase, who would become further begrudged with the release of the semi-electric Bringing It All Back Home and almost entirely electric Highway 61 Revisited (1965).

It seems ludicrous in 2015 to argue any one of these albums to be contentious. The vast majority of his '60s and '70s material is universally beloved, as is the man himself, now considered a living legend in not only music but pop culture and humankind itself. Even lesser works, such as Street Legal (1978), are treated as respectable efforts if not essential. There is one release from this era, however, that was received with ridicule upon its release and continues to be shunned by critics and outright ignored by fans: Self Portrait.

To be clear, this is not to say Dylan (1973) is not considered a far worse record, but Dylan was released under different circumstances. Dylan's recording had become sporadic from 1971–1972, resulting in only a handful of songs: two singles ("Watching the River Flow" and "George Jackson") and various others which were set to appear on Bob Dylan's Greatest Hits Vol II (1972). Dylan, which was a mishmash of older outtakes (some incidentally taken from Self Portrait sessions), was seen for what it was: Columbia's self-determined attempt to milk Dylan's back pages (or perhaps a parting shot at Dylan for jumping ship to Asylum). Thus, Dylan is excused by historians as a dubious moment, undeserving of derision at least in regard to the artist.

The same cannot be said of Self Portrait. It's understandable that fans and critics would have been disappointed by its release in 1970. Until that point, they had come to expect an album of originals at an average rate of one per year, so when Dylan presented them with a double album of covers, outtakes, rehearsal cuts, and live recordings, it must have been a shock.

"There'd be crowds outside my house. And I said, 'Well, fuck it. I wish these people would just forget about me. I wanna do something they can't possibly like, they can't relate to. They'll see it, and they'll listen, and they'll say, 'Well, let's get on to the next person. He ain't sayin' it no more. He ain't givin' us what we want,' you know?"—Bob Dylan, 1984 interview by Kurt Loder for Rolling Stone 

It can't be said that Self Portrait is a lost classic, but its continued disdain through the years is unwarranted. There are four studio originals, which are all at least pleasant, though not earth-shattering: "All the Tired Horses," which is a rare Dylan album cut not featuring his singing, "Woogie Boogie," a basic instrumental, "Living the Blues," a vanilla blues as the title suggests, and the adequate single "Wigwam." Four other songs were recorded live at the 1969 Isle of Wight Festival, done in the style Dylan cultivated working with the Band: "She Belongs to Me," "Like a Rolling Stone," "The Mighty Quinn (Quinn the Eskimo)," which was at that time only known in its Manfred Mann incarnation, and "Minstrel Boy," which was then unreleased in any form (no relation to "The Minstrel Boy").

What remains are the covers. The funny thing about Self Portrait is the idea that it's not much of a self-portrait if Dylan isn't writing the majority of the songs, at least not in comparison to his usual fare, where he both writes and performs the material. Upon careful examination, however, it becomes apparent that the covers are great tools for examining Bob Dylan the performer—the recordings of songs composed by Dylan are presented with an overriding veneer of Dylan's reputation and whatever purported message the listener chooses to project onto them; when those things are stripped away, all that's left is the rock star. "I always wanted to be a guitar player and a singer. Since I was ten, eleven, or twelve, it was all that interested me. That was the only thing that I did that meant anything really," Dylan recalled when interviewed by Cameron Crowe for the box set Biograph (1985). Outside of his modest debut, Bob Dylan (1962), Self Portrait was the first time home listeners were treated to this side of the artist.

The performances have been criticized as desultory or meaningless, but that's purely a matter of perspective, as the same things have been touted concerning The Basement Tapes (1975; recorded '67–68), which is beloved for its laid-back ambiance and exploration of quaint Americana. Granted: The Basement Tapes was almost entirely penned by Dylan and the Band, but on the point of the music itself, the albums are principally similar. Moreover, Dylan's choice of covers is excellent: the Everly Brothers classic "Take a Message to Mary," Don Gibson's "Take Me as I Am (or Let Me Go)" (both penned by Boudleaux Bryant, the former with his wife Felice) and "Alberta" presented in two versions, and Cecil Null's "I Forgot More than You'll Ever Know," plus standards like "Blue Moon" and "Copper Kettle;" contemporaries Paul Simon ("The Boxer") and Gordon Lightfoot ("Early Mornin' Rain") are a pair of surprising inclusions.

Dylan remarked further in the Biograph liner notes, "I was being bootlegged at the time and a lot of stuff that was worse was appearing on bootleg records. So I just figured I'd put all this stuff together and put it out, my own bootleg record, so to speak. You know, if it actually had been a bootleg record, people probably would have sneaked around to buy it and played it for each other secretly," and he was absolutely correct, as evidenced by the success of the eleven volumes and counting Bootleg Series. Self Portrait is not a revelation, but as a collection of music, it can be a nice find for the seasoned listener.

Scott Walker—Scott 4

Scott Walker—Scott 4

Scott 4—There exists a trope in which a fictional character is split in two, resulting in two discrete personalities, usually one good and one evil. This storyline has existed in literature at least as long as The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (1886), but it was popular in the earlier days of television as well, notably in the Star Trek episode "The Enemy Within," which first aired in October 1966. Of course, while the concept is metaphorical, the human struggle between conflicting sides of the same identity is very real.

Scott Walker's first three LPs were mixes of interpretive covers—generally American songwriters and Belgian singer-songwriter Jacques Brel—and his own originals, which had slowly become the bulk of his material. Scott (1967) was one-quarter original and Scott 2 (1968) a third, which were both huge hits in the United Kingdom (Walker's effective homeland, though he was, in fact, born and raised in the United States). Scott 3 (1969), though it hit the third slot on the UK charts, was received with more skepticism, in part due to its lack of recognizable tunes. Walker penned ten of its thirteen songs and pushed the three Brel covers to the end of side two; the originals were dissonant, murky, and arcane—nothing disagreeable, to be sure, but also not an ideal pop formula for 1969.

Instead of continuing the formula, Walker released two successive albums in the second half of the year. First came Scott Walker Sings Songs from His T.V. Series (that series being the BBC's Scott, the footage of which has been lost), which was reminiscent of the early part of his career with the Walker Brothers, featuring standards and songs written by other popular artists. Four months later came Scott 4, which was entirely the opposite, with Walker reaching the culmination of his study of chant and classical music, composing all songs included on the album. The striking "The Seventh Seal" is typified by this. Its lyrics outline the plot of the 1957 Ingmar Bergman film Det sjunde inseglet, foreign films being a passion of Walker's. "On Your Own Again" (arranged by the former Wally Stott, who handled most of Scott 3) is a pleasant ode to an ended relationship with the peculiar line, "I was so happy, I didn't feel like me." The sparkling poem "The World's Strongest Man" is the other side of that sentiment: "Take me back again to your warm design."

The orphic "Angels of Ashes" evokes Van Morrison's Astral Weeks. The seemingly self-referential vision "Boy Child" is an affecting trip through spacetime, while the expat folk farewell "Hero of the War" criticizes not only war but, surprisingly, the soldiers themselves. "The Old Man's Back Again (Dedicated to the Neo-Stalinist Regime)" is a haunting response to the Prague Spring of 1968 and the reforms of Czechoslovakian leader Alexander Dubček, perfectly accented during its chorus by the choral ensemble. The beautiful "Duchess" is a fairly straightforward love song that illustrates how important the arrangements (by the usuals Stott and Peter Knight, and on this song Keith Roberts) were to the record as a whole; the same can be said of "Get Behind Me," which is otherwise somewhat forgettable musically. However, Walker's skills as a wordsmith generally make each song worthwhile, the fitting closer "Rhymes of Goodbye" no exception.

Scott Walker showed a keen ability for performing stylized covers of popular music, but Scott 4 was the record where he proved he could do it all by himself. Unfortunately, it would mark the last time he'd produce a complete album of original material for fifteen years. It's tragic that so much possible music was forgone during that period, especially considering the weight of music like "The Seventh Seal," "Boy Child," and the stunning "The Old Man's Back Again." That is neither here nor there, however, and Scott 4 remains a shining testament to Walker's talent, and a timeless, inexhaustible listen.

U2—The Unforgettable Fire

U2—The Unforgettable Fire

The Unforgettable Fire—Following War (1983), U2 sought to expand their sound, which is always a smart thing to do. Few artists can replicate a formula with true creative success, and even those that can pull it off are often labeled one-trick ponies. After perfecting their drum-led, minor-key attack across three albums, U2 asked Brian Eno to produce The Unforgettable Fire (though Eno has claimed he contributed in a more abstract sense and that Daniel Lanois was responsible for the actual production). Though Eno and Lanois have been involved with most of U2's subsequent albums through 2015, the prospect of their collaboration was less evidently advantageous in 1984. Boy (1980), October (1981), and War were mostly intelligent records, but not particularly artful, and Eno was known at that time for more experimental ventures and his singular collaborations with David Bowie.

The Unforgettable Fire was recorded partially at Slane Castle in Slane, Co. Meath, Ireland, which allowed U2 to make use of the acoustics of its library and various other rooms, rather than Windmill Lane Studios where their first three albums were recorded. "A Sort of Homecoming" is nothing like U2 had recorded prior, benefiting from the roomier conditions, its impression best encapsulated by its lyric, "And your earth moves beneath/Your own dream landscape." The song's title is taken from a Paul Celan quote, so translated: "[Poems are] a kind of homecoming." The soaring "Pride (In the Name of Love)" directly references Martin Luther King, Jr., whose fate is compared with Christ's ("One man betrayed with a kiss") and casualties of war ("One man caught on a barbed wire fence ... One man washed on an empty beach"), who died, ironically, in the name of love. Bono sings of King, "They could not take your pride." The singer originally wrote the piece in reproach of U.S. president Ronald Reagan:

"It was originally meant as the sort of pride that won't back down, that wants to build nuclear arsenals, but that wasn't working. I remembered a wise old man who said to me, 'Don't try and fight darkness with light, just make the lights shine brighter.' I was giving Reagan too much importance. Then I thought, Martin Luther King, there's a man. We build the positive rather than fighting with the finger. In the end this slain preacher from Atlanta, that dark note, was the way I found the balance. So I was able to keep that song in an ecstatic place." —Bono, undated NME interview¹

"Wire" is reportedly a commentary on drugs and musically exhibits the transition from the frenzied attack of War. The title of the shining "The Unforgettable Fire" refers to a Chicago Peace Museum exhibit of artwork by atomic bomb victims in Hiroshima, Japan. The lyric "Your eyes as black as coal" probably refers to Bono's wife Ali; on the lovely "Promenade" he sings of his and her house in Bray, Co. Wicklow, Ireland. The instrumental "4th of July" refers not to the U.S. holiday but its date of recording, on which Eno recorded guitarist The Edge and bassist Adam Clayton outside their knowledge. "Bad" foreshadows The Joshua Tree (1987) and is about heroin addiction—or rather, it should be noted that Bono actually sings about the theory of heroin addiction, because "Wire" and "Bad" exude the quality of being written by someone who only knows the terrors of drug addiction from observance of it. The EP Wide Awake in America (1985), which features an extended live cut of "Bad," takes its name partially from one of the song's lyrics.

"Indian Summer Sky" is a fairly plain yet ambiguously compelling song that evokes Talking Heads' "Listening Wind," which would be an arcane comparison if not for Eno's production credit on that band's landmark record Remain in Light. The much-maligned and admittedly sophomoric "Elvis Presley and America" has an interesting push to its rhythm and effects that make it worth hearing. "MLK" is a humbler tribute to King, continuing U2's psalmic tradition in the vein of "40" from War.

There is a sense with The Unforgettable Fire that Bono's writing suffered from naivety, but time has favored the album in the sense that he has shown naivety to be an essential quality of his person. The album was a decidedly transitional work for U2 as a band, and as such it's not perfect, but it is impassioned and inspired, and the sound is unique.

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1 Courtesy of 33 Revolutions per Minute by Dorian Lynskey^↩

The Clash—Give 'em Enough Rope

The Clash—Give 'em Enough Rope

Give 'em Enough Rope—Punk rock as a denominator generally holds the implication that the artist will follow their own path, but in the first wave of punk, there were some persistent conventions. Many punk debuts were loud: Ramones, Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols, and Young Loud and Snotty to name a few, and The Clash (1977) was certainly no exception. Oftentimes—and the same is true of any artist—these bands were at a loss how to follow them up, especially since the approach on the debuts were characteristically fairly simple. The Ramones churned out a near-replica, the Sex Pistols burned out before they could record a follow-up, and Dead Boys produced what was seen as a lukewarm sequel courtesy of production problems. The Clash ended up with results somewhere in the middle.

While blistering punk was a viable commodity in the United Kingdom, even the most popular U.S. punk bands couldn't crack the charts in their own homeland. CBS' desire to reach a wider audience somehow resulted in the hiring of Blue Öyster Cult and Dictators producer Sandy Pearlman. This move has been criticized, perhaps not as harshly as other artist/producer mismatches through the annals of time, but the end result, Give 'em Enough Rope, was not actually that different principally from The Clash. No more convincing experience can be had than firing up "Safe European Home" at the wrong volume and getting an earful of feedback. An ill-fated trip to Jamaica inspired group leaders Joe Strummer and Mick Jones to write the song, the two of who, along with their bandmates, worked with Lee "Scratch" Perry on some of their singles, covered "Police & Thieves" on their debut, and would later record plenty more reggae- and dub-influenced songs. It is also notable for Strummer's refrain of "Rudie can't fail," a line which would be fashioned into an entire song on their third album, London Calling (1979).

"English Civil War," derived from the traditional "When Johnny Comes Marching Home," is an interesting inclusion. It is interpreted here as Jones/Strummer's response to British racism, offering the sly dig, "Your face was blue in the light of the screen." "Tommy Gun" speaks out against war by, if nothing else, drowning out the gunfire with drums and guitars. The sweeter "Julie's Been Working for the Drug Squad" (originally billed as "Julie's in the Drug Squad") is probably one of the reasons the album was met with some criticism, but it is in fact one of its highlights; the song refers to the 1977 raids of places of LSD manufacture ("Operation Julie") and possibly hints at a certain futility of its objective ("And then there came the night of the greatest ever raid/They arrested every drug that had ever been made"). "Last Gang in Town" is the longest song on the album and probably also the weakest, its music uninspiring and its words somewhat aimless.

"Guns on the Roof" resembles "Clash City Rockers" and "Capital Radio," which themselves resembled the Who's "I Can't Explain" (though it should be noted that the Who's riff was nothing particularly intricate). The song's title refers to an incident in which bassist Paul Simonon and drummer Topper Headon were arrested by counter-terrorism forces for shooting at pigeons. The demented "Drug-Stabbing Time" is an underrated jaunt that could also reference the incident ("Paying off the big fine;" Simonon and Headon were each fined £30). "Stay Free," a great, heartfelt song about friendship, was written by Jones for his childhood friend and Clash roadie Robin Crocker, who had just finished spending time in prison for robbing banks. "Cheapskates" attacks those who scorned the Clash for trying to live their lives like normal people following their successes, while "All the Young Punks (New Boots and Contracts)" (titled "That's No Way to Spend Your Youth" on the original U.S. issue) explores the same ground, but directed at those who tried to follow in their footsteps.

Give 'em Enough Rope doesn't have the same impact as The Clash (either the U.K. original or the U.S. release) or the sprawling genius of London Calling, but aside from a couple flat songs and borrowed tunes, it just as stimulating as (and sometimes smarter than) those records. It's not desert island Clash, but it is essential.