DAVID BOWIE : Worst To Best Albums, My Recommendations. By Laurence Buxton 2017. Part 1.

Since the hyperbole around David Bowie has died down a little since his passing I feel it’s now possible to review his career in a more measured way. As the artist most renowned for self-reinvention there have been artistic low points as well as unique peaks, and even as a big fan I’d like to have my say on which is his most iconic work, which is his most underrated record, which is his best starting point for a new fan, and so on. Please be aware I haven’t included the “Labyrinth” soundtrack for the same reason 

   I haven’t included the “Absolute Beginners” soundtrack, or others where Bowie only contributed a few songs or tracks to, nor his works as producer such as Mott The Hoople’s “All The Young Dudes”, Lou Reed’s “Transformer” or his works with Iggy Pop, commendable as many of them are.
So this article is a rundown of what I consider (my opinion!) of the worst to best albums David Bowie put out in his lifetime. It’s not a song-by-song breakdown but merely a list of what I believe is the order of excellence; there are some which people will surely disagree with, in which case I’m more than happy to hear the other side of the argument.

28) Tonight (1984, Pop/Rock). Produced by David Bowie, Derek Bramble and Hugh Padgham

There’s no sugar-coating this one, even for a lifelong fan – “Tonight” is about the most insipid, lifeless album ever released by a major artist, let alone Bowie. Swimming in a tepid pool of committee-style production by Hugh Padgham, Derek Bramble and the man himself, with phoned-in performances by his latest backing band – surprisingly containing the likes of Carlos Alomar and Carmine Rojas – and an absolute paucity of original material, it’s desperate stuff – rarely has a less-deserving record reached number 1 on the UK charts.

   Just two newly-composed songs appear on the record, with the artist who once used to casually dish out hit numbers to the likes of Mott The Hoople largely relying on old Iggy Pop songs both to flesh out the record and send some much-needed royalties towards The Godfather Of Punk. This generosity of spirit alone might give its creator a little leeway, though only a little. Whatever brickbats are aimed at “Let’s Dance” by Bowie aficianados it’s in a different league to this effort, even if its general tameness helped this record to succeed it.

   Unsurprisingly it’s the two new tracks which provide the highlights. Unlike “The Man Who Sold The World” Bowie’s involvement here really does seem half-hearted rather than just time-limited, but the grandly ascending chords and ominous refrain of the God-querying “Loving The Alien” provides hints of the old drama, and the 50s-influenced “Blue Jean”, with a lively sax and simple but danceable rhythm straight off “Let’s Dance”, makes him seem moderately engaged.

   Sadly the Iggy songs (not all of them co-written with David) range from passable – the rocking “Neighbourhood Threat”; the lively Iggy duet “Dancing With The Big Boys” with its comically deep refrain and evocative lyrics such as “your family is a football team”; the curious (the latin-tinged “Tumble & Twirl”) and most regrettably the muzak-lite of “Don’t Look Down” and “Tonight”, both unrecognisable from the originals. Yet Bowie’s cover of The Beach Boys’ classic “God Only Knows” is even more excruciating, not least in its bawled lead vocal. This moment probably ranks as the singer’s absolute nadir, with the possible exception of parts of Tin Machine II.

   As previously mentioned the perceived wisdom generally has it that its successor is worse, but here, with the aforementioned production, the artist not even attempting to pad out the album with new material and a band that sounds half-awake from backing vocals to arrangements to instrumentation, “Tonight” is surely the bottom of the Bowie barrel.

27) Tin Machine II (1991, Rock/Hard Rock/Blues/Punk). Produced by Tin Machine and Tim Palmer, with Hugh Padgham (“One Shot”)

The original Tin Machine album has faced a torrent of criticism over the years – the once-impressed Q subsequently named it in their 50 worst ever albums list and the record has scooped numerous dubious ‘honours’ since – but this sequel is, in my opinion, worse. Lacking the original’s no-nonsense punch and team ethic but keeping its excessive length, “Tin Machine II” simply proves that the band should have been a one-shot deal, shaking off Bowie’s cobwebs and startling his fans who felt he’d gone into a creative torpor.

   It starts off reasonably well, with the lively “Baby Universal” sounding like something off a less cluttered “Lodger” or a more straightened-out “Scary Monsters”. But Gabrels’ excessive squealing and Bowie’s own macho posturing on “One Shot” and A Big Hurt are aggravating, whilst both “You Belong In Rock ‘n’ Roll” and the Roxy Music cover “Is There Is Something” are too subdued, so if you want to hear the songs being given more commitment this is perhaps the one good reason to own the live LP “Tin Machine Live : Oy Vey Baby”.

   Meanwhile the Hunt Sales-sung and written “Stateside” is bluesy bar-room boogie which simply doesn’t belong on a Bowie-related record and is often reckoned to be the worst ever song associated with him, with provincial and misogynistic lyrics like “Marilyn inflatables home on the range / where the suffering comes easy on a blonde with no brain”. Even the apparent high points are generally at street level, though “Shopping For Girls” is a subdued, textured masterpiece detailing the cold realities of child sexual exploitation in Thailand and acts as a kind of update to the gritty social commentary of “Repetition”, off the “Lodger” album.

   Regarding Tin Machine II’s other highlights the Burroughsian cut-up “Goodbye Mr Ed” isn’t quite the classic it’s often painted as; to me it’s more of a signal that Bowie clearly wanted to get back to his solo freedom, but it’s certainly a respectable closer (a shame that the album even gets this wrong by following it with an inconsequential guitar-based instrumental). By the same token Sorry, if one forgets it’s on a Bowie record, is the kind of ballad a post Faces-Rod Stewart, Sting or Bryan Adams might have been proud to be involved with, and to this writer is curiously affecting rather than a complete disaster.

   However the band were clearly on borrowed time. “Tin Machine II” is a poor record by Bowie’s standards, lacking the freshness, boldness and impact of the first long-player and retaining its excessive length. It’s the worst of both worlds in an LP which, for all its fleeting successes, can’t be considered anything other than the dying creative embers for a band which many took issue with being formed in the first place. The live album, “Oy Vey Baby”, would be all but ignored, and wisely.

26) hours… (1999, Rock). Produced by David Bowie and Reeves Gabrels

This offering from 1999 was a curious disappointment from Bowie – after the wild artistic (in every sense) pretentions of “1.Outside” and the furious, spiky jungle of “Earthling” this sounded both pessimistic and blatantly derivative. Marketed as a spiritual successor to the still towering “Hunky Dory” the record is actually full of tracks meant for the computer game “Omikron – The Nomad Soul”, which may explain the slightly half-baked feel to the project.

   The opening single (and Bowie’s had a few misfires on that score over the years) is the slow-paced and staggeringly-lifeless “Thursday’s Child”, which seems him sing “seeing my past and letting go”, only for the rest of the record to give the impression he’s got more demons now than ever before. “Something In The Air” and the seven minute plus “If I’m Dreaming My Life” fall into this category whilst one can audibly feel faithful lead guitarist Reeves Gabrels’ frustrations at the gentle, doubtful nature of the material. The best track on the album’s front end (and indeed its entirety) is Seven, a softly sung, philosophical piece which could almost be a “Hunky Dory” track but told from later in life.

   The second half of the record is even less distinguished, with Bowie’s yodelling vocal aping Peter Gabriel on “New Angels Of Promise” and “The Pretty Things Are Going To Hell” referencing both old school chum Phil May and old pal Iggy’s bands without the punch of either. “What’s Really Happening”, featuring competition winner Alex Grant on lyrics and, along with a friend, backing vocals, is a kind gesture but an aimless song which it was later admitted didn’t turn out cohesively. Only the Eastern-tinged instrumental “Brilliant Adventure”, reminiscent of side 2 of “Heroes” or the lesser-known “Crystal Japan” recorded circa “Scary Monsters”, is promising, but at less than two minutes it’s frustratingly brief.

   Despite it forming part of his perceived late-career renaissance ‘hours…’ sees a Bowie who’s scratching around for inspiration past and present, and comes up short on both, and it’s curious that Tony Visconti’s return would apparently solve this problem so successfully. Interesting cover artwork aside – with the younger Bowie as angel cradling the “Earthling”-era figure, and drawing attention to the artist’s approach of his work from two distinct angles – ‘hours…’ is one of his less distinguished autumnal records.

25) Never Let Me Down (1987, Stadium Rock/Pop). Produced by David Bowie and David Richards

This is very far from being a top Bowie product or even a middle-ranking one, but I take slight issue with those who feel it’s the absolute worst – and there are many who do. Firstly, compared to Tonight, there’s a stack of new material here. Second, the backing band (led by old chum Peter Frampton and with Bowie back playing a multitude of instruments including the occasional lead guitar) are at least allowed to do their stuff, and whilst the Steely Dan-style rhythms are never particularly original they make the record far more lively than the turgid “Tonight”. Thirdly, some of Bowie’s vocals are up there with his best. And finally, perhaps most importantly, some of the songs are genuinely catchy and even anthemic.

   “Beat Of Your Drum” has a chorus which is genuinely cheery, sexy and with its swinging sax, uplifting. The title track is a clever Lennon-pastiche in the style of Queen’s “Life Is Real – (Song For Lennon)”. “Zeroes” combines a Prince name-check with 1960s backwards-psychedelia, which was relatively rare ground for Bowie, and is spiritedly-done. Subsequent interviews may have proven how uninvolved David was, but it’d be a big stretch to say the LP confirms this in its every groove. Songs like these may never get the commendation of his 1970s work, but personally I find them more immediate and vibrant than much of, say, ‘hours…’.

   But I’m not deluded : sadly much of the 2nd half of the record balances out any of the good work in the first. In fairness, despite the narration on “Glass Spider” verging on self-parody the song stirs itself with a pounding, relentless backbeat, ominous riff, whilst the fey chant of “the water’s all gone” is oddly hypnotic, in the style of some of his best 1970s work. Much of the rest of the record’s back end really is sub-standard, though – the insipid rapping duet with Mickey Rourke on “Makin’ My Love (Like A Shining Star)”; the lack of a memorable melody or convincing chorus on “New York’s In Love” and the robotic retread of Iggy’s “Bang Bang”, which the former James Osterberg at least gave his distinctive presence to on his (nearly-as-derided) album “Party”. The bouncy, 50s-style “Too Dizzy”, whilst not in my view the record’s absolute nadir, was removed by its creator on subsequent reissues of the album, so his view of it can hardly be taken as positive.

    Frustratingly outtakes from the time such as “Julie”, a tale of unrequited love featuring pretty guitar work and effective dual-octave vocals in the chorus could have been a big hit for a band like The Cars, prove that Bowie wasn’t producing solely substandard material at the time: his contributions to Iggy’s “Blah Blah Blah” album prove that. Yet artistically Bowie was hitting a dead-end. The self-administered jolt of Tin Machine was not requested or in many cases rapturously received, but it was certainly what was required.

24) David Bowie (1967, Pop/Rock/Novelty). Produced by Mike Vernon

One of the most bizarre debut records by anyone, including the judgment of Gus Dudgeon who engineered it – contrary to popular belief it was Mike Vernon who produced it). The album “David Bowie”, completely self-penned, is a far cry from the R&B bands whose sixties debuts would generally be stuffed to the gills with familiar standards, and displays an imagination almost without bounds, whilst the end results, though far from classic, are never less than diverting.

   The range of subjects covered here is truly shocking. There’s an already-jaundiced view on the then-prevalent hippy culture (“Sell Me A Coat”, “Join The Gang”), rumoured child abuse (“Little Bombardier”), transvestism (“She’s Got Medals”), cannibalism (“We Are Hungry Men”) and even more startlingly the soliloquy of a murderer (“Please Mr Gravedigger”).
Such topics are so out of step with the psychedelia of The Beatles or the raunchy R&B of The Rolling Stones and The Pretty Things it’s no surprise it made no chart impact – even Ray Davies, to whom the slight music-hall stylings bear a resemblance, wouldn’t go this far on his more adventurous concept albums with The Kinks. Songs which did not appear here included the infamous “The Laughing Gnome”, “Rupert The Riley” (about a motor car) and “Little Toy Soldier”, which concerned a girl whose love of S&M leads her to overwind a toy which subsequently whips her to death. Top Of The Pops was never beckoning for such material.

   Musically it’s as unique as it is lyrically. Songs such as “Little Bombardier” show a use of the waltz, which would be cleverly put to use on “The Man Who Sold The World’s” downbeat “After All”, whilst tracks like “Rubber Band” show Bowie’s much-trumpeted early influence from Anthony Newley. Elsewhere there’s some evidence of R&B and even early British blues, behind the singer’s unique worldview. However despite the references to “mountains of Lhasa” on songs such as “Silly Boy Blue” the one style that the record could not be said to be in thrall to is psychedelia, which is in ironic as the same week as this record came out the all-conquering Beatles were about to release Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.

   “David Bowie” is a unique entry in the artist’s canon, and even if some of his material from the time would be embarrassing later in life to the singer-songwriter it’s an important point of reference interested in his work. However it’s difficult to think of any fans of a particular style of music who would naturally be drawn to this debut effort. It’s a curio which shows an original talent blossoming, but it’s more to be taken as a curiosity than a substantial achievement in its own right.

23) Pin Ups (1973, Rock/British Blues/British R&B/Psychedelia). Produced by Ken Scott and David Bowie

Another oddity in Bowie’s catalogue, this collection of cover versions from the 1960s – ranging from the classic Syd Barrett-fronted Pink Floyd (See Emily Play) to the heavy mod rock of The Who (“I Can’t Explain”) but particularly heavy on the British Blues and R&B movement. The inbuilt blokeiness of the source material might seem odd coming from the man who would be marketed to be the ‘Queen’ to Elvis’s ‘King’, but the record hit number 1 in the UK and continued his winning streak.

   One of the curiosities about the record is that it’s perhaps one of the few occasions that Bowie’s limitations, even in a style of music he initially dabbled in before coming famous, become apparent. It’s even more surprising that he would revisit such territory for the Tin Machine project some 15 years later, because vocally he does occasionally seem out of his depth here. For all his excellent range and use of timbre he’s not a shouter in the Roger Daltrey mould, and though Ronson and co would probably have been comfortable with the choice of material, judging by the work with his previous band (The Rats) and the subsequent work outs on the outtakes on his own record “Play Don’t Worry”, Bowie never sounds right pouring his heart out in such bluesy, stereotypical fashion.

   When the treatment of the material (rather than the material itself) is more subtle and graceful it’s more successful (“Sorrow”), when it’s subdued it plays more to his strengths (The Who’s “I Can’t Explain”), when it gives him a chance to indulge in vocal gymnastics and glam-style sax (Them’s “Here Comes The Night”) or alternatively when Bowie is able to throw in lots of quirky touches of his own (the “Aladdin Sane”-style coda to “See Emily Play”). This track is arguably the best of the bunch, showing a kinship with the original whilst imbuing it with the glam-era Bowie’s embellishments.
   

   For those who enjoyed the Spiders’ previous work with Bowie “Pin Ups” is still a worthwhile purchase, giving more chances for Mick Ronson to display his chops. It’s just that Bowie himself isn’t as well-suited to the task he’s set himself. The less commercial success but great acclaim of Bryan Ferry’s own album of covers, “These Foolish Things”, seemed to indicate that the foppish Roxy Music frontman was more well-suited to the task – future Ferry solo projects have sometimes concentrated on such material over originals, in a way that Bowie never would again.

22) Reality (2003, Rock / Art Rock). Produced by David Bowie and Tony Visconti

A pretty derivative album all-round, “Reality” gets by on its strong backing band (including Earl Slick, Mark Plati, Sterling Campbell, Mike Garson and Gail Ann Dorsey, with producer Tony Visconti himself also contributing) and some interesting lyrical ideas and images. It also proves that, if he is going to rob his own past, he has at least got one of the best back catalogues to rifle through. The meaning of the record’s title, that reality in the modern world means we doesn’t have certainties or even clear knowledge anymore, would hardly be apparent to anyone listening to the record. However on closer listen there’s a concern about world events, particularly the military incursions into Iraq on “Fall Dog Bombs The Moon”.

   It’s a rockier affair than “Heathen”, which is notable from the opening number “New Killer Star” and the seemingly defiant “Never Get Old”. The presence of Mike Garson on grand piano brings back memories of “Aladdin Sane”, particularly on the grand, jazz-tinged closer “Bring Me The Disco King”. There are further, disparate cover versions, and it would be fair to say the Jonathan Richman “Pablo Picasso” comes across more memorably than George Harrison’s “Try Some, Buy Some”, though the theme of the song – becoming aware of God amid earthly temptations – would be one that Bowie had touched on throughout his career.

   Elsewhere “Days” brings back memories of Heathen’s quieter introspection, “Looking For Water” hints back to the disturbing mantras on an album such as “1.Outside”. “The Loneliest Guy”, meanwhile, is written from the point of view of a character coming to the end of his life, stating he’s the luckiest guy in the world not the loneliest, whilst Garson’s sombre piano and Bowie’s own fragile vocal give the opposite impression – the song points towards material on his final two albums, particularly the backward-looking “Where Are We Now?” Taken with songs such as “Bring Me The Disco King” it’s a curious mix with the ‘Bowie is back’ nature of songs like “Never Get Old”, and makes the record’s tone a little difficult to get comfortable with.

   Reality isn’t a great Bowie work (and its cover is, like its eventual successor, one of his least distinguished) but it certainly proves his uniqueness, and, just like he did in the 1970s, that he could retain a band talented enough to do justice to his artistic flourishes – check out the excellent live recording in selected editions of the compilation “Bowie At The Beeb”, recorded in 2000. Whilst Reality raids his back catalogue even more than normal it finds him doing so more convincingly than say, “…hours”; occasionally summoning up those moments of drama and brilliance with genuine conviction. It was a solid if not spectacular farewell for a decade, and something to miss him with.

21) Tin Machine (1988, Hard Rock/Blues/Punk). Produced by Tin Machine and Tim Palmer

This is generally portrayed as not only one of Bowie’s but one of pop/rock’s greatest follies: a shameful, unlistenable selection of clattering, merciless rhythm section; squealing, discordant lead guitar, and a hoarse (whether from smoking or shouting), once-legendary singer reduced to either macho sexism or patronising finger-wagging in a way that would have been blanched at on “Scary Monsters”. However the record, channelling hard-rockers like Cream and the alt-rock of The Pixies, has as many high points as it has lows (well, nearly), for those who want to hear their hero with the amps turned up to 11.

   If the LP had been considerably pruned it would have been a far more successful effort, containing a sheer sonic whack that the artist never matched before or after. The record might lack the unique lyrical forays into dark sci-fi or philosophy that the similarly hard-rock styled “The Man Who Sold The World” boasted, but its clear production – the drums are HUGE – is a major plus point and means it has at least one advantage it has over its (admittedly far superior) nearest contender in the hard-rock canon.

   At the risk of being controversial I would contend that side one contains some of Bowie’s best songs in years. There’s the bluesy, rootsy opener “Heaven’s In Here” with its carnal subject matter and dramatic breaks; the frantic pound of the title track, sliced through with Reeves Gabrels’ most inspired squealing, on a par with Bowie’s old friend and guitarist Adrian Belew, and the anti-drugs, mid-tempo rocker “Prisoner Of Love” sounds like Jimi Hendrix meets T-Rex. “I Can’t Read”, whilst horribly over-extended live, is filled with familiar drama and build, and on side 2 “Bus Stop”, which almost plays like a hoedown on fast-forward, is yet another tale of meeting God, albeit tongue-in-cheek.

   Yet I have to say that the rest of the album’s back end is disappointing – “Amazing” is simply cliched, the cover of “Working Class Hero” is blustering, “Pretty Thing” and “Video Crime” are both rambling and tuneless, while the dull, plodding “Run” and the messy “Sacrifice Yourself”, complete with cringeworthy whoops and idiotic lyrics, foreshadows the worst moments of the album’s sequel and, like much of that record, should have been abandoned. At least the closing “Baby Can Dance”, with its New York Dolls/Rolling Stones swagger closes the record memorably – it’s just a shame the record, in keeping with its punkish ethos, couldn’t just err on the side of shortness, or it would be regarded much more respectably in the list of Bowie products.

Please note albums 11-20 and 1-10 will follow in subsequent posts.