20) Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) (1980, Rock/Art Rock)
This lowly rating may get me some brickbats from equally-hardcore Bowie fans – though it could have been worse, at one point I debated dropping it below the first Tin Machine album. But, for all the brilliance of the four-song run (the title track through to Teenage Wildlife) near the middle of the record, and despite the presence of not just the classic Bowie backing band of Carlos Alomar, George Murray and Dennis Davis, with guest guitarists Pete Townshend and most notably my favourite axeman Robert Fripp (who contributes some staggering, slicing fretwork which is among his finest) the record just leaves me a little cold.
Why? Well firstly there’s the theme, where Bowie’s regular ‘advice’ to his listeners suddenly puts him in finger-wagging ‘parent’ mode, which I feel makes some of his later work come across as preachy – “Because You’re Young” is an example of this, as for that matter is the admittedly-excellent “Teenage Wildlife”. But Bowie’s mystique for me came from his ‘otherness’ – once he starts lecturing on staying clear of all of the temptations he indulged in he turns into a father figure. There’s also the peculiar and out-of-character vocal performances – Bowie’s OTT screaming on the incomprehensible opener “It’s No Game”, his Lou Reed-style sing-speak on the closing reprise (“children round the world put camel shit on the walls”, indeed) on the closing reprise, and his excessive yodelling makes the cover of Tom Verlaine’s “Kingdom Come” nigh-on-unlistenable. I also feel that critics forget that clever touches such as the split, schizophrenic vocals near the end of the nervy, unsettling totalitarian tale “Scream Like A Baby”, whilst effective, was actually a trick that already been done on Hunky Dory’s closer “The Bewley Brothers”. I would even contend not all of the songwriting is at his highest level – both the clumsy, leaden “Up The Hill Backwards” and the forgettable “Because You’re Young” would be examples of this, as well as the oddball lyrics on the opening and closing It’s No Game.
But there is certainly quality herein too. There’s the Pierrot persona on the cover, which famously appeared in the “Ashes To Ashes” video along with Visage frontman Steve Strange. The title track contains perhaps Robert Fripp’s finest guitar work on any Bowie song, and the peculiar production touches, such as the ‘dog barking’ effect on the keyboards, the distortion on Bowie’s vocals later in the song, and the post-punk chanting at the end, make it unique. Equally “Ashes To Ashes”, with its ‘falling raindrop’ synth effects, complicated rhythms and interesting tale of what ultimately happened to Major Tom; the fad-bashing, disco-stomper “Fashion” which was yet another example of the songwriter’s ability to create quickly and the aforementioned “Teenage Wildlife”, where Bowie’s melodramatic singing fits the epic song structure and slow build like a glove.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the popularity of, and glowing regard for, this record. It’s just that I feel that the quality of its middle section isn’t quite matched elsewhere, and that the excess contained within (“1.Outside” has the same issue) means it is overly-lauded, even though this puts me in the minority.
19) 1.Outside (1995, Art Rock/Industrial). Produced by David Bowie, David Richards and Brian Eno
Don’t start here, any of you novices to the works of ‘Dame David’! Because this record, more than any other, bursts with characters, artistic (quite literally) pretentions; lyrics so cut up from their already obscure origins (“what a fantastic death abyss”) as to be incomprehensible; music as dense, jagged and menacing as anything on “Heroes” and bewildering segues which makes the plot, concerning a teenager’s gruesome butchering (“it was murder but was it art?”) less rather than more clear.
Running at a career-longest 19 tracks and over 74 minutes it’s a double album which could easily have been longer – the sessions produced hours of material and the rumour of “1.Outside” being just the first of several albums taking us up to the millennium may not have been wide of the mark. Much of the work is collaborative, particularly with the returned Brian Eno, and Reeves Gabrels, both of whom not so much endured all the wild experimentation as encouraged it. This even extends to the artwork – a self-portrait which partially sums up the artiness of the record, though the goriness of the inner artwork is wisely left there.
As usual the upside of so much material is that there’s a good chance of there being at least a standard album’s worth of strong songs. The title song builds in intensity, with its ominously ascending chord pattern; “The Heart’s Filthy Lesson” (whilst a bizarre choice of single) has pounding one-chord verses which drill themselves into your subconscious; “I Have Not Been To Oxford Town” has a sing-song chorus which is reminiscent of the artist’s early work; the dark-tinged techno of “I’m Deranged” is peppered with schizophrenic vocals bouncing around within the mix; the oddly-uplifting “Thru These Architects Eyes” has a cinematic quality. Some of the droning, fizzing numbers which show the influence of Nine Inch Nails also work well – “I Am With Name”, containing buzzsaw guitar and fine drumming from Sterling Campbell is one such number, as is “The Heart’s Filthy Lesson”. The album version of “Hallo Spaceboy”, an industrial, pounding headbanger of the highest order, knocks the techno-lite of the Pet Shop Boys single collaboration out of the park, and the retread of “Strangers When We Meet” is as strong (and surprisingly restrained) as the version on The Buddha Of Suburbia.
But elsewhere the indulgence reaches ludicrous levels even for those tolerant of such things : “A Small Plot Of Land” has a mess of treated vocals, odd drum patterns, piano trills and clunking chords which make no sense, with Bowie booming out like the increasingly-unfathomable Scott Walker. Elsewhere the Englishman’s transmogrification into the concept’s demented characters works better in some cases (Algeria Touchshriek, for example) than others, though any casual fan would be mystified. The album ends up falling between two stools; plot-wise the record is demented even after one picks together the non-chronological nature of it, but the songs are often drenched in the concept or preceded by a segue which makes the songs difficult to enjoy on their own merits. Meantime Bowie’s Burroughs-inspired cut-ups, which arguably rarely assisted his lyrics, are more infuriating here than ever. The record cries out for an editor, and whereas “Diamond Dogs” benefitted from a shorter length and a more familiar backstory the fact that “1.Outside” has such excessive creativity ironically threatens to pull it apart.
It’s a complex work, but for all its flaws it’s worth persevering with once you’ve gotten a reasonable idea what Bowie’s work is like, and picking out the juicy morsels within. If nothing else it shoots down the idea that major artists are incapable of producing bold artistic statements in their middle age. As I say though, not the ideal starting point for anyone new to his work, and a record that remains largely impenetrable even to some lifelong fans like myself.
18) David Bowie – sometimes renamed Space Oddity – (1969, Folk). Produced by Tony Visconti and Gus Dudgeon
This release is a major step forward from Bowie’s debut. Taking the curious little vignettes which seemed to be his forte but injecting elements of folk, which was his main interest at the time, Bowie released the record generally known as “Space Oddity”, originally titled “Man Of Music, Man Of Words. This 1969 release has had a tendency to be dominated by the unique and unforgettable title track, but is actually a solid, underrated work which contains some of his more personal and accessible songs – long before the concept records and William Burroughs-style cut-ups came into play.
The opening song of course has come to define the artist almost as much as a track like “Changes”, signifying the artist’s otherness neatly. It also contains drama – in the eerie build of the synths and twanging guitars in the break after the verse, which is rumoured to be about a junkie getting a fix and the delay before the hit (though whether this is true or not will have now passed along with Bowie). It’s like a cosmic version of the early Bee Gees but the track didn’t translate into longterm success for its writer, it just seemed to define him, at the time, as a novelty.
It’s also not representative of the rest of the record, which sticks closer, mostly, to the folk format. “Unwashed And Somewhat Slightly Dazed” is an acoustically-driven Dylanesque number, with shrieking lead vocal, disturbingly violent lyrics in the verses “There’s blood on my nose”, “My head’s full of murders”. Letter To Hermione and Janine are stunningly-personal, in light of the role-playing that would come later, “Cygnet Committee” is almost progressive in structure and hints at epic numbers like “The Width Of A Circle” and “Station To Station”, notably its title track; whilst the doom-laden “Wide-Eyed Boy From Freecloud” is given an orchestral treatment which brings to mind Neil Young’s own solo debut from the same time. The closing number, “Memory Of A Free Festival”, is Bowie’s answer to “Hey Jude”, albeit with the rather more choice coda, “The sun machine’s coming down and we’re going to have a party”, and, in this writer’s opinion, it’s superior. The song is imbued with Bowie’s sci-fi yearnings and his ambivalence of the hippy dream. The Beatles were still reining as the 1960s drew to a closer, but arguably Bowie would be popular music’s most vital creative force in the next decade.
“David Bowie” / “Space Oddity” is a stronger album than it’s given credit for. It gives a glimpse into a side of Bowie that would remain hidden arguably until “Black Tie White Noise” – his personal life. Whereas “Hunky Dory” would give a glance into his philosophical beliefs (themselves somewhat prone to change) this album gives us a vision of a David Bowie that might, just might, have embraced psychedelia and idealism. As things turned out (perhaps with the help of wife Angie) he decidedly turned his back on that, but like many of his records this has a quality all of its own, and is an important document.
17) Let’s Dance (1983, Pop/Rock). Produced by David Bowie and Nile Rodgers
Much like his friend and fellow Berlin exile Iggy Pop with his Blah Blah Blah album Let’s Dance is often looked down on by Bowie fans for its overt accessibility. Niles Rodgers’ production makes it feel like a Chic LP more than the artist’s own, and if one can get around this one can enjoy a dance-able (unsurprisingly), undemanding long player which welcomes the casual listener in from the very first notes.
Like “Young Americans”, which is another contender for his most-approachable work, it’s often accused of being short on classic material. Perhaps Bowie was a little less involved due to only taking vocals on this record – for the first time he is not credited as playing any instruments. In essence he’s taking the role that the guest singers used to on Chic albums – albeit with material he himself had written. For that reason, with his particularly-distinctive saxophone notably absent as well as some of his distinctive treatments or productive touches, there’s occasionally a lack of ‘Bowie’ on this record, in much the same way that Iggy fans would complain about their hero’s atypically restrained personality on his 1986 release.
The opening 1-2-3 punch, however, would put most artists to shame. “Modern Love” cheerfully raids the 1950s for a ‘round’-style chorus. “China Girl”, by a distance Bowie’s finest interpretation of a song originally sung by Iggy Pop (many of course co-written by himself), is transformed from the edgy, sneering art rock of the original to a sensual, pulsing pop song which featured a saucy video and hit number 2 in the UK charts. The title track, meanwhile, with its huge drums, relentless rhythms and Stevie Ray Vaughan soloing, is one of his most successful longer songs, and hit number 1 on both sides of the Atlantic.
Things do get a little bland at times after that. “Without You” is often derided by Bowie aficianados, notably for its wimpy chorus and lovelorn vocal performance which at the time was very out of character for the artist, and is often lumped with the holiday-style swingbeat of closer Shake It as two of his most atypically-vapid songs. Yet before that there is actually a little drama and invention – “Ricochet”, with its arresting drum pattern, guitar riff, ominous, rising vocalese, bizarre Welsh accents, and curious lyrics (“sound of the devil breaking parole”) is a curious track, oddly reminiscent of Bowie’s traditional fascination with God “Turn the holy pictures so they face the wall”. The cover of Metro’s “Criminal World” is an unexpected success, complete with fluttering flutes in the chorus, and “Cat People”, with Stevie Ray Vaughn again prominent, verges on hard rock, with the refrain “And I’ve been putting out fire – with GASOLINE!” proving a treat.
Despite these moments it’d be an almighty stretch to say “Let’s Dance” is the most daring or dynamic of Bowie’s career, but it’s an accessible starting point for this diverse artist, particularly if they’re a fan of 1980s pop in any way. It’s the highest-selling of all, and there’s good reason for this : along with his co-writes on “Blah Blah Blah” it contains some of his best work of the decade.
16) The Next Day (2013, Art Rock) Produced by David Bowie and Tony Visconti
Returning after a 10 year gap this record took everyone by surprise. The music press were in absolute bewilderment – had Bowie been sick, had he retired and just not told anyone, in order to add further mystique to a career not exactly lacking in it? But interest was enormous, with the album hitting number 1 in the UK and in many countries across the world, only just missing out on the US charts.
As comebacks go, and Bowie had made a few by this stage, it can hardly be judged a failure – and whilst hardly breaking new ground it’s a solid, well-crafted album which covers many of his successes throughout his career. There’s the cover – a blanked out version of the ‘Heroes’ cover, which perhaps only gains some possible meaning in light of the hindsight that Bowie’s own health had indeed become an issue by this point. Also the solid band contains veterans of his 1990s work and who had never let their employer down – Gail Ann Dorsey on bass and Zachary Alford and Sterling Campbell on drums – whilst Earl Slick returned nearly four decades after his seminal performances on Station To Station. Other accomplished session musicians to feature included Tony Levin on bass.
The title track, which opens the record and whose video – featuring Gary Oldman and Tilda Swinton – shocked some Christian groups with its adult depiction of Christianity and stigmata, is a hard-rocking throwback to his 1980s work, a martial drumbeat and a remarkably spirited vocal lead, defiant in the face of (sadly increasingly imminent) mortality. “Here I Am, Not Quite Dying / My body left to rot in a hollow tree / Its branches forming shadows on the gallows for me”. The same could be said for “Valentine’s Day”, which contains classic Bowie chord progressions, and its production reminds one of something from the more recent “Reality”. “If You Can See Me”, with its shuffling, jazzy rhythms, treated vocals and complicated, intense lyrics points forward to his final record, “Blackstar”. “I’d Rather Be High” sounds like a late-period James single, or perhaps Brett Anderson in a more exuberant mood. The choice of guitarists throughout is excellent, giving extra flavour to an album which covers as many bases as possible both to aficianados and also to newcomers, with riffs and hooks aplenty. “Boss Of Me” sounds oddly reminiscent of the obscure but worthy Bowie-influenced Metro, albeit with access to a modern studio. “Dancing Out In Space” could also be off an early Roxy Music or Brian Eno LP, with its curious, jarring chorus, whirring effects and sing-speak harmonics.
On the downside, regarding the lead single (and I say this genuinely without the benefit of hindsight) I remember feeling dismayed at the sight and sound of my hero, with his repeated referencing of his past (whether in Berlin or his youthful days with Hermione Farthingale). His frailty didn’t appear, for once, to be acting, and this was a man who’d once played a centuries-old vampire on screen, whilst the focus on Berlin seemed like someone saying goodbye. However, it appeared that whilst I may have picked up on something, I was getting ahead of myself – on the rest of the record Bowie’s performances could be that of a man half his age. For while the single unsettled me, the focus on this record appears to be on faces not being where, or how, they should be, and this is reflected in the defacement of the ‘Heroes’ cover art, along with the past being referenced but subverted. And this effect comes through on “How Does The Grass Grow”, with mentions of “I lived a blind life / A White face in prison”, and “Blackstar” is presaged with “I gaze in defeat At the stars in the night / The light in my life burnt away / There will be no tomorrow”. “You Feel So Lonely You Could Die” could only be Bowie himself, in the spirit of ‘Heroes’ or Teenage Wildlife, with the soul of “Young Americans” swished in – there’s even a nod to the infamous drum pattern at the start of “Five Years”, whilst the minor key, mantra-like orchestral drama of “Heat”, referencing Yukio Mishima's novel "Spring Snow" – harks back to The Man Who Sold The World and Hunky Dory, and sonically makes yet another grab from Scott Walker’s tortured territory.
“The Next Day” is an album I approached with trepidation but its generally upbeat tempo, rocking style, punchy riffs, inventive touches from Tony Visconti were a refreshing surprise, and the fact that the lyrics show a surprising amount of disturbing imagery for one who could have been attending Buckingham Palace or living a life of dotage this simply confirms what made the artist uniquely fresh in a comeback. At 66 Bowie does not just prove his strength as a songwriter but is also in fine voice, ironically reassuring those who were scared his long hiatus meant he had been severely unwell. “Blackstar”, sadly, would tell a rather different story.
15) Black Tie White Noise (1993, Pop/Rock, Soul, R&B). Produced by David Bowie and Nile Rodgers
This is another album derided for being too commercial and safe (though in the post-Tin Machine era you could hardly blame Bowie for wanting to prove he could still top the charts) and sure enough, despite heavy competition from the early Britpoppers it still hit number 1, knocking Suede’s much-trumpeted, Bowie influenced debut off top spot. It aims for the cool grooves of the dance-pop market rather than the nascent Union-Jack waving Britpop demographic, and it scores a bullseye – an affable, generally upbeat LP that tries to draw the listener in rather than challenge them.
The rather unimaginative cover, self-consciously hip inner photos and general air of coolness at all costs has earned the record criticism from the Bowie boys and girls, sometimes even a list on those dreaded ‘bad albums by great artists’ lists. But this a very harsh condemnation of an extremely listenable, if rather bloated, long player. There’s a rare but genuine sense of happiness emanating from the work, beginning and (originally) closing with the instrumental and vocal versions of “The Wedding Song”, celebrating his nuptials to Iman. “Miracle Goodnight”, with its catchy chorus and a slightly fairytale quality, should undoubtedly have been a single. On the instrumental “Looking For Lester” the two Bowies – David on sax and Lester on trumpet – duel over a fun, funky backing and the enthusiasm positively pours out of the speakers.
Of course despite the surface sheen and vibrant jazziness darkness isn’t always a million miles away – “Jump They Say” concerns Terry Burns’ mental health issues and eventual suicide, which might have been lost on those who enjoyed the typically mannered video. The cover of Cream’s “I Feel Free”, a favourite of Bowie’s going right back to the 1970s, is a lot of fun on the surface – with Bowie delving to the very bottom of his vocal range, but the guitar solo from Mick Ronson in the middle of the track is overshadowed with the knowledge that this would be his final work with his old friend before his passing from liver cancer. “Nite Flights”, one of Bowie’s finest covers, takes a Walker Brothers original – naturally the work of Scott – and imbues it with both drama and danceability despite its ominous lyrics.
The heavily R&B-inflected title track itself references the LA riots, and the shouted lyric “fascist cries of black & white” make it a cousin of “Under The God” from Tin Machine’s debut.
Like a lot of Bowie’s other work from the period, though, the record is somewhat overlong. The extra remix of “Jump They Say”, with extra orgasmic moaning from the backing singers, is superfluous, and the swooning “Don’t Let Me Down & Down” is competently performed but seems rather calculated to pitch Bowie at the easy-listening / AOR market. The near-instrumental “Pallas Athena” takes a genuinely interesting, moody techno melody and stretches it too long and too far. Value for money wasn’t a problem in this era of Bowie long-players, though it arguably hindered many of them being contenders to be up with his finest works.
But as a relaunch of a career which could have flatlined after the calculated risk of Tin Machine, “Black Tie White Noise” is still a success. An approachable record, ideal for having on in the background at dinner parties, it is welcoming, a good starting point for anyone who has previously been scared off from the artist’s more indulgent or arty works, and proof that anyone can become a fan of his regardless of their musical tastes.
14) Young Americans (1975, Soul/Funk/R&B). Produced by Tony Visconti, Harry Maslin and David Bowie
I’m not sure if it’s coincidence that Bowie’s three most accessible works seem to be lumped together here, around the middle point of this list. But “Young Americans”, the record which got Bowie US commercial success to match his UK rise, became one of his biggest sellers and created a lot of goodwill to fans of black rather than white, music.
Originally the record was to be called “The Gouster” and feature a different running order, approved by Tony Visconti. However the arrival of John Lennon in the studio changed all this. For it was Lennon who gave Bowie the determination to drastically change “Footstomping” into a more substantial track rather than just a riff over a rambling lyric, and the funky classic “Fame” became a damning indictment of the indulged but airtight showbiz world that the singer now lived in. Yet there’s more to the record than the hits, such as the swinging rhythm of the title track. “Win”, undoubtedly one of Bowie’s best soul ballads with its melting sax refrain and perfectly-judged vocal performance, is superior. The extended funk workout “Fascination”, co-written by Luther Vandross who also performs on the record, is another highlight, while in response to anyone thinking that Bowie was simply walking his way through his latest genre it should be noted that the vocal arrangements for “Right” were so complex that it became impossible for Bowie to reproduce it live.
Not all of the material is absolutely top notch, and occasionally (the title track and “Somebody Up There Likes Me”) the disconnect between the swinging, fingersnapping soul grooves and the singer’s disillusioned take on America and the world in general would confuse a listener who’s paying close attention. Furthermore Lennon’s contributions were not wholly positive : the presence of The Beatles’ “Across The Universe” is a real burden to this record. Lyrically it has little to do with Bowie’s worldview, and whilst there’s little doubt that Bowie and Lennon gelled very well at the time as people it is hard to know why this was the Beatles track picked to be recorded. Bowie would go on much later to cover Lennon’s “Mother” with aplomb (not to mention “Working Class Hero” on the first Tin Machine LP) but the fact that this track was laid down instead of “Who Can I Be Now” (quintessential to Bowie’s character, or characters) or the stunningly-sung ballad “It’s Gonna Be Me”, is particularly disappointing. Not least to Tony Visconti, who was not aware of the change to the track listing.
However “Young Americans” is an entertaining listen, despite its flaws. It opened up an interest in classic 1970s soul for me, and gave an early outing for Luther Vandross. The use of black backing musicians and success in the ‘blackest’ of musical styles also arguably protected Bowie from more serious career damage subsequently, when his unsettling interview comments about Hitler, and his ‘jocular’ salute from his open-top black Mercedes, threatened to cast him as a racist throwback. It’s just a pity that it couldn’t have been released in its original form, without tampering.
13) Earthling (1997, Rock / Jungle/Drum ‘n’ Bass). Produced by David Bowie, Reeves Gabrels and Mark Plati
When this jungle/drum and bass record came out in 1997 it inevitably garnered criticism for the then 50-year old Bowie being like ‘grandad down the disco’, from a music press still bewildered at the rock legend’s last offering “1.Outside”. However it’s far from being his worst album, and shows a respectable liveliness, unselfconsciousness and energy which could have put those half his then age to shame.
From the jittery, skittering beats of the opening “Little Wonder” – another lead-off single that bewildered rather than entranced the paying public – this is clearly a rock/jungle hybrid. But though the studio version is little better than the single – the stylistic lurches between lumpen art-rock and ‘how many BPM do you want’ drum and bass just keep coming and never sound natural – Bowie’s sardonic lyrics (“tits and explosions”) are a minor joy. And there’s a real enthusiasm here, which comes across in the inlay photos. There’s just as little concession to popular demand as on the previous record, and at least this time it’s more digestible as it’s just a single LP.
Certainly, despite its uncertain start, Earthling has some solid stuff within it. The droning “Looking For Satellites” reaches back to the screeching, dense art rock of “Lodger”, to the point of getting the ever-game Reeves Gabrels to do a one-string guitar solo which virtually lacerates the track. “Seven Years In Tibet” has all the ominous portentousness of Bowie at his best, a slowly building track with the oriental-synth riff further referencing the anti-Chinese government sentiment of the song (one of the most overt times Bowie has admitted being political). “Dead Man Walking”, though perhaps overlong, contains some brilliant bass-playing and backing vocals from Gail-Ann Dorsey and the twists and turns are intriguing. “Telling Lies” is the track that “Little Wonder” so clearly wanted to be, though the rest of the album’s second half is a little hit-and-miss, with even the Eno co-write “I’m Afraid Of Americans” proving oddly rambling and directionless, despite the clear attempts to write a killer riff and vocal hooks. The closing number, Law (“Earthlings on Fire”), is unintentionally comic : “I don’t want knowledge/I want CERTAINTY” the singer squawks distortedly, though as on “Seven Years In Tibet” its slow-build is effective.
“Earthling” isn’t top-grade Bowie and some of its tracks are truly overextended, but it’s more solid than its reputation would suggest. Kindling an association with Mark Plati which would be taken up again during his career, Bowie proves here that whether contemporary music wished him to adopt current trends or not that was exactly what he’d do if he wished to. His most high-energy recording, “Earthling” probably offended the jungle/drum n bass purists but he didn’t care – and for anyone keen on the fusion of dance with the earthiness of rock it’s a fascinating curio.
12) Blackstar (2016, Rock/Jazz/Experimental/Hip Hop). Produced by David Bowie and Tony Visconti
David Bowie’s parting gift to us, as it turned out. Shortly after release came the news that the Starman himself had left us at 69 years of age, having hidden his liver cancer – the same illness that claimed Mick Ronson – from the world. Amid the shock of this sudden revelation the album topped the charts on both sides of the Atlantic and elsewhere, and led to a huge revival in his old work.
The final album he left behind – with the black star on the front cover a bleak, regretful symbol of a talent taken away – was a unique work in a career containing more than a few stylistic one-offs, a record with the format of “Station To Station” but containing heavy jazz stylings with a hint of the avant-garde. Yet despite the unfamiliar sound, much less derivative than, say, “Reality”, it’s also arguably a more focused work than “The Next Day”. Bowie’s tendency to go in at the deep end was reflected once again in the use of an unknown New York jazz band to back him, and this inspired decision gives the record its fresh, somewhat unsettling feel, particularly when this instrumentation dovetails with hip hop stylings or Bowie and Visconti’s sonic experiments.
Thus the epic opening title track, with its accompanying video featuring a dead astronaut, was in hindsight as much of a clue as to its writers’ fate as “Lazarus” was – rumoured to be Major Tom initially the meaning of the short film is rather different with the benefit of hindsight. There’s a sombre opening, almost Gregorian, before contemporary R&B and acid textures become noticeable as well as a nod back to the jungle style of Earthling, while Bowie’s treated multi-tracked vocals for the “I’m a Blackstar” refrain might be a familiar trick but still effective. “‘Tis a Pity She Was A Whore” refers back to a 17th century John Ford novel with a backing that is oddly reminiscent of “1.Outside”’s “I’m Deranged”, through a jazzier filter. The slow-paced, funereal “Lazarus”, with that haunting and distressing video of a bandaged Bowie in his deathbed before heading into the blackness of a wardrobe, strikes a doomladen note from the beginning “Look up here/I’m in heaven” and with his singing about ‘being free’ it’s clear what the subject is.
The rest of the record maintains the high standard and startling nature of its first half. Sue (or “In A Season Of Crime”)’s skittering beats and pulsing guitar pattern are cleverly bookended by the speaker-to-speak saxophones and sound effects. “Girl Loves Me”’s initially isolated near-falsetto lead vocal belies the rap influence the song shows, and amidst the use of Polari and Nadsat languages it contains one of his most memorable refrains in Anglo-Saxon English, “Where the f**k did Monday go?” “Dollar Days”’ mellow piano, sax and restrained guitar is a little breather after the more industrial content of the album, but the mentions of “I’m dying too…” and “if I’ll never see the English evergreens I’m running to” continue to make his mortality clear. The final track, a breezy dance-pop with jazzy saxes once again (and a harmonica solo which brings memories of Bowie’s memorable musical contribution to Low’s “A New Career In A New Town”, sounds akin to something off “Black Tie White Noise” but the video’s evolution from monochrome to colour was intended to convey hope and optimism, amid the sadness of the icon’s death. Despite its fluctuating moods it makes for a strangely uplifting conclusion to an unsurprisingly sad record.
It’s a fine achievement in the circumstances, difficult in some ways to listen to in the knowledge of its creator’s failing health at the time, and its lyrical subject is heavy as can be. Of all pop and rock stars Bowie seemed invincible, perhaps not even human, to his fans – so despite its excellent commercial performance after his death it’s a daunting album. However it remains a fresh, spiky work, refining many of his efforts from previous works and introducing a new style which made the critics applaud his experimental, arty nature right at the end. That alone makes it a fitting epitaph.
11) Aladdin Sane (1973, Glam Rock/Blues Rock). Produced by Ken Scott and David Bowie.
A much more ‘glam slam’ record than its predecessor, Aladdin Sane, once again featuring the ‘Spiders From Mars’ (Mick Ronson on guitar, Trevor Bolder on bass and Mick Woodmansey on drums) is effectively ‘Ziggy Goes To America’, though it still proved more successful in the UK, topping the charts. Lacking the previous record’s cartoonish but iconic concept and character, here Bowie takes a great cover design, a cryptic title track and lets the listener work out for themselves who this persona is.
Fortunately what could have been seen as a letdown becomes a thrilling listening experience, the speakers almost disintegrating from Mick Ronson’s opening power chords on “Watch That Man”, and it rarely lets up until the end.
Ronson’s high in the mix here, battling against the other notably soloist Mike Garson. One of David’s most extraordinary recruitments, the avant-garde pianist’s dramatic contributions, particularly to the instrumental interlude on the title number but also throughout – combine Germanic pomp, classical inflections (“Time”), trills and even raw rock-and-roll pounding on the typically OTT intro to the cover of The Rolling Stones’ “Let’s Spend The Night Together”. Whilst the glammed-up Jagger-Richards cover splits opinion it signifies the album’s general character : raw, leering rock with a sophisticated edge, and this is notably refined for the sensual closing number “Lady Grinning Soul”.
Elsewhere the crunch and amoral raunchiness of the record is almost off the scale: never mind the opener “Watch That Man”, where the singer’s voice is almost buried under the instrumental backing. There’s Ronson’s scorching, bluesy soloing at the end of the urban chaos of “Panic In Detroit” or on the cynical, prophetic “Cracked Actor”, and the presence of salty harmonicas gives even more of an earthy kick to the material. The classic “Time” contains yet more lyrical controversies such as “falls wanking to the floor” soon transforms from its Brel or Weill/Brecht-like beginnings into a slowly-building, wordless refrain, while Garson borrows from the inter-war period for his stride piano opening. Curiously there’s considerable influence from doo-wap on both “Drive In Saturday” and “The Prettiest Star”, giving the record a further similarity to glam bands of the time and an odd affinity to groups like Showaddywaddy, despite the former containing a purely David-like lyric where lovers of the future have to watch films of Mick Jagger to be aroused. Another unwanted parallel, for Bowie at least, was to bands like Sweet: the outrageous, camped-up but vaguely threatening glam band who hit number 1 with “Blockbuster”, a song whose main riff sounded identical to Bowie’s Jean Genie (the penultimate track here which concerns an ‘Iggy-like character’ and not Jean Genet, according to its author).
It’s this crude approach, which sometimes threatens the overwhelm the sensitive artist within, which can occasionally make the record seem obnoxious, and perhaps that’s why it’s currently not on my ipod. Lyrically Bowie was starting to sound a little shallow, sex-mad and keen to shock, like Marc Bolan at his most predictable. He sounds here as if he’s dropping into the style rather than completely at home with it, and with the benefit of hindsight it made sense that he would ditch the Spiders after the fairly lacklustre “Pin Ups”, enabling him to move on. “Aladdin Sane” is a jolt after the more polite predecessor, but there’s little doubt which is the more distinctive work.
10) The Buddha Of Suburbia (1993, Art Rock-Ambient). Produced by David Bowie and David Richards
The great ‘Eno collaboration’ that didn’t actually feature Brian Eno in any fashion, this is the real forgotten gem in Bowie’s catalogue. Writing solely on his own, and with musical support from the loyal multi-instrumentalist Erdal Kizilcay and the unmistakeable Mike Garson, “The Buddha Of Suburbia”, inspired by Hanif Kureshi’s novel (its author based its shape-changing, bisexual and decadent rock star Charlie Kay on Bowie), is a rock-ambient hybrid that compares very respectably to his Berlin-era masterpieces. It even once classified as Bowie’s own favourite.
In some ways the record has nothing in common with genuine soundtrack albums like the mostly-underwhelming “Labyrinth” – little of the material appeared in the TV show. This is why this record is on the list, unlike “Labyrinth”, as it’s effectively an original Bowie product albeit one that suffered from dreadful marketing. And it’s a strong product too. The title track – whilst slightly sullied by its closing reprise which is virtually identical but for a clunking Lenny Kravitz guitar solo – harks back to the yearning tone of “Hunky Dory”, and even namechecks the “Ouvrez le chien” refrain from “All The Madmen”. “South Horizon” is a two-part number which lets Garson cut loose over a jazzy backing; “The Mysteries” is pure Brian Eno with its slowly-moving ambient backgrounds, and its evocative bells tolling at the end evoke “Moss Garden” from ‘Heroes’ and the more experimental “Ian Fish UK Heir” – a slow, backwards retread of the title track – on the equivalent position on side 2 also borrows from the Godfather of Ambient. The enjoyable “Dead Against It” has a hushed vocal and looping, ultimately ascending melody which are akin to the early synth wave, whilst “Untitled Number 1” is arguably the finest untitled song of all time, with its vaguely Eastern, swooning rhythms and backing vocals and its Marc Bolan rip-off at the end.
It’s not universally excellent, though : the club-lite “Sex And The Church”, with Bowie on vocoder-inflected sing-speak vocals, is arguably over-extended, and the chant-happy “Bleeds Like A Craze Dad” similarly struggles to maintain interest all the way through, perhaps showing the limitations of the small group of musicians working on the record and the limited time to write and record. But for a work which even David’s most loyal fans might have struggled to get a copy of it (fortunately I managed surprisingly quickly) this is a clever, textured and intelligent album which proved Bowie didn’t necessarily need Brian Eno to flirt with ambient and hybrid forms to successful effect, and it recaptures the pioneering spirit of the Berlin trilogy whilst retaining its own atmosphere. Ironically the album signified the direction the former Mr. Jones would take on his next work – the rather more obtrusive and unrestrained Eno-collaboration “1.Outside”.
9) Heathen (2002, Art Pop-Rock). Produced by David Bowie, Tony Visconti, Mark Plati, Gary Miller and Brian Rawling
One of Bowie’s most graceful, exquisitely-crafted records, “Heathen” – perhaps the beginning of his ‘final phase’ after the uncertain, almost transitional “hours…” – sees the return of Tony Visconti, perhaps the rock chameleon’s finest producer. The album, though not exactly conceptual, taps into the post-millenial anxiety well (see the concluding title track and the moody opener “Sunday”) whilst being a surprising amount of fun along the way.
Visconti’s shimmering production, up-to-date from the get-go – witness the stuttering guitars and choral, almost Gregorian chanting which hover over “Sunday” – is an imemediate boon. Songs like “Slip Away” benefit from his attention to detail – evoking memories of “Space Oddity” with its slightly eerie, seemingly out-of-tune stylophone, whilst the rockers, such as a surprisingly successful cover of The Pixies’ “Cactus”, crash along with a T Rex-like bounce, notably with the backing vocals calling out ‘D-a-v-i-d’, letter by letter, and his committed take on Neil Young’s “I’ve Been Waiting For You” is another highlight, showing the garage rock direction of Tin Machine but with more discipline. There’s good use of strings, such as on the fast-paced but plaintive “Afraid”; excellent guitar from Pete Townshend on the catchy if downbeat “Slow Burn”, better than his work on Scary Monsters’ “Because You’re Young”; one of his most underrated tracks “I Would Be Your Slave” which treads new ground as a drum-and-bass ballad and finally the deceptively sweet, acoustically-led “Everyone Says Hi” which for all the fun of lyrics like “and a big fat dog” references loss.
Indeed the twin themes of death and societal decay crop up regularly throughout the record, despite its apparent approachability compared to his extreme stylistic ventures of the previous decade. Bowie acknowledged that as a New York resident 9/11 had definitely affected him, and many of the tracks – notably “Slow Burn” and the title track – concentrate on the decline of society. On “A Better Future” Bowie almost seems to threaten God, calm delivery and gentle melody notwithstanding, to make the future a happier one for mankind or he will turn his back on Him. The closing title track in particular is a song about dying, about a man seeing life fade before him “I can see it now/I can feel it die”.
Though not one of his most successful albums commercially at the time of its release, and despite the occasional misstep – The Legendary Stardust Cowboy’s “I Took A Trip On A Gemini Spaceship”, whilst pleasant, is oddly forgettable and out of place here – “Heathen”, for all its weighty themes (nothing new for Bowie) is a relatively accessible work, beautifully produced, well-played and far more consistently ‘human’ than he had been since perhaps as far back as “Hunky Dory”. It’s a record which sees him accept his role in the world far more readily than on its muddled predecessor, and confront the modern world with an intelligent, querying gaze. In my opinion it is the best of his later works, despite “Blackstar” having a more experimental (though more genuinely mortal) nature.
8) Lodger (1979, Art Rock). Produced by David Bowie and Tony Visconti
The adjective which always gets brought up when Lodger is mentioned is ‘underrated’, sometimes ‘criminally underrated’, if it’s lucky. And I feel it’s a great shame. Generally overshadowed by its illustrious successors and often talked down even by those who were part of its creation, I would argue that “Lodger” – the quirky one in the Berlin trilogy to complement the gloomy “Low” and the passionate ‘Heroes’ – has qualities that make it unique in the Bowie back catalogue.
It’s very different to parts 1 & 2 in the Berlin trilogy, for sure – this time there’s no largely instrumental second half, and a closer adherence to the art rock of the other Berlin records’ first halves albeit with a more mature (and sometimes more playful) side. The opening “Futuristic Voyage” deals with the threat of nuclear war and the potential extinction of the human race, but in a more resigned, matter-of-fact manner and with pretty mandolin and piano backing. “African Night Flight”, one of Bowie’s most bonkers compositions, concerns German fighter-pilots based out in the jungle and positively seethes with Eno’s famous ‘cricket menace’ and other dense effects. The pounding and oddly uplifting “Move On”, much like “Red Sails” after it, shows an endearing passion for travel to exotic locales (“Cyprus is my island!” Bowie bursts out), whilst “Red Sails”, with strong hints of a Talking Heads influence, is a contender for one of Bowie’s most underrated tracks.
The second half is more about social and societal responsibilities. The moody “DJ”, with Bowie’s vocals jumping through hoops, is a long meditation on the DJ’s job and another refrain which is a reflection on the composite nature of personality “I am what I play”, and contains a fractured Adrian Belew guitar solo much in the style of a radio dial being constantly turned. “Look Back In Anger” shows excellent drumming and percussion from Dennis Davis, and the raucous “Boys Keep Swinging”, with the band having famously switched instruments at their employers’ behest to give a punky, unrehearsed feel, mocks the machismo ideal with a self-parodic video. “Look Back In Anger” references the angel of death over some more brilliant drumming from Davis, and “Repetition”, one of Bowie’s own favourite songs, presages Tin Machine with its calm depiction of a beaten wife over metronomic bass pattern by George Murray.
Arty, unpredictable and with a soupy, dated-sounding mix, “Lodger” will not be for everyone, and is not the ideal starting place for a Bowie novice, albeit for different reasons to its two predecessors. Its more easy-going tone, acknowledged by Bowie himself, was not deemed as influential, and Siouxsie Sioux was one of many punks to proclaim her disappointment with it. However, its dense mix, intelligent range of subjects and clever treatments mean it’s a work that not only bears repeated listening, it requires them.
7) Diamond Dogs (1974, Glam Rock/R&B/Soul). Produced by David Bowie
If somebody asked me to pick a record which encapsulated everything I could possibly think of that ‘is’ David Bowie, then it would probably be this one. A concept record based on George Orwell’s legendary novel “1984”, which Bowie had intended to turn into a stage show, this is the end result – a wildly ambitious LP which takes the dystopian future of Orwell’s vision (“We Are The Dead”, “1984”, “Big Brother”) and throws in some rather more fantastical tracks (the title track, “Future Legend”, “Sweet Thing”), highlighting the former Mr Jones’ camp and bizarre strand of sci-fi.
It was bold of Bowie to ditch Mick Ronson, though this action would be the beginning of the pair’s estrangement. Instead, he played the guitars himself, most memorably on the famous riff which drives “Rebel Rebel”, his last ‘pure’ glam anthem. For by this point in proceedings Bowie had taken the incredibly astute decision not to get caught in the trap of recycling glam-rock successes, and unlike luminaries such as Bolan, Slade and The Sweet, he ensured he would set the agenda for which genres he could and should perform in. “Sweet Thing/Candidate/Sweet Thing (reprise)” was perhaps the most musically and lyrically adventurous track he had performed up to that point, seamlessly switching between slower, jazzier sections overlaid with sax and distorted guitars and percussion and piano driven faster passages. “Rock ‘n’ Roll With Me”, whilst perhaps incongruous, acts as a pleasant, “It Ain’t Easy”-style interlude with a beautiful, soaring chorus, and the increasingly ominous, circling refrain in “Big Brother” segues straight into the unsettling, relentless “Chant Of The Ever-Circling Skeletal People”. When this final track concludes thanks to the (accidentally) jammed tape machine it ends the album in a fashion it’s not easy to forget.
The artwork too is provocative. Without the limitations of the original text Bowie is half-mutated into the canine of the album title. It truly confirms that there are no limitations to what the artist can do to himself in the name of art, and reached number 1 on the UK charts. When one looks around at the safety-first nature of the current charts it’s refreshing to realise just how daring the musical scene was in the 1970s – the same year that Emerson Lake and Palmer hit the top of the charts with a concept record about giant mechanical armadillos with tank tracks for legs. Whether that makes it musically superior to current chart-toppers or not is moot, but there can be little doubt that some of the most prominent artists of the era were not afraid to be original.
6) Hunky Dory (1971, Pop-Rock/Folk). Produced by Ken Scott and David Bowie
For an album as accomplished as “Hunky Dory” to only be sixth on this list seems scandalous, and I wrote the article! It’s a record with consistently excellent and original songwriting, beautiful arrangements by Mick Ronson who proves himself to be far more than just a Jeff Beck guitar-wannabe, strong instrumental back-up by a solid band including Rick Wakeman, and the further flowering of a unique and endlessly diverting personality – perhaps it’s just the lack of a diverting concept which robs it of top spot.
Due to its more apparently cuddly nature than its hard-rock predecessor “Hunky Dory” allows Bowie to make some pertinent points about life, the universe and everything, and equally allows him to be open and upfront about his influences. “Song For Bob Dylan” is one such example, where he approximates a good impression of the former Robert Zimmerman’s nasal tones over a somewhat countrified Ronson riff, whilst gently mocking his “voice like sand and glue”. “Andy Warhol”, later covered well by Dana Gillespie (whose work with Bowie is ridiculously underrated) is an acoustic number containing some whip-cracking and yelps just to add to the drama. Neither of the titular legends appreciated these ‘tributes’, but the two songs display an artist growing in confidence and distinction nonetheless.
And the great moments just keep coming. The opener, “Changes”, has often been seized on as a reflection of the singer’s own quicksilver personality, though it seems lyrically to be aimed at the older generation attempting to boss the young. Musically it also sets the tone for the record – graceful piano and string arrangements, and Bowie’s saxophone playing gets plenty of airtime. “Oh! You Pretty Things” borrows, rarely, from late-period Beatles – such as the Paul McCartney-sung “Maxwell’s Silver Hammer”. “Life On Mars” is brought to life brilliantly by Ronson’s arrangements; Kooks is one of Bowie’s most charmingly-written compositions about his son Zowie, “Quicksand” channels Neil Young with extra glamour thrown in “I’m the twisted name on Garbo’s eyes”, and offsets the humour of the previous number with the less-than-cheery chorus refrain “Knowledge comes with death’s release”. The album also contains a tip of the hat to the Velvet Underground on its rockiest moment, “Queen Bitch”, and Bowie’s vocal incorporates Lou Reed’s whoops and monotone sneer to great effect. The album’s closer, “The Bewlay Brothers”, further references the plight of Terry Burns, and alludes to scenes of violence and even homosexuality before its sped-up and slowed-down vocal finale both amuses and disarms, with its intimations of schizophrenia.
That this record didn’t give David Bowie a breakthrough could perhaps be put down to the sheer quality of the era – 1971 had enormous competition on the singer-songwriter front, with albums like Carole King’s “Tapestry”, Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On” and Joni Mitchell’s “Blue”. Yet this is a first-class effort from Bowie, often heralded since Ziggy’s success as one of his finest. Accessible musically, if not always lyrically, “Hunky Dory” is a key work by the artist.
5) The Man Who Sold The World (1970, Hard Rock/Blues Rock). Produced by Tony Visconti
It’s a tough call between this album and “Hunky Dory” as to which should higher up this list. But whilst I find the latter to be a great songwriting album I give this one the nod as it’s got a unique, disquieting quality, and of the artist’s harder-edged, rockier efforts this is by far the most consistent and accomplished. Despite the very rough nature of the recording, and Bowie’s general absence from the studio, this is a thrilling, unsettling record which paints even more disturbing pictures than had appeared on his debut.
At a time when emerging bands like Queen were trying to establish their own identity by stepping away from pure hard rock towards something lighter and more creative, Bowie seemed to be heading the other way – obscuring his lightness of touch with crunching guitars, booming bass, rat-a-tat drums and eerie, primitive synths. It figures that this record was rumoured to be one that, until perhaps “Never Let Me Down”, he had least studio involvement in, allowing Ronson, Visconti and Mick Woodmansey to have a major musical involvement, though this was not reflected in the writing credits.
Yet if newly-married life was limiting his studio time Bowie’s maturing as a songwriter was very obvious here – the 9 minute opening track effectively takes two very different songs and welds them together seamlessly, from the rockier opener, where the narrator meets “a monster sleeping by a tree / And looked and frowned ‘cos the monster was me”, then a slow-fast-slow number where he faces the devil in a homoerotic encounter. “All The Madmen” references Terry Burns’ time in Cane Hill mental institution in chilling fashion. “After All” takes the waltz of “Little Bombardier” and twists it from seemingly detached jauntiness to despondency and despair. The seemingly throwaway nature of “Running Gun Blues”, heightened by the singer’s giddy vocal, underscores its psychotic undertones, “Saviour Machine” has a grand but crunchingly mechanical rhythms and sci-fi future hell predict Gary Numan, the haunting title track would go on to famously infuriate its creator when being complimented for covering a Nirvana song (the Seattle band brilliantly performed it on their “Unplugged” LP) and then there’s the Nietsche paean “The Supermen”, with its titanic drumming from Woodmansey, and its soaring wordless vocals and Ronson’s arpeggios building the drama to the singer’s screamed refrain.
The record’s oppressive mood, occasional moments of instrumental hard rock jamming (“She Shook Me Cold” being an example, as well as the album’s opener) and rough-round-the-edges production make it one of Bowie’s most forbidding albums, and have gained it criticism for being too limited to blues-rock. But stick with it and you’ll be rewarded with a dense, intelligent long-player that creates fascinating mental images and can rock with anything by Led Zeppelin or Cream.
4) Low (1977, Art Rock/Ambient). Produced by David Bowie and Tony Visconti
When I was growing up a friend introduced me to David Bowie’s “The Rise & Fall Of Ziggy Stardust & The Spiders From Mars”. Thinking I knew the artist I then went and bought “Low”, assuming it would be similar: yet after playing it from start to finish I quickly realised the notorious quality that set Bowie apart from the other artists: his capacity to change so fully and so confidently. The withdrawn, half-formed songs on side 1, the brooding, often despair-ridden instrumentals on side 2; no wonder RCA got cold feet and wanted a Young Americans II.
“Low”, so the story goes, is the record that Bowie made upon relocating to Berlin (there would be two others, ‘Heroes’ and “Lodger”, though only ‘Heroes’ was actually recorded in the German city). At this point he and friend Iggy Pop were fighting their own demons – for Bowie it was coke addiction, malnutrition, an impending divorce and an increasing isolation from normality, whilst for Iggy it was the humiliating collapse of his once-feared band The Stooges, the spectre of heroin addiction and, until Bowie visited him, a stay in the local mental hospital. It would be typical of both that from such an unfortunate start they would create among the best work of their career.
The Kraftwerk and Neu! influence that so interested Bowie is evident here, as well as some clever tricks of his own. The Tony Visconti-created Eventide Harmonizer helped develop a unique drum sound where the pitch would drop throughout whilst maintaining the clattering sound. Instrumental opener “Speed Of Life” is a good example of this, as is “A New Career In A New Town” which opens side 2. However the vocal tracks are not a failure because of their detached, numbed-out style – if anything they helped create post-punk and new wave. “Breaking Glass”, with its distinctive speaker-to-speaker synth swoop takes just one brief verse and one brief ‘chorus’ – if a once-only chorus isn’t a contradiction in terms – and then simply fades out. Iggy makes an appearance on backing vocals on “What In The World”, most notable for its odd chocka-chocka rhythm track, and “Sound And Vision” acts as the album’s emotional (albeit numbed) centre – its oddly catchy musical refrain and inspired backing vocals sweetening its catatonic, anti-social message. “Always Crashing In The Same Car”, however, with Eno’s synth swirls all over it, refers to an alleged suicide attempt by the singer, and the following Be My Wife is so yearning “sometimes you get so lonely/sometimes you get nowhere/I’ve lived all over the world/I’ve left every place” it almost be an out-take from the desperate “Station To Station”.
The lengthier tone poems, meanwhile, have a curious tone to them – both slow-moving and unsettling. “Warszawa”, reflecting Bowie’s feelings on seeing the Polish capital, is extraordinarily sombre, Eduard Meyer’s cello offset by Eno’s stuttering and keening synths, before the singer finally makes his entrance in the second half of the track singing in a made-up yet emotive language: it’s one of the artist’s most successful experiments. “Art Decade” has tumbling chords and water-drop effects which are punctuated by screeching synths, reflecting Bowie’s concern at the obliteration of culture in West Germany – he and Iggy were shocked that old pre-war films faced decay rather than release. “Weeping Wall” has an effective mix of xylophones and background electric guitar, set alongside Bowie’s moaning vocalese and Eno’s synth warbles, whilst the brooding closer “Subterraneans”, referring to East Berlin, has the Eno influence all over it, albeit with more downbeat ‘nonsense’ vocals from Bowie and some beautiful sax-playing which highlights the history of the city and its more recent struggles.
“Low” is a bleak work, one which initially highlights its creator’s own problems and then those of the place which he had made his own, and it is not exactly music to put on before heading out for a night on the town. But it remains one of the most influential records ever released It is highly recommended for anyone with an interest in post-punk or ambient music, or Brian Eno’s most important work in particular, and remains – alongside the two other Berlin works – among David’s favourite works.
Albums 1-3 will follow shortly.
