The last one, Lodger, was a track by track departure from the big sci-fi landscapes of Low and the harsh and sharded night of Heroes. It even had some fun along the grooves. And it was eclectic but it was eclectic in a Bowie way, unlike when Billy Joel tried to get all new wave that year and only made himself look older than everyone. And then in 1980 he turns up again in a clip that looked like a hard sci-fi tv show and music that didn't try to be anything but good. And because he always knew how to cast, nascent star of the London Blitz Steve Strange was there beside him in surrealistic costume. Bowie was trying and trying hard but in his case it worked. The video and song were thrilling.
We get to the start of the opener It's No Game with the sound of someone fast winding a cassette, turning it over and winding it more. A messy count-in and we plunge into a big noise of Robert Fripp guitar which sounds like a synthesiser here but a rhinoceros there. A sassy woman speaks something in Japanese before Bowie comes in with a vocal that sounds like he's been in the drunk tank for three hours. Desperate screams and imagery of street conflict. Where? Kabul? Iran? U.K.? Anywhere and everywhere. It's as though he spent a day with wall to wall news broadcasts and forced his way out of a locked door. In the end as it's coming to a crashing stop Fripp keeps up his metal monster noodling until Bowie yells at him twice to shut up.
Up the Hill Backwards comes from a highly ordered opposite. Lower key vocals sing the lyric in unison. I always think of lines of athletes in uniform tracksuits singing this with hands on hearts. No major breaks, just a few verses of everyone in line and agreeing. After a decade of great dynamism as an artist and celebrating the disruption of punk while providing his own appropriately different one Bowie watched this settle into genre, into homogeneity which is the point at which any youth revolt is absorbed by the mainstream. So, it sounds healthy and could sell boxes of cereal or flavoured milk. He met the new brash mainstream with subtlety.
The title track bashes to after a brief electronic drone with screaming guitar and oafish glottal gulps. Bowie comes in multitracked and in low Cockney. The chorus adds a microsecond delay giving it an unnerving plastic sound. A long but screaming guitar noodle ends satisfyingly with a double chorus. We leave on a wordless hum-along to the fade. It's rock and roll but it doesn't even have slogans anymore just impulses.
Ashes to Ashes opens with arpeggios that could be keyboards or guitar or both, warbling through chorus pedals. We hear the sound before the notes but when we hear them we hear a deeply melancholy fanfare. Bowie starts in falsetto: "Do you remember a guy that's been, in such an early song?" References to his first significant hit song Space Oddity and its lead character Major Tom are woven deeply through the lyric but as we relax into a descending progression and a series of stream of consciousness images, backed by a spoken choral vocal, we are lowered into the hole in the ground as the funeral rites are murmured above. This song is a floating wilderness that drifts from gentle reminiscence to distant operatic roars against an arrangement that's very hard to pin down beyond its narcosis. It's sleepy, it's dreamy and second by second it just seems to get sadder. But it's transient, less an end than a farewell. Bowie's using the turn of a nine to a zero as a chance to reboot. The gentle chant "My mother said to get things done you better not mess with Major Tom" steers us slowly out of the melancholy, through the sci-fi landscape of the the video. R.I.P. Let's get this party started.
So we do. Fashion. A few bars of something undefined turns into another thick rock song with a deep funk ground. The vocals again are multitracked, striding through images of political strong arm tactics and style identity. Lots of warping Fripp guitar. The modal oohs of the verse bring back Golden Years but the looseness of that one has been clipped into uniformity. The easy trip of the mid '70s is now the tightly wrought kit of the New Romantic and the New Right. Bowie's not taking sides, here, not even to the extent of a Thin White Duke, he's just watching and reporting. Fashion is fun but it's also deadly serious. By now it's clear he's not giving us another persona, the music itself is doing that, but preparing for an ascension elsewhere. Where? Far above this organising leisure politics, for one thing. He keeps climbing as the voices below chant the sounds of style: fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fa fashion.
A little feedback gives way to a sweeter Fripp guitar line and a descant. Bowie's in gymnastic mode but the feel of it is the kind of rolling ballad he's been doing since Aladdin Sane, with a forward pushing momentum. But instead of romantic tales of love and travel Teenage Wildlife is more like a celebration of seeing genuine style and individuality in the kind of herd that Fashion was describing. The noodly guitar stretches into Heroes-like legato wails as the calls to the teenage wildlife ascend to jungle howls like fanfares.
Scream Like a Baby opens in strength, telling of hospitals and paddy wagons, life under arrest and in restraints. If the previous song toasted individuality this is aggrieved to see it punished with force. The hard beats and low-mixed rock arrangement push the notion of fun from our minds as Bowie's pained vocal seems to ask us what we would do.
Kingdom Come is a cover of a Tom Verlaine song. Narrator is a prisoner, confused which is how he got there but he just needs a day far away and then a night and he just keeps breaking the rocks in hard labour until the end of the world. Like Sam in the previous song, he's defiant and determined to get to relief and freedom when (in a twist) the kingdom comes. Why this as a cover, especially when Bowie was on such a roll? I think it's a gesture of generosity and an admission that the rising generation might well be getting it right. The arrangement is very little changed form Verlaine's solo album original (it wasn't a Televsion number) in another gesture of solidarity.
Because You're Young begins in the muted chords of the era with a pinched urgent riff. Bowie's vocal falls to the cod operatic he started with the 1969 self titled album and this is one of the few songs on the set that sounds like it could have been on an earlier platter like Diamond Dogs or Station to Station. Not to denigrate it for that but the call back feels strange in this record of newness. The words are intriguing, though. "It's love back to front and no sides." Like the severely short haircuts of the electronic musicians this seems to leave no mystique to the face but rather a taunt to question its contrast. Psychodelicate girls and metal faced boys. Is it about one of his own encounters? Bowie is seldom if ever that straight up but there is a real yearning to the screaming litany of millions of starts, dreams and everything else.
The closer is the opener but without the screaming. Everything is clean. His vocal feels resigned, the old master debaucher on his throne, more like Lou Reed than Bowie he reaches for the snifter of cognac at the table, gives it a swirl with a look in and puts it back without drinking. He's tired and and can't tell drunkenness from inspiration at this time of night but he's ready to go and will be fine when he gets there. Where? Not here, for one thing.
A frantic clicking like typing or something. It fades. End.
November 1980 and I'm studying for exams in the room downstairs, away from the tension of the troubled marriage in the main house. That marriage began with trouble and never got through it so it just repeats there, blow and counter blow. Down here I've got a good big coffee and my texts, and the radio has three or so stations on the AM band I can switch between to hear any of three high rotation numbers. One is Don't Stand So Close, by the Police because I like the movement and the harmonies. Two is Psycho Chicken by the Fools, a clunking parody of Talking Heads' Psycho Killer that I find funny no matter how many times I hear it. And three is Ashes to Ashes. I manage over hours to hear each one about three times and I never forget a fact that I read that night which is just as well as the next day I'll be sitting in the big bright cavern of Cloudland answering questions about Economics. By the time I get to bed I'm hearing an ersatz David Byrne talk about supply and demand of chicken meat and then I dream of white faced clowns on posterised seashores.
Then exams, breathe out, Schoolie's Week, good stuff, bad stuff, and then it's up to Townsville where I finally can't hear my brother and his wife. School friend Wayne visits in the afternoon with a copy of the album. We smoke, chat, drink rum and listen. We were too young to be into Bowie at the start and had to catch up through the jungle drum market of home cassettes. He was a hero for more than one day. Everything was changing. We were legally adults which took the burr off the alcohol a little but it still worked. And, as neither of us were looking, we missed seeing Bowie climb up to the stage of the biggest stadium he could find where he pumped out hits that were ready for the turntables of the most brutal AM playlists. For a bit, at least, though, he was still down here with us, letting us know we were fine. And then he was gone.
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