Low. “Heroes”. Lodger. Albums so good that you can forget that David Bowie had already made three or four or five absolute masterpieces. He had hit so many peaks during those golden years of 1970-1980 that he seemed virtually untouchable. I’d hate to think that we’ll never get another artist of the likes of Bowie in the near future, but it does seem such a difficult proposition. His musical legacy is a frighteningly brilliant one, and he’s likely to remain my all-time musical hero, and out of all his wonderful music, it’s what’s often been referred to as The Berlin Trilogy that has got to me the deepest.
I was wondering, did David Bowie himself ever call his masterful run of studio albums from 1977-1979 ‘The Berlin Trilogy’? Critics and fans call it that, but given that only one of the three LPs – the middle one – was actually recorded in the capital means its a rather misleading title. Some of Low was recorded in France and Lodger was recorded in Switzerland and the US. Another title applied is ‘The Eno Trilogy’, but this is an even worse error, as it makes it out like Bowie and Eno were the only collaborators on these albums, which sorely downplays the achievements of producer Tony Visconti (Eno was never the producer), Bowie’s killer band as well as guest guitarists Robert Fripp, Adrian Belew and Ricky Gardiner. How about we call it the ‘European Trilogy’? Yeah? Yeah?
Oh well. Actually, even lumping them as a trilogy never does Lodger any favours. It always sets that splendid album up for a fall when listening to it after Low and “Heroes”, because even though it shares its predecessors spirit of experimentation and adventure, it doesn’t have, you know, any of those instrumentals on the second side that we loved. None of it was ambient. It always feels like the odd one out, but if you don’t think much of it on first listen, please, please stick with it. I listened to the trilogy out of sequence – of the three, “Heroes” was simply the only one I could get my hands on. I was lucky enough to have the music and presence of Bowie instilled in me from a young age, and a fair enough spectrum it was too. Earliest examples I can think of are Labyrinth (so that’s any prejudice towards the 80’s stuff halfway-tamed already), the ‘China Girl’ 7” that was in our house (ditto) and little incidental moments that affected me, like being too scared to watch the Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars concert late one night on BBC1 because I though there might be real, huge arachnids on stage.
Most impressive of all though, was the awareness that my aunt and uncle had a David Bowie record collection. Their LP stash was infinitely better than anything we had at home, and as I moved further into my teens I was keen to investigate. However, vinyl was a sacred, fragile, scary thing back then, and it was both unofficially agreed betweeen me and my uncle and I that wasn’t to touch the LPs, so it was cassettes for me. One Bowie album that was available on chrome tape rather than vinyl was a copy of “Heroes”, and I went for this one because of, unsurprisingly, the title song. It was one of Bowie’s hits that had already broken through to my consciousness, and this was back in the day when there was no rhyme or reason to my Bowie knowledge. For example, I assumed that since 1980’s ‘Ashes to Ashes’ namedropped Major Tom, then it must have come out the same time as ‘Space Oddity’ eleven years earlier. However, unlike the glammier stuff I knew like ‘Changes’ or ‘Starman’, it didn’t feel so obviously rooted in the past – you know, clearly from the early seventies. No, “Heroes” felt alien and futuristic, strangely contemporary, which wasn’t surprising given its second wind of popularity in the 90’s as an Elder Statesman’s Classic, occasionally and incongrously blended into the tracklisting of Best Anthems Ever compilations of the time amongst all the Blurs and Oasises (or Oases, if you want to get all grammatical an’ shit). It still felt new. In fact, it felt more fresh and exciting than most of the Britpop stuff on all those contemporary mixtapes.
This was the first instance of me finding music of the past more interesting than the music of now, something I’ve still found difficult to shake. Why waste my time with the charts of the late nineties when the past had this much good stuff to offer? Now before hearing the album, the only version of “Heroes” that I knew of was its single edit, which is a whopping three minutes shorter, but at the time I didn’t know what I was missing. Even at only three minutes the song is a classic, but without the build-up of those missing verses, Bowie’s escalated vocals seem a bit too-much, too-soon, though this was an opinion I only formed in retrospect.
What is it about this song? I mean, it’s beautiful. It’s direct, yet mysterious. It’s accessible, yet original, and even experimental. On the surface it’s a great, anthemic, sing-a-long classic, yet listen here, there and everywhere. Over it’s six minutes we have a suspended, distilled aura of pure liquid sound. It’s difficult to know where one instrument starts and the other one ends. It’s like a warm caress of swirling, dreamy, sensuousness, a gleaming, gorgeous spacecraft of a song, bursting at the seams with emotional power. For many it’s the man’s peak, and when I’m in the mood, it may very well be true for me as well. I must say though that these days I do miss the time when the song was all it was, and by that I mean no cover versions by Bob Dylan’s son, Oasis or X-Factor contestants. No being used on an advert. Or in a film. Back then, “Heroes” the song was it and only it for me, and it was a beautiful thing. It still is, but you know how some people can’t bear “Stairway to Heaven” anymore? Well, I still love “Heroes”, but it’s not as pure for me now as it was then. Except when it catches me unawares, and then it’s just like the first time.
The problem with the brilliance of “Heroes” the song is that for a while I didn’t bother with the rest of the album once I had acquired it. I just rewound back to the title track every time and listened to it over and over again. I was so taken by those dense, dreamy layers of synthesisers, the yearn and passion of the vocals and the striking imagery that I was afraid that the rest of album wouldn’t match it. So I’d keep rewinding ‘Heroes’ over and over again. By sheer clumsy rewind technique, I’d always end up hearing the end of track 2 – ‘Joe the Lion’ – fading out before the main feature, and that song sounded nothing like “Heroes”. It sounded like a right old mess, to be honest, so I didn’t investigate further.
Then one day it happened. I can’t remember the specifics, but I listened to the whole thing in my bedroom, and it was my first ever instance of listening to an ‘old’ album all the way through. Until then I had only listened to new stuff, the music commonly referred to (now pejoratively) as Britpop, but it turned out that the future of musical pleasures lay in the past. What’s great about the ‘Heroes’ is that the title song, whilst a centrepiece, is definitely not the album as a whole. It is quite a twisted kaleidoscope of pop turned inside out and then given a drink or three.. well at least for the first half anyway. The first two tracks, while rarely rated in the higher echolens of the Bowie canon, are nevertheless quite delightfully mad, off the chain pop nuggets, way more unhinged and mad-robotic than anything else I’d ever heard by the man. ‘Beauty and the Beast’ chugs and splutters along thrillingly with its mechanised groove, beginning with what sounds like a robot’s main processor being turned on, but get this – the robot’s a little bit wired, a little bit crazy. However, the rest of the band are too scared to go near it or piss it off, so it’s best that they just play, and play a little bit crazy too, just to settle the robot down. Appropriately, given that this is the only true Berlin-based album, the backing vocals sound like ghoulishly decadent German cabaret – listen to the way they sing ‘daaahling’, it’s almost like a pantomime vampire troupe.
‘Joe the Lion’ is stupid crazy – partly, it’s about pissed-out-of-his-nut man offering spiritual guidance to whoever will nail him to his car. This is based on an actual performance artist, Chris Burden, who really did this to himself. It begins with the album’s wild card, guest guitarist Robert Fripp, shredding the living shit out of his instrument. His introduction to the song will give anyone with a pulse an adrenalin rush– the rest of the band join in, and then Bowie comes in, sounding really drunk – I love hs vocals here. With the exception of the insane performance he gives on Scary Monsters‘ ‘It’s No Game (No.1)’, this album boasts some of his most mental singing. When he sings ‘this is the kiss off‘, it sounds like ‘this is a piss-up‘, which is utterly appropriate. When he sings ‘you’ll never know the real story’, it always makes me giggle, as does ‘you get up and SLEAH-EAP’. After that it’s ‘Heroes’ itself, so let’s move on to ‘Sons of the Silent Age’, a wildly melodramatic song, a lot like the more theatrical Bowie of yore – and it wasn’t until later that I realised just how funny it was when a friend of mine started pissing himself laughing during the chorus. I guess it’s the way he sings ‘BAEEBY, BAEEEBY!’ totally unshackled, totally deranged, and then these backing vocals come in, singing ‘sons of sound, sons of sound’ like they were recording a radio jingle. It’s so over the top and yet crammed with superb lyrics that even though it’s arguably the album’s weakest track, it’s still an utter pleasure. I keep meaning to find out what the hell ‘listen to Sam Therapy and King Dice’ means, though. One day.
But not today, cos ‘Blackout”s on. What the hell was Bowie taking? He admits he’s under Japanese influence, and I can only imagine unquantifiable amounts of booze, but this shit is wild. ‘GET ME TO THE DOCTOR!!!!’ he pleads, followed by ‘GET ME AWF THE STREEEEEEETS!’, which may well be, hands down, the most ridiculous vocal delivery he has ever given. Fripp fripps his way through some fripping brilliant guitar frippery. It’s total guitar freak-out mode, but it ain’t fretwankery or anything muso like that – this is lightning strikes once-style madness. The rest of the band keep it all together, and there’s even a gloriously hooky middle stretch (before the ‘DOCTOR!’ bit) where a radio-friendly single might have been salvaged. Its presence in the middle of all this madness only makes it more wonderful. Side one of “Heroes” is amazing – live-wired, passionate, romantic, insane, but side two goes totally in the opposite direction and barely speaks a word. First up is a kind of in-road towards what will turn out to be another world entirely, made up of atmospherics and mood. The delightful ‘V-2 Schneider’ is a sedately groovy, vapour-trail stream of a (near) instrumental, with militaristic drumming, oh-so decadent saxophone – it still sounds totally fresh and strange, a real one-off.
The next three tracks are something else though. When I first heard this, looking at the handwritten tracklisting on my borrowed cassette, I was trying to work out where one piece ended and one began, although to anyone with half a grain of common sense, it’s pretty obvious. But still, back then I wasn’t used to tracks so effortlessly blending into one another like this. They would normally fade out or stop dead. A bit of silence, then the next track. But here, we had a fifteen minute or so stretch of uninterrupted music. And where was Bowie in all of this? Well, he was playing the sax, playing the koto, doing his thing – just not singing. I had never heard a Bowie song with no singing. Obviously, a song without singing isn’t really a song, but you get my drift, or at the very least are tolerating it. Thank you.
‘Sense of Doubt’ might seem a bit on the nose at first with those ‘DURM-DURM-DURM-DURRRRRRM’ piano notes, a hook that is NONE MORE DOOMY, so much that I almost laughed the first time I heard it, but the magnificent ambience seeps through, and the piece turns out to be fabulously moody. There’s a bit two thirds in when this melancholic synth creeps in and it’s absolutely beautiful. Still, if you thought that song was a little too lacking in melody, ‘Moss Garden’ will not be your cup of tea. It’s practically all atmosphere. Just extremely pretty ambience, with Bowie plucking away on his koto, with Eno infusing the air with his intoxicating synth mist. Wow, that sounded pretentious. Well, what I mean to say is that ‘Moss Garden’ sounds like its title. Maybe I should have just left it at that. It’s a very beautiful, relaxing piece, but prepare for a mood shift as the skies darken and ‘Neukoln’ ebbs into view – this is a really bleak piece of work, really impressive, so atmospheric, and about as far away as your average rock ‘n’ roll as it is possible for such a huge star. Bowie was really off away in his own orbit here, and his sax playing is deliberately atonal and scary. We know he can really play that thing – it was the first instrument he was given, but he’s using it to almost resemble a wounded, howling animal at the close of the track. It could have made for a really pessimistic ending to the album, but Bowie’s masterstroke is to end the album properly with ‘The Secret Life of Arabia’, which along with ‘Heroes’ is the most mainstream thing here, a dazzling, exotic slice of ambient-tinged funk that glitters like a magic carpet over the sand dunes in the starry night. It’s also the second song on this album that features a reference to ‘one-inch thoughts’.
As first exposure to older albums go, “Heroes” set the bar outrageously high. It’s an established classic, yet it’s also far wilder and weirder than your average standard rock LP. It is original, artful, still-fresh and delightfully unpredictable. As an introduction to Bowie beyond the hits, it was a brilliant one, and I knew I wanted more. So, what next? Well, months later I borrowed a cassette from a good friend of mine which had Scary Monsters on one side and Low on the other. Scary Monsters is a brilliant album, but that’s for another piece. Back to Low.
Wow. Wow. That word looks a bit like Low, doesn’t it? There’s only one letter difference there, but I guess it doesn’t sound the same, so let’s move on. Yeah, move on, move on. Bowie was well and truly moving on with this album, the most astonishing step forward he had ever and would ever make. Incidentally, Bowie would record a song called ‘Move On’ a couple of albums later, and that was brilliant, but it’s not on Low, which may very well be my absolute favourite thing by our man ever. Now that’s a stupid thing to say, because tomorrow it might be Station, or Heroes, or Scary Monsters, or Hunky Dory, or Never Let Me –
Woah woah woah, let’s not get stupidheaded here. God, the likes of Tonight and Never Let Me Down seem so far away from all of this. All of this. All of this depression, burn-out and anxiety admittedly, but it did inspire the man to create some amazing music. Like I said, wow. So in a nutshell, Bowie had been wiped out and driven essentially mad by years of success topped with years of drug abuse, paranoia and a very, very bad diet – escape was necessary. Plus, he said, he didn’t want to be another LA success and end up being the next Rod Stewart or something. So it’s off to Berlin we go, along with Iggy Pop, and they’d rest, recouperate and make a few albums that would only go and change the future of everything and all that. Iggy’s two records – The Idiot and Lust for Life – were written with Bowie, produced by him and are pretty bloody excellent. They were both released in 1977. Also in 1977, Bowie released Low and “Heroes”. I mean, WHAT? That was a very good year.
Low is a strange album – everything is upfront and personal, yet as ‘confessional’ albums go, it’s one of the least straight-forward and most experimental you’ll ever hear. Gone is the grandeur, the spectacle, the excess, the overwhelming Bowie-ness of yore. Also, despite being part of a trilogy, and often lumped together exclusively with “Heroes”, it shares little with that album except for a inclination for side 2 instrumentals. “Heroes” is insane, triggered, frenzied, overwhelming and bursting with energy. Low is drained, worried, paranoid, nervous and ill at ease. It’s probably one of the most naked Bowie albums of the lot – the album sounds futuristic, off-kilter, occasionally uncommercial, yet it also feels strangely comforting, like Bowie’s in the room with you. It has an intimacy, warmth and humanity not normally present with Bowie. For me, it was like a cassette tape of secrets, a close-knit, emotional yet atmospheric, funny yet sad and funky yet amorphous experience. I think I heard it at the right time in my life – on the eve of a big shift in my life the likes of ‘A New Career in a New Town’, was the soundtrack, and not just the track itself. It was the memory of the track, impossible to shake off. I was about to move away from home, and this song encapsulated all the fear, excitement, mystery and sadness that I was feeling.
The fragmented, scattered first side of Low might seem spotty and incomplete on first listen – it certainly felt that way to me. The fact that Bowie didn’t sing on the first track wasn’t as shocking to me as it must have done to listeners back in ’77 (it was his first ever without vocals), as I’d already been exposed to his instrumental side on “Heroes”, and besides, the music on ‘Speed of Life’ is one of his most beguiling, catchy and exciting from this whole era. ‘Breaking Glass’ however, totally threw me on first listen. Definitely one of the leanest, sparsest things Bowie had ever recorded, it fades out before the two minute mark, as though someone had accidentally leant against the fader just when the song might have got going. That totally took me unawares – hey Dave, where’s the tune gone? I think I was almost pissed off at that. Definitely unsatisfied. The squiggly synth bubbles of ‘What in the World’ were also pretty striking – on first listen it sounds like a bit of a mess, frankly, like someone playing Pac-Man at hyperspeed. The vocals (that’s Iggy Pop in the background) are occasionally lairy and a little drunk sounding. Compared to the grandeur of ‘Heroes’ and ‘Life on Mars’, this sounded like a pub band let loose on the house keyboard. Then there was ‘Sound and Vision’, one of Bowie’s least conventional hits, albeit one dressed up in a highly accessible tune – more than half of the song is musical build-up. I used to be a bit ambivalent towards this song, as it was used in a Blockbuster Video advert here in the UK which only made it sound like a ad jingle. We don’t really get any straight-up normal songs until ‘Always Crashing in the Same Car’, which was an immediate success for me, as was the barrel-house piano of ‘Be My Wife’. Still, they feel smaller, more insular than anything of similar note of previous Bowie albums. Finally there’s another instrumental, ‘A New Career in a New Town’, which was an immediate hit with me.
For all the out-there ness of side two, the fragmented first side of Low actually proved to be the slower success for me. Nearly all the tracks with vocals felt unfinished to me, whereas the instrumentals seemed fully-formed and they won me over immediately. They were and still are some of the most amazing instrumental music ever created, but we’ll delve into those later. Let’s stick with side one, listen to it again and skip to the moment where I loved it just as much as the second side. Upon listening further, the episodic nature of Low‘s first side is precisely the point, and it works so well. Soon enough its fragmented approach becomes a kind of genius – it keeps you on edge, never settling into a staid pattern. By fading in on the first track we almost feel like we’ve already missed a bit of the Low experience, and that potentially can put you at unease. Not to mention that its the only Bowie album not to begin with a piece featuring his vocals. ‘Speed of Life’ is utterly mesmeric – as one of the only tracks on side one that was an instant hit with me, its pleasures have never been an issue. It’s a hypnotic, groove-locked chug-fest, with fantastic synth layers and a band (amazing now to think it’s almost the same band as Station to Station) re-wired and re-programmed to deliver a kind of funk that’s been roboticised and given a new circuitboard to operate from. As an instrumental it works because it doesn’t sound like a backing track – there is really nowhere for Bowie to place his vocals over, it’s a complete piece of itself. Even though its built on repetition, a few extra glimmers here and there stand out, like when the ‘chorus’ melody comes back after what I guess was the ‘verse’, and there’s just this little extra dreaminess to the synth-line that just sends quivers down me. It sounds like the future. I’d like to think it was this little moment that made all the New Romantics go giddy with pleasure and save up money to buy a KORG. Another bit is when the ‘chorus’ comes back for its last run, and the bass just has that little extra ooomph. Gary Numan must have heard and loved that bit, right?
‘Breaking Glass’ sounds incomplete because it is about a fractured psyche – ending it so early befits its unresolved tension. It’s also as coldly funky as an ice cube down the back on the dancefloor. It sounds so rigid, but it’s bursting to cut loose, and is kind of brilliant. When it was given more time to breathe, get funky and make clear its point, like on the live version on Stage (actually a really entertaining, lively take), its extensions felt somewhat redundant. ‘What in the World’ is hilarious yet chilling – ‘what are you gonna say to the real me?’ is one of Bowie’s more mysterious questions/warnings. ‘Sound and Vision’ has perservered with me and it’s utterly fantastic. It’s amazing to think that such a chirpy, happy sounding song that did really well in the charts has some pretty bleak lyrics, of which ‘pale blinds drawn all day/nothing to think, nothing to say’ is one of the more striking couplets. ‘Always Crashing in the Same Car’ is drenched in a thick fog of synths – it’s a total wooze, dreamy, swirling and utterly fatigued. It’s full of resignation yet there’s something romantic about it too. ‘Be My Wife’ is the first side’s most instantly melodic charmer, a simple, plaintive call for companionship sung from the point-of-view of the perennial traveller (‘I’ve been all over the world/I’ve left every place’ is a lyric that looks forward to Lodger’s restless first side), boosted by an insistent piano hook, utterly charming vocals (Bowie has rarely sounded so naked and pleading here, but not in an overwrought way, just in a simple way that befits the straight-up proposal of the title) and, outside of the song itself, in that lovely video that has our man sing to us in a stark white room. ‘A New Career in a New Town’ has the same kind of Geiger counter beat that Kraftwerk pioneered a few years earlier and is a wonderful instrumental that, as has been often noted, succeeds in sounding optimistic and nostalgic, happy and sad, with gorgeous harmonica throughout. Its placing on the end of the first side prepares us for the great journey we are about to take on the other side.
The second side of Low is held in such regard that it’s pretty much the Second Side of Abbey Road for the seventies. ‘Warszawa’ is hands down the most moving and otherworldly piece of music Bowie has ever (co)created. It sounds desolate, yet also deeply comforting – not for nothing has it been used to score film scenes of both lonesomeness (Christiane F.) and intimacy (Control). Low‘s second side is arguably the furthest Bowie ever set foot outside of the mainstream, at least for such an extended stretch of album time. ‘Warszawa’ has such devastatingly sad melodic changes, evoking the dignified, regal air of a state funeral. It is definitely in my Top 10 Bowie tracks of all time ‘Art Decade’ is altogether more tranquil, and despite the air of eeriness, is almost blissful – to me it also sounds like a navigation through an ancient museum somewhere in the depths of Atlantis, but that could just be me. Bubbling synths, flickering waves of synth, it’s a strangely becalming piece, almost like meditation music, but not as bland-sounding as that. ‘Weeping Wall’ is a lot more disconcerting, an askance, creepy piece that could almost act as an alternative soundtrack to the video for ‘Look Back in Anger’, where Bowie slowly goes mad whilst transforming, Dorian Gray style, into the visage of his own portrait. It also sounds like horror movie music, the Italian giallo kind that goes for deep unease rather than outright fright. ‘Subterraneans’ is one of the sparest, quietest and saddest finales of any album – it has a vague travelogue feel to it, as though we’re travelling down autobahns in the middle of the night, with barely another car to drive past. Lonely saxophone (the only thing on this piece that grounds it with the presence of a human participating, that and the vocals, but more on them later), flickering, nocturnal guitars and Bowie’s ‘failing star’ lyric, it also suggests something is dying, yet there’s almost like there’s light at the end of the tunnel here, as there might be something on the other side? Who knows. It really sounds like a step into utterly mysterious darkness, like what Major Tom might have encountered after transmission had been cut and he decided to venture off into space with only himself company to discover what lies beyond. No one else will know what he sees. Just him, but who can he share his sights with?
Low‘s second side is a remarkable achievement, and even more so when you consider it came from a man who’d already performed amazing things, and would continue to do so. Put together with its fantastic, off-kilter first side, and we have an outstanding work. For most artists, Low alone could be considered more than enough to elevate them to the pantheon of genius – for Bowie it is just one of many classics. Speaking personally, it might very well be his absolute classic.
Such was the power of Low and “Heroes”, not to mention the brilliance of other albums I would hear since, that Bowie was swiftly becoming my hero. Of course I was taking in so much other music at the time as well, so it wasn’t like I was just into him and him only. Yet the sheer volume of brilliant music from just this one man, meant that he would be a regular fixture in my listening habits, and thanks to a helpful 1999 reissue of his output from 1969’s David Bowie (aka Space Oddity) to 1988’s Tin Machine, all those albums were ready for me to buy and devour. I went about my acquisition of the Bowie catalogue it with no real rhyme or reason – it certainly wasn’t without consideration for my wallet however. I wasn’t going to buy everything. I had heard that Tonight, Never Let Me Down and Tin Machine were distinctly below-par, so they wouldn’t be listened to for years to come, but others were swiftly purchased – Scary Monsters would be next up as I had already heard it on the flipside to that taped copy of Low, and soon the likes of Station to Station, Diamond Dogs, Young Americans, Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane would be gleefully devoured. Actually, I shouldn’t forget Let’s Dance, which whilst not as uniquely brilliant as its predecessors, is still a mostly fantastic slab of utterly commercial 80’s pop that I’ll always have time for.
As for the third instalment of our trilogy, the still relatively neglected Lodger, I was wary of listening to it for a while – I used to take music magazine reviews awfully serious in my teens, and when I read a Q retrospective to commemorate the 1999 reissue campaign, I noticed that the album got a paltry two stars. Before hearing Lodger all I knew were the three big songs – ‘DJ’, ‘Boys Keep Swinging’ and ‘Look Back in Anger’, as I’d seen the promos on the VHS Video Collection – ‘DJ’ was cool, ‘Boys Keep Swinging’ was hilariously super-catchy and ‘Look Back in Anger’ was proving to be one of the best Bowie songs I had ever heard. In the end I took the gamble and bought it (the same day I bought The Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds, incidentally) because in the end it was Bowie, and any album with those three songs has to have something going for it. One thing I vaguely remember was being ill in bed when I first listened to it.
Bloody hell, never listen to albums for the first time when you’re bed-ridden. There’s a good chance that music will forever be associated with being sick. I can’t listen to Tori Amos’ ‘Cornflake Girl’ without feeling queasy because it was always on the telly or radio when I had the cold sweats and shivers back when I was thirteen or so. One thing I’d end up hearing about Lodger was that not everyone was really happy with it, and that its sound was often referred to as ‘muddy’. I think the word I was thinking of at the time was…. queasy? Occasionally there are violins that sound warped, almost diseased, like on ‘DJ’ and for a few seconds in ‘Repetition’. ‘African Night Flight’ is a head rush, almost dizzying, discomforting. Adrian Belew’s guitar playing throughout the album is deliberately atonal and aggressive. Even the nicer songs have a kind of foggy, hazy sound to them, like the bookending tracks.
God, I was harsh on this album back then. Lumping it in with Low and “Heroes” didn’t do it many favours. Aside from the same spirit of experimentalism and occasional Euro-influence, it’s mostly a very different kind of animal than its two predecessors. The most obvious one is that there are no instrumentals, which made up for a chunk of what made the last two special. And while Low and “Heroes” flowed beautifully and were neatly divided into distinctive sides, Lodger is all over the place. All the singles are on the second side. Songs just kind of fade out or go off into messy, jammy endings, but while I had come to accept that a song like ‘Breaking Glass’ on Low, which ended early and had some kind of brutal point to it being so short, the surprisingly early finish of a would-be blockbuster like ‘Fantastic Voyage’ seemed even more perverse than anything before. As for the messy ends, they’re there on ‘Red Sails’ and ‘Boys Keep Swinging’, the latter of which even closes with all the band switching instruments for extra chaotic effect! Pretty much all ten songs on Lodger don’t really gel with each other – exceptions being the vague travelling lyrical theme on the first side, and the duplicate melodies on ‘Fantastic Voyage’ and ‘Boys Keep Swinging’.
In addition to accusations of muddiness, extra criticisms was that the band sounded bored, the tone was listless… all in all, not really an exciting proposition. And while Lodger is many, many wonderful things, one thing I didn’t get from it at the time was warmth, and when I was listening to it ill in bed, or when I was far from home and wanted something to pull close to my heart, it didn’t do it. ‘African Night Flight’ was just a racket. ‘Yassassin’ was just plain goofy. ‘Move On’ didn’t move me. ‘Repetition’ was interesting and dark, but fizzled out, felt too slight. Same with ‘Red Money’. I liked ‘DJ’ but I didn’t love it. Only ‘Boys Keep Swinging’ before it all goes sloppy and the whole of ‘Look Back in Anger’ were winners for me, and given that I had all those other Bowie albums, not to mention other albums (remember, I had bought Pet Sounds that same day), and well, Lodger kind of just fell by the wayside.
But it would come back to get me.
Lodger is a classic.
I mean, yeah, it’s all loose and sloppy, but its ramshackleness soon turns out to be a real virtue. Lodger is versatile, constantly surprising and really, really enjoyable. Almost all the songs are killer, so who cares if they don’t flow as neatly as other Bowie albums have? Fair enough, so ‘Fantastic Voyage’ might have done with a middle-eight and an extra chorus to give it some weight, but they’re not here, and what is here is quite splendid. Maybe fading out early does give the song some kind of transient beauty, I suppose? It’s a strong, sweeping ballad, quite beautifully sung in the choruses. It also sounds like Bowie is gearing himself back to normality – even though Lodger‘s a weird album, it also features Bowie stepping back into the mainstream – three of the songs had fantastic videos that signalled the future of MTV. ‘Fantastic Voyage’ also has an outwardness to its subject matter – in this case war, that was not there on the impressionistic, internalised world of the last two albums.
Okay, so far, so normal, but then ‘African Night Flight’ comes in, which is very experimental indeed. And I stagger to think that at one point I wasn’t enamoured with its track, for it is one of the most insanely brilliant, one-off songs Bowie has ever recorded. It sounds like Talking Heads’ ethno-rock in advance, the chanting vocals on the, er, I guess it’s a chorus, are totally thrilling, Bowie’s rap-speak delivery is fantastic – just try to keep up! I’ve had a tendency to put this song on loop when I’m feeling particularly mad. It is a whirlwind of sounds and effects and words and imagery, and it is quite, quite fantastic. Again, why the hell did I never like ‘Move On’ so much? The galloping beat, the almost hilarious directness of the opening lines (‘Sometimes I feel the need to move on/So I pack a bag and move on’) and the backward sample of ‘All the Young Dudes’ is utterly genius, at once totally recognisable and yet this much loved staple of the seventies is made alien and weird. It makes you want to get out there and see the world! Everybody sing – ‘whyaaaaayyyaaaiiiooooo/whyyeeiiiooohhhooooo’!! Bloody brilliant!
‘Yassassin’ is still properly silly to me, and if I had to list my least favourite song from any of the Berlin Trilogy, it would be this one, but it’s got a lazy, loping charm to it. To be honest, it’s the only song on the album that I only listen to within the context of the album, whereas ‘Red Sails’ was one track I did love even in those early ambivalent Lodger days, even if I felt it kind of fizzled out near the end back then (not now, I love all of it). Now that I’ve come to adore what I’d recognise as the Neu! beat, I love all of the song. This is the most driving song on the first side of Lodger, and guitarist Adrian Belew really has a lot of fun here. ‘RED SAILS!!!’ Bowie yells, like he’s Errol Flynn leading his hearties out to battle. The synths reach a kind of glorious blue horizon peak two-thirds in, and then Bowie sings some cobblers about ‘THE HINTERLAND! THE HINTERLAND!’ and Belew rips his guitar to shreds. ‘DJ’ is probably in the third-division of Classic Bowie Singles, which still puts it endless leagues above most other artists – it begins a three-track gold run of Bowie Pop. All of a sudden Bowie has gone New Wave, and the eighties are just around the corner here. It’s a lost gem, this one – considering its title, it’s odd that I never hear this one on the radio.
‘Look Back in Anger’ is a total, total rush. It wasn’t a single, but was obviously so good that they made a video for it. The whole song sounds like it’s falling down the stairs. The piano and the drums are practically tripping over each other as they try and regain their balance. The guitar sears and soars and cuts through the speakers. Bowie sings in his absolute best OTT theatrical style. There is nothing in ‘Look Back in Anger’ that is less than outstanding. It is one of my absolute favourite songs ever. It’s three minutes long and every second is a pulse-pounding rush of excellence. ‘Boys Keep Swinging’, a kind of glam stomp that’s been mutated, is one of the funniest Bowie songs of all – the lyrics are gleefully camp (‘unfurl the flag’, ‘life is a pop of the cherry’ and of course, ‘when you’re a boy/you can wear a uniform’ are just three of the highlights’, but it’s been noted that the song is also a forewarning of the eighties, the coming of Thatcherism, encapsulated in that ‘you’ll get your share’ moment. It’s all a deliciously sugared pill though – the glorious double-tracked vocals on ‘when you’re a boyyyyyoooiiii‘ just before the chorus one of many splendid touches. It’s impossible not to grin with this song. When my girlfriend and I visited the Bowie exhibition at the V&A years back, I stuck around to watch the whole of the ‘Boys Keep Swinging’ video on large-screen loop more than once.
‘Repetition’ is another total diversion however. It’s very rare for a Bowie song in that it is unequivcally about something, an issue – in this case domestic abuse. It’s a jolt to hear Bowie singing about something so real and specific. For the most part we’re observing the male abuser, the one who takes out his frustrations of an unfulfilled life on his wife. Bowie’s delivery is deadpan, almost as though he’s a drained, helpless observer who can only narrate from the outside – his ‘don’t hit her’ interjection is the one moment he speaks directly to the abuser, while the bit when he speaks as the husband, (‘can’t you damn cook?’, he demands) is less a POV character identification (we’re definitely not being asked to side with him), more a cold mimicry, as though he’s simply reporting the incident to us. As songs that deal with issues like this go it’s not overstated and it proves that sometimes less can be more. It’s a chilling song. Musically it’s amazing. The beat is cold, robotic and sinister, and given the title, appropriately monotonous, as though the events of this song are doomed to repeat themselves night after night. Only the short, sharp snatch of violin that arrives in between the first and second verses is totally unexpected (it never returns either) and it’s one of the most out-of-left field musical surprises in any Bowie song ever. It is one of the most unique songs in Bowie’s entire canon, and one of his most strangely powerful.
‘Red Money’, though I didn’t know it at the time, was a reworking of ‘Sister Midnight’, the opening track from Iggy Pop’s solo debut album The Idiot, which Bowie was heavily involved with. Interesting that the song that kicked off Bowie’s Berlin era is the same one that ends it. The lyrics are totally different this time however, and instead of the murkiness of the original, this new take, despite the air of mystery and foreboding, is nevertheless a sprightlier proposition– also, few Bowie albums of that decade have ended with such a direct line as ‘such responsibility/it’s up to you and me’. It ends one of Bowie’s least coherent but endlessly re-listenable works – the love for this once dismissed album is only increasing over time. Unlike Low and “Heroes”, Lodger is not in my top 5 Bowie albums, but I still adore it. Sometimes, this whole Berlin trilogy malarkey is a load of cobblers. You can lump Low and “Heroes” together easily, but Lodger is Lodger. It’s its own beast. Yet it looks as though all three albums are destined to remain considered as a whole. I just spent the last seven thousand words doing so.
David Bowie died a few weeks ago. His death has affected me like no other famous person’s passing has. This appears to be the case for many people, going by the public outpouring of grief. I had heard Bowie’s new album before he died, and it is a startling, thrilling work – I reviewed it here and was banging on about how this was the most exciting thing he’d done in ages and that he was on a roll. When I woke up the next day to discover he had died, it felt totally unreal. How could he be gone? And why did it hit me so hard? It could be that for me, it feels like he’s always been there, and I suppose I felt he would always be here. I still can’t accept that he’s gone. He was David Bowie.
Of course, David Bowie was human just like the rest of us, but he seemed beyond the reach of other musicians and stars, most of whom seemed so much more rooted on Planet Earth than him. He wasn’t a perfect pop star – he made mistakes (although there’s never been a period in his career that I didn’t like – seriously, go and listen to Tin Machine II right now), but his range and scope remains more breathtaking than any other artist. This piece I’ve just written has barely touched upon the other music he made outside of the Berlin albums. You know, the other music, the stuff from where dreams are woven, the music that, it’s reasonable to say, changed many a young person’s life. I mean, even if he’d only released Low, “Heroes” and Lodger, he still would have been a special someone to me. That he did all that other stuff just beggars belief. He has and continues to soundtrack my life, inspiring fascination, excitement and wonder like no other single artistic individual. I think he may very well be the only pop star that I have and will always truly love. Bye, ta-ta David. Your music will live on.