David Bowie—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars

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David Bowie—The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)

The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars—The 1960s were when rock and roll started to get weird. With the advent of psychedelia, songs like "Hound Dog" and "Roll over Beethoven" were eclipsed by ones like "Burning of the Midnight Lamp" and "2000 Light Years from Home." As with the latter, outer space, space travel, and the notion of extraterrestrial life became hugely influential on popular music. Songs were written before, during, and after the Apollo 11 moon landing on July 20th, 1969, but none are more inextricably tied to it than David Bowie's "Space Oddity" released nine days prior. The worldwide hit, which remains one of his most enduring and beloved songs, put him on the map, but the album that followed had little to do with "Space Oddity" or space themes in general.

That album, David Bowie (1969), is sometimes referred to simply as Space Oddity both because of that song's notoriety and because Bowie's debut was also called David Bowie. Its themes were hazy, grotesque, and introspective. When focused, such as on "Memory of a Free Festival," they were often quite pastoral, seeming the opposite of spacey. On his following albums, Bowie would refine these sensibilities, first with the good The Man Who Sold the World (1970) and then the great Hunky Dory (1971). At this time, Bowie was producing new music at a an increasingly rapid pace. Most of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars was already written or recorded (ca. November 1971) before Hunky Dory was even out the door. That album, while not a monster seller initially, was met with immediate warmth, which likely provided a boost to Bowie's ego. Thus, his iconic Ziggy Stardust persona was born.

Bowie had personality from the beginning, but he nearly always presented vague androgyny and outsider qualities rather than a concrete character. In January 1972, the Ziggy Stardust tour began in England (later moving to the U.S., Japan, and other parts of the U.K), when Bowie began to dress up in elaborate costumes designed by Kansai Yamamoto, red hair, and extensive, glamorous makeup. It is, of course, during this time that glam rock hit its zenith, with Ziggy being arguably its most exemplary character, album, and song. While the movement produced many memorable albums by T. Rex, Roxy Music, and Bowie himself, among others, Ziggy was special—it had a story.

It begins with the apocalyptic love song "Five Years," in which humanity finds out it has "five years left to cry in." The T. Rex-esque rock spiritual "Soul Love" pontificates on love and God. "Moonage Daydream" was repurposed from Bowie's Arnold Corns side project, which was essentially a '71 incarnation of backing band Spiders from Mars (Mick Ronson, Trevor Bolder, Mick Woodmansey) plus fashion designer Freddie Burretti. It was released as a single that year, but failed; the Ziggy version rocks harder (especially on Mick Ronson's legendary solo), and features altered, more absurd lyrics as well as more varied reverb, echo treatments, and horn parts.

The wondrous "Starman," which was recorded last and almost didn't even make the album (a cover of Chuck Berry's "Around and Around" was in its place in the initial running order), became Bowie's biggest hit (#10 U.K.) since "Space Oddity" (#5) and even hit an unprecedented #41 in the United States. In the context of the album, its lyrics present the mindsets of young people hearing Ziggy on the radio, who until that point had forsaken rock and roll. Interestingly, the song they are hearing can actually be inferred to be "All the Young Dudes," which was written by Bowie specifically for Mott the Hoople in a move to save their career. In that song, Ziggy sings about the decadence of youth; in "Starman," he continues his exposition in which he reveals that the "infinites" (the starmen) are coming to Earth and may save it. Musically, the song fittingly borrows from gay icon Judy Garland's "Over the Rainbow" for its memorable chorus, which becomes increasingly variegated with each iteration before swelling into a warm, symphonic cheer. A warped cover of Ron Davies' honky-tonk "It Ain't Easy," a holdover from Hunky Dory, closes the side, providing some post hoc thematic cohesion (also being another last-minute replacement of a cover: Jacques Brel's "Amsterdam").

Swelling Marc Bolan tribute "Lady Stardust" is quietly one of the album's best songs. The transient "Star," by contrast, is one of the least essential. "Hang on to Yourself," the B-side of the Arnold Corns single, is heavier than the original, which was more of a frenzied folk-inspired tune. Incomparable theme song "Ziggy Stardust" summarizes the story promised by the album's title; bits of it can be seen or heard in virtually every type of media and social phenomenon. Spirited, raunchy blues "Suffragette City" (initially offered to Mott the Hoople just prior to "All the Young Dudes"), is well-known for its build-ups and false stop. On the bittersweet, acoustic-symphonic "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide," Ziggy dies as he is consumed by the infinites to make themselves corporeal. It also, of course, served as the showstopper during the tour, including at the conclusion of the final show, documented in the Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars film (1973) and its accompanying album, Ziggy Stardust: The Motion Picture (1983).

There's no question that Ziggy Stardust is a classic album, but it's always been less clear where it stands in Bowie's oeuvre. It's probably not his masterpiece, compared with more careful works like Hunky Dory, Low (1977), "Heroes" (1977), or Scary Monsters (1980)—the songs "Star" and the cover "It Ain't Easy" disrupt the album's flow in a minor way, but only because the rest of the songs are of such high quality by contrast. Produced during a hectic period in Bowie's life, Ziggy has a certain unpolished, naive energy to it that's often as off-putting as it is endearing. Of course, that was part of the point; Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars were supposed to be a basic rock and roll band, and on that level, it succeeds. It's greater than the sum of its parts, and it's charming. No matter how you cut it, "Starman, "Ziggy Stardust," and "Suffragette City" are some of the best songs Bowie ever produced, and the entire package is a star that won't burn out for a long time.

More David Bowie reviews by The Old Noise:

David Bowie (1967)
David Bowie (1969)
The Man Who Sold the World (1970)
Hunky Dory (1971)
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)
Aladdin Sane (1973)
Pin Ups (1973)
Diamond Dogs (1974)
David Live (1974)
Young Americans (1975)
Station to Station (1976)
Low (1977)
"Heroes" (1977)
Stage (1978)
Lodger (1979)
Scary Monsters (1980)
Let's Dance (1983)
Ziggy Stardust: The Motion Picture (1983)
Tonight (1984)
Never Let Me Down (1987)
Black Tie White Noise (1993)
The Buddha of Suburbia (1993)
Outside (1995)
Earthling (1997)
'Hours...' (1999)
Heathen (2002)
Reality (2003)
The Next Day (2013)
Blackstar (2016)

David Bowie—Scary Monsters

David Bowie—Scary Monsters (1980)

Scary Monsters—Among David Bowie's most celebrated albums—Ziggy Stardust (1972), Low (1977), et al.—Scary Monsters is the most commonly forgotten. It's considered to be roughly on the same plane as the others, but possibly due to its more extreme nature, it's often left off such lists. Unlike the more moderate persona of its predecessor Lodger (1979), Scary Monsters is painted with Bowie as a sinister Pierrot; likewise, the songs and Bowie's vocals are confrontational and disquieting compared to Lodger's impartial croon, sometimes drone.

Although it follows mostly logically from his previous three albums, and foreshadows the electronic direction of his later albums, Scary Monsters is something of an anomaly. Bowie is unusually direct throughout much of the album, with some pointed criticisms of his peers surfacing here and there, and it's one of his most overwhelmingly guitar-oriented albums. In the hair-raising opener, "It's No Game (No. 1)," Bowie's verses are preceded by singer Michi Hirota's (of Stomu Yamashta's Red Buddha Theatre) Japanese variations. Bowie explained, "I wanted to break down a particular type of sexist attitude about women. I thought the [idea of] the 'Japanese girl' typifies it, where everyone pictures them as a geisha girl, very sweet, demure and non-thinking, when in fact that's the absolute opposite of what women are like. They think an awful lot, with quite as much strength as any man. I wanted to caricature that attitude by having a very forceful Japanese voice on it. So I had [Hirota] come out with a very samurai kind of thing" (Strange Fascination—David Bowie: The Definitive Story, David Buckley, 1999). At the time, Bowie also had recently appeared in a Japanese commercial for Crystal Jun Rock sake for which he recorded the instrumental "Crystal Japan." That later became the B-side to "Up the Hill Backwards," his acoustic-electric tribute to Marcel Duchamp—"Sneakers fall apart"—who sculpted Not a Shoe and was once quoted as saying, "If it is shoes that you want, I'll give you shoes that you will admire to such an extent that you will lame yourselves trying to walk in them" (Surrealism, Julien Levy, 1995).

"Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)" is predictably the most overtly insane cut, with Bowie's chorus descending further into voltaic madness as the song wears on. "Space Oddity" sequel "Ashes to Ashes" is a candidate for Bowie's best song ever, an extraordinary self-referential journey that sounds like nothing else before or since—a swirling revelation of multi-tracked vocals, otherworldly synthesizer, and a jaw-dropping, deceptively simple refrain to close it out. "Fashion" is an apocalyptic funk ride that recalls Young Americans (1975) and Station to Station (1976). Centerpiece "Teenage Wildlife" attacks "new wave boys"; seeing as Bowie drew heavy inspiration from Krautrock for his late '70s work, he probably saw new wave artists like Gary Numan as less imaginative and driving than they should have been. "Scream Like a Baby," a holdover from aborted project People from Bad Homes (itself a line that was reused for "Fashion") that was originally called "I Am a Laser" and featured entirely different lyrics, is a carnivalesque song about unfairly-persecuted Sam of vague origins. "Kingdom Come," from Tom Verlaine's solo career, is well-produced but ultimately inferior to the original. "Because You're Young," with guest guitarist Pete Townshend, is a less prominent but satisfying offering coated with Halloween-evoking synthesizer. Flip-side reprise "It's No Game (No. 2)" ramps down the album steeply with a resigned tone, with Bowie inserting a couple new jarring lines into the mix ("Children 'round the world/Put camel shit on the walls").

Scary Monsters is pretty much universally considered the end of Bowie's classic period. In retrospect, he still had good, even great albums ahead of him, such as his final three (Reality [2003], The Next Day [2013], and Blackstar [2016]), but Bowie never assembled quite as good of a band as he did on Scary Monsters. It's an album that's hard to pull into its discrete parts in discussions, and at times it almost feels like a Greatest Hits album because of its career-to-date-encompassing subject matter. Taken on its own, however, it's one of Bowie's most original, galvanizing, and uniformly excellent albums, and it can go toe-to-toe with anything in his canon.

More David Bowie reviews by The Old Noise:

David Bowie (1967)
David Bowie (1969)
The Man Who Sold the World (1970)
Hunky Dory (1971)
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)
Aladdin Sane (1973)
Pin Ups (1973)
Diamond Dogs (1974)
Young Americans (1975)
Station to Station (1976)
Low (1977)
"Heroes" (1977)
Lodger (1979)
Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) (1980)
Let's Dance (1983)
Tonight (1984)
Never Let Me Down (1987)
Black Tie White Noise (1993)
The Buddha of Suburbia (1993)
Outside (1995)
Earthling (1997)
'Hours...' (1999)
Heathen (2002)
Reality (2003)
The Next Day (2013)
Blackstar (2016)

David Bowie—Hunky Dory

David Bowie—Hunky Dory

Hunky Dory—Usually regarded as David Bowie's first bona fide classic LP, Hunky Dory bears the overlooked quality of being a summation of the first segment of his career. David Bowie (1967) was a classicist excursion in early British Invasion and baroque pop, with a touch of the strangeness that would always be present in his work—the Beatles with a more archaic touch, essentially—David Bowie (1969), the second album to bear that title, often referred to as Space Oddity or Man of Words/Man of Music, mixed in progressive elements in the same manner as Syd Barrett's Pink Floyd, and The Man Who Sold the World (1970) furthered layered his sound with hard rock elements and obscure, dark, often maniacal lyrics. Hunky Dory is a step back from the last iteration, possibly a sign that producer Tony Visconti was responsible for the compression in sound—Visconti does not return in that role nor as Bowie's bassist as he had been on the previous two albums—but it does continue Bowie's move into more personal territory as well as observations on the latest in space fare.

"Changes," iconic for its stuttering chorus among all else, is also one of Bowie's best chord progressions, with some credit to Yes piano player Rick Wakeman. However, Bowie quickly tops himself in this respect with with "Oh! You Pretty Things," which esoterically honors outsiders. The pair of songs is interesting in the sense that both seem to embrace campy arrangements that are slyly undercut with hints of real meaning and true vision in melody that separate it from the novelty music that no doubt influenced them. The amusing but slight vignette "Eight Line Poem" was probably a real observance from Bowie. "Life on Mars?" has transcended its origins as a "My Way" parody to become one of Bowie's most rightly beloved space songs, mostly due to Mick Ronson's string arrangements. The idyllic "Kooks," written for Bowie's recently born son Duncan, is one of Bowie's most unmysterious songs ever; if it sounds vaguely like "Sugar Mountain," the Neil Young connection was deliberate. The abasing "Quicksand," which switches from mono to stereo near the end of the first passage, references the occult, Heinrich Himmler, Greta Garbo, and Winston Churchill in its apocalyptic vision, concluding, "Don't believe in yourself, don't deceive with belief/Knowledge comes with death's release."

"Fill Your Heart," the Biff Rose/Paul Williams composition, the first in a long series of once-per-album covers, fits right along with "Kooks," but it is interesting to note that the outtake "Bombers" was initially supposed to lead off the second side, which arguably better fits with the themes throughout the rest of the album. "Andy Warhol," a funny tribute to Bowie's friend with a killer acoustic arpeggio, was initially written to be performed by Dana Gillespie, just as "Oh! You Pretty Things" had been for Peter Noone (combined with the fact that Bowie had intended to write his own version of "Comme d'habitude" for Frank Sinatra, one must wonder if Bowie fantasized being a professional songwriter). The languid "Song for Bob Dylan," which came during Dylan's lean period in '71-'73 that saw very little progress from the artist, uses Dylan's own words against him ("Hey, hey, Woody Guthrie, I wrote you a song") in criticizing him for abdicating his lofty position in popular music. "Queen Bitch," the only indication that Bowie would get heavier in the years to come, ennobles Lou Reed. "The Bewlay Brothers" is a characteristic Bowie closer: complete nonsense (Bewlay being a brand of tobacco pipe) that nonetheless conveys his message effectively in texture.

By trimming the excesses from all aspects of his music (with help from new producer Ken Scott), David Bowie was able to make his most effective record to date with Hunky Dory. With the basic elements of his songs—that is to say, his singing and principal melodies—mixed in front, the world got to see just how inspired a songwriter he was, and it resulted in the first of many masterstrokes.

More David Bowie reviews by The Old Noise:

David Bowie (1967)
David Bowie (1969)
The Man Who Sold the World (1970)
Hunky Dory (1971)
The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars (1972)
Aladdin Sane (1973)
Pin Ups (1973)
Diamond Dogs (1974)
Young Americans (1975)
Station to Station (1976)
Low (1977)
"Heroes" (1977)
Lodger (1979)
Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) (1980)
Let's Dance (1983)
Tonight (1984)
Never Let Me Down (1987)
Black Tie White Noise (1993)
The Buddha of Suburbia (1993)
Outside (1995)
Earthling (1997)
'Hours...' (1999)
Heathen (2002)
Reality (2003)
The Next Day (2013)
Blackstar (2016)

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.

David Bowie—Low

David Bowie—Low

Low—David Bowie's persona can truly be called dissociative. The man has shown himself over time to be more or less of stable disposition, but his wide-ranging discography begs the question: Who is the real David Bowie? His lyrics, at times more personal than others, are professed to "jolly [the music] along" more often than not, so the listener must develop his or her ear—yet, ironically, Bowie never seemed one for instrumentals. Enter Brian Eno, emerging ambient musician, who in his own career was taking detours from guitar-dense art pop with the partially-instrumental Another Green World and wholly-wordless Discreet Music.

Bowie's collaboration with Eno has a distinct sense of complimentariness; the two employ similar styles of singing, and both come from a glam-rock background—Bowie with a plethora of glitter-laden rock and Eno being a former member of Roxy Music. When one listens to Bowie's Station to Station (1976) and Eno's Another Green World, there is the impression that the two artists were converging on similar points in their work. Rather than a joint billing, however, Eno takes a back seat to Bowie on Low, and it is Bowie's work, with the two sharing writing credits on only one song.

The art-rock of the mid-70s was approached by a similar process to jazz music. The scene had a collective of established musicians that had music to record, and other big names would often collude under the songwriter's name. Bowie here is the bandleader, just as Iggy Pop was when he and Bowie worked together on The Idiot, and the lack of ego is a refreshing feature; Bowie was ostensibly suffering from something akin to ego-loss, his latest character having been "The Thin White Duke," a nod to his excessive use of cocaine. He moved to Berlin for the very reason of quitting the drug which nearly destroyed him, and would record Low and its follow-up "Heroes" there (though in truth, the basic performances on Low were done mostly in France).

Where Station to Station was glossed like its soulful predecessor Young Americans (1976), Low is organic and often jagged. Its primal sound suggests a reconstruction of all things: Bowie's identity, lifestyle, and even his entire basic approach to making music. It can be postulated that Low represents Bowie in his most basic form, with little added flair and the lack of a flamboyant character gracing the LP's front cover, which instead simply shows a still photograph from The Man Who Fell to Earth. "Speed of Life," Bowie's probably-unwitting answer to Eno's "Sky Saw," is sparse, under-produced on first listen—a 30th-century jam, all aspects to be upheld throughout the record. "Breaking Glass" is led by the anfractuous guitar of Carlos Alomar and the halted drumming of Dennis Davis, processed by producer Tony Visconti, who did not see fit to divulge his technique; the result is something like a noise-canceling effect. Bowie's shadowy verse is self-referential: the artwork of Station to Station includes a photo of Bowie drawing the Sephirot on carpet.

"What in the World" is an inverted pop song, substituting freewheeling notions of love and harmony with glitchy lyrics and a warbling Iggy Pop. "Sound and Vision" rounds out the trio of songs with common themes of isolation, specifically staying in one's room. The drum track pops and fizzles, the guitar and Bowie's saxophone, once jazzy, now tumescent, snake around at their leisure as Bowie sings brightly about songwriting itself: his then-new trend of self-referentiality. It is, put simply, a work of recording genius. "Always Crashing in the Same Car" is characteristic of the apocalyptic feeling that affects the whole record, and actually, the song is a real story about Bowie ramming a drug dealer's car, then returning to his hotel to drive in circles.¹ "Be My Wife" is the odd one out from the set, a straightforward song that only remembers its context as it spins into oblivion led by the plodding piano. Bowie concludes the side with "A New Career in a New Town," another instrumental that evokes the setting sun from its distant harmonica and a carnival of sorts from its climbing piano, night-sky synth and soft kick of the bass drum; his title is self-explanatory.

The reputation of Low's second side often eclipses the actual music. The turn of the century has brought an era in music-listening in which compilations are often pushed as the essential purchase and rarely include instrumentals, if ever, provided that does not describe their entire body of work. Low's four side-two pieces often become lost in the noise of more catchy vocal songs, and are usually spoken about collectively, or in a manner that vitiates them. The Bowie-curated All Saints, sadly, is symptomatic of these phenomena, and obscures the relevance of the work, demoting them to curiosities. What is missed in the case of Low is the cohesive sound and the idea that Bowie intended the four compositions to be reflections of his experiences in Western and Central Europe. "Warszawa," for example, is meant to depict the still-rebuilding Warsaw, Poland: haunting, miasmic synthesizer pierced only by Bowie's overdubbed chanting.

"Art Decade," a picture of West Berlin—the Berlin Wall still standing at this time—is less dramatic, but still broken, unsure, almost dangerous. "Weeping Wall" instead focuses on the barrier itself, probably suggesting with its title that the wall itself cried out; in point of fact, some sections of graffiti on the Berlin Wall were long rows of grotesque faces. The song is more rhythm-oriented than the others, with Bowie playing the vibraphone and xylophone mixed in front of his wailing and guitar. "Subterraneans" was generated from a minor piece of music from Bowie's aborted The Man Who Fell to Earth soundtrack and is about "the people who got caught in East Berlin after the separation—hence the faint jazz saxophones representing the memory of what it was."² It is a fitting summation of the whole album's tone, including side one: another world, a dark future that has regressed to the primeval, instinctive, somber, and ominous.

Art sometimes loses relevance with time. The Berlin Wall has been eradicated and David Bowie is no longer the person he was or playing the role he did when he recorded Low. Despite this, its themes tease a deeper connection with human psyche, after all the static has been blown away with time, even if they are sometimes amorphous. Stripping down his sound allowed Bowie to rebuild his path in music, and though its words are sparse, Low exhibits Bowie at his most raw and pure. It remains not only his best album, but likely rock's greatest piece of art, and needless to say, a masterstroke.

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12 Hugo Wilcken: 33⅓: Low