3) ‘Heroes’ (1977, Art Rock/Ambient). Produced by David Bowie and Tony Visconti
It always amazes me when I read how ‘Heroes’ is a much more positive, passionate work than its predecessor. It’s true that it’s a much more spirited, energetic record, though its tone actually gets even more dark at times than “Low” – instead of self-absorption the record’s first half flirts with punkish, raw energy (“Joe The Lion”), uplifting stadium rock (the infamous title track), schmaltzy swooning (“Sons Of The Silent Age”), whilst its second side flits between playful (“V2 Schneider”), becalmed (“Moss Garden”) and utterly bleak (“Sense Of Doubt”, “Neukoln”).
Production-wise it’s certainly very different to “Low”. The Hansa studios, virtually a stone’s throw from the guarded Berlin Wall, had a unique tone to it – an almost metallic edge that comes through in the recordings on ‘Heroes’ just as it does on Iggy Pop’s “Lust For Life”, also containing Bowie’s input and released the same year. There’s also a much more energetic feel to the performances (mostly first takes), a deliberate tactic to capture the drama of the moment Neil Young-style. Similarly Robert Fripp’s blink-and-you-miss-it stint in the studio stunned the other musicians and provides the record with some unforgettable moments.
The title track, which is far more accomplished in its longer album form than its abridged single version, typifies the stylistic difference from “Low” – Bowie’s vocal, increasingly cavernous as he sings louder and louder throughout the song due to the clever placement of microphones in the studio, sits atop a backing track lifted from the Velvet Underground’s Waiting For The Man. Everyone reading this article will almost certainly have heard the song many times already, but it remains one of the most spine-tingling uses of drama and build from an artist already accomplished at it. It’s the finest song on the first side, though Robert Fripp’s scorching guitar makes the Chris Burdon tribute “Joe The Lion” fizz too. The less-regarded “Blackout” also remains a favourite of mine, with Davis’ fantastic drum breaks and its fascinating snapshot into Bowie’s personal problems of the time. The other two tracks are perhaps an acquired taste, with “Beauty And The Beast” having a bizarre, repetitive synth squall and “Sons Of The Silent Age” a slowed-down jazzy style, but the production and roughness of both contribute to the record’s chilly yet direct timbre.
The second half, however makes all of this seem like easy-listening. Even the upbeat, sax-led “V2 Schneider” is underscored by Fripp’s ominous guitar tones and the (accidental) off-kilter rhythm is also jolting, whilst “Moss Garden”, which has Eno-led, gently blossoming ambient strains, is disrupted by crackling, rising and falling aeroplane like effects and later by dogs barking sharply. And when the record bites, it bites very hard. The minimalist “Sense Of Doubt” has a crunching, descending four chord structure, punctuated by eerie bass-heavy synth wind effects and an odd, throaty cackle effect which seems to embody utter despair – like being trapped alone on a deserted beach on a midwinter’s night. Yet “Neukoln” actually tops this in the darkness stakes – an Eastern-tinged, modal track which references the struggles of Turks to settle in the titular area of West Berlin. Bowie’s echoey, haunting sax solos over the top of Fripp’s remorseless, descending guitar and Eno’s church organ, and the false ending is soon followed by a desperate, dying fall from Bowie’s screeching sax. The closing number, the cinematic and romantic “The Secret Life Of Arabia”, is hardly the chucklefest it’s painted as, but it’s a relative sweetener after what’s come before.
‘Heroes’ is another classic; it’s the emotional counterpoint to the downbeat, sullen Low. Far more positively-reviewed by a musical press which seemed to have warmed up to its creator’s new musical style, it’s a forbidding but fantastic album which stands with Bowie’s finest records. He would arguably never quite top this for experimentation, and for my money this is an LP which perhaps more than any other of his never fails to make an emotional impact.
2) The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars (1972, Glam Rock). Produced by David Bowie and Ken Scott
Hearing this record at a friend’s when I was but a wee lad changed my musical tastes forever. The days of listening to what was in the charts – Adam Ant and Aha – was largely replaced by this apparent relic of a bygone age. How could an ‘old’ album, released before I was born, be this good?
It seems remarkable now, with the benefit of hindsight, that a record as accomplished as “Hunky Dory” was largely ignored by the popular press and the record-buying public. However, Bowie’s intellectual and science fiction obsessions were about to come together into what many longterm fans and critics would agree is his seminal record, a concept album about the alien ‘leper Messiah’ which made him an instant sensation in the U.K. and moved him to international attention. Life would never be the same again for the Bromley boy.
The elements which had been coming together for the past couple of years or so all fell into place here. Mick Ronson’s skills as a lead guitarist and ‘muse’ create some sublime moments – his closing, extended guitar solo on “Moonage Daydream” being perhaps the most notable. His arranging reaps dividends on the slow-build of “Five Years”, culminating in almost orgiastic screams. “Starman”, meanwhile, which thanks to his Top Of The Pops appearance helped make him into a household name – is uplifting anthemic glam rock at its best, the chorus’ soaring strings and helium vocals perhaps concealing the rather darker intentions of the record’s concept.
Side two maintains the quality. Whilst “Star” is probably regarded, like side one’s “Soul Love”, as being the nearest thing to filler, it continues to underline the artist’s complex attitude to superstardom, not to mention a certain cynicism (“I could do with the money!”). “Lady Stardust”, apparently written for Marc Bolan whose use of glitter on his face to prevent camera flare kickstarted the whole glam era, is a piano-led ballad with a brilliant bridge thanks to Bowie’s ever-increasing vocal range. The fast-paced, giddy “Hang Onto Yourself” is much improved on the demo version occasionally attached to releases of “The Man Who Sold The World”, particularly its ending, the title track is uplifting, riff-based rock at its best and perhaps gives the clearest narrative.
The only real oddity is the presence of the cover version “It Ain’t Easy”, which with its mention of rising to tops of mountains and back to rooftops might have lyrically fit in on “The Man Who Sold The World”, feels like an interval as much as like a key part of the record’s concept, and has bewildered many who find Bowie’s odd use of cover songs, particularly in his early days, off-putting. But the record is remarkable and fits together cohesively, retaining that classic ‘aura’ throughout. The subsequent retirement of the Ziggy character in Santa Monica would be the biggest indicator of quite how unique an artist Bowie would be – prepared to sacrifice a successful niche to avoid being pigeon-holed.
This record is, for me, Bowie’s finest moment as a recording artist, though it certainly has plenty of competition. Taking elements from the warm, seemingly easy-going soul of “Young Americans”, filtering it through a chillier sheen and throwing in disparate elements such as otherworldly trains coming and going as well as demons both fantastical and metaphorical, “Station To Station” is a uniquely unnerving, danceable, rocking and experimental release which thrills well over 40 years after its initial release.
It would have been very easy for Bowie to settle into simply doing a sequel to “Young Americans” or heading for the AOR hills like some of his contemporaries. However far from going the middle-of-the road route he kicks off the record by taking another run at an extended, two-songs-in-one-approach of “The Width Of A Circle”, only this time incorporating Aleistair Crowley and his more cocaine-fuelled current lifestyle. “Station To Station” introduces us to another Bowie character, the chilly fascist “The Thin White Duke”, and however abhorrent he is he’s the representative of a truly stunning work.
The title track is indeed remarkable, the speaker-to-speaker train sound haunting and creeping out the listener, before the almost horror-film two-note refrain on the piano introduces the first part of the song proper. Earl Slick’s guitar, twisted beyond belief at Bowie’s insistence, screeches, howls and wails throughout, whilst Carlos Alomar’s funky rhythm guitar keeps the songs, and the album, just about grounded. The song then shifts up a gear with its rockier, faster second-half and Bowie moving from concerns around the diabolical to a more determined outlook, and the music – emanating from the kind of distant murk that Bowie originally disliked but would define the work just the way that the Rolling Stones’ “Exile On Main Street” would do. “Golden Years”, with Alomar’s jangly riff, brief bursts of harmonica and the almost mantra-like drone of the title, gives a more resigned, less angry sequel to “Fame”, and as lead-off single perhaps painted the record as being more similar to “Young Americans” than was actually the case. The refrain “I’ll stick with you baby for a thousand years” sounds unnerving on a record such as this.
The title track is indeed remarkable, the speaker-to-speaker train sound haunting and creeping out the listener, before the almost horror-film two-note refrain on the piano introduces the first part of the song proper. Earl Slick’s guitar, twisted beyond belief at Bowie’s insistence, screeches, howls and wails throughout, whilst Carlos Alomar’s funky rhythm guitar keeps the songs, and the album, just about grounded. The song then shifts up a gear with its rockier, faster second-half and Bowie moving from concerns around the diabolical to a more determined outlook, and the music – emanating from the kind of distant murk that Bowie originally disliked but would define the work just the way that the Rolling Stones’ “Exile On Main Street” would do. “Golden Years”, with Alomar’s jangly riff, brief bursts of harmonica and the almost mantra-like drone of the title, gives a more resigned, less angry sequel to “Fame”, and as lead-off single perhaps painted the record as being more similar to “Young Americans” than was actually the case. The refrain “I’ll stick with you baby for a thousand years” sounds unnerving on a record such as this.
The rest of the record is a little less famous but no less dramatic. “Word On A Wing”, seemingly concerning a singer looking for guidance from God, is Bowie at his most plaintive in this most difficult of times; the song is led by Roy Bittan’s brilliant piano and with Slick’s guitar wailing in the background, and a child singer and queasy organ at the end, it’s a beautifully judged and performed piece. TVC15 is jauntier, taking a typically-bizarre Iggy Pop-told tale about a girlfriend being eaten by her television and matching it to a funky duckwalk rhythm, honkytonk piano from Bittan and increasingly-driving guitars. “Stay”, concerning the singer’s views on a one-night stand, takes a sometime-numb, sometime-confused vocal and lets Alomar’s rhythm propel the song forward, with brilliant interplay from Slick and the bass of George Murray. Closer “Wild Is The Wind”, meanwhile, takes the Ned Washington/Dimitri Tiomkin original and makes it Bowie’s own. His deep, passionate delivery takes him into new territory, the dominant acoustic guitar giving breathing room to one of the singer’s best performances. It’s one of his most well-chosen covers, beautifully fitting the repressed passion of “Station To Station”, and is a haunting end to a magnificent, complex record.
So there we are – I deem Station To Station to be David Bowie’s finest record. Do you agree, or disagree, and with the others in my list? If you’d like to debate please contact me on : - laurencebuxton@gmail.com
THE END
No comments:
Post a Comment