bowie
review
This piece originally
featured in the Independent newspaper as a live review. We are not priveleged
here to discuss DB at his tip top best, but the review does include some
pertinent observations on his dilemma at the time. Always driven to forge
ahead (this is part of the reason he can be so godlike) mistakes are made
on a detour down a blind alley marked drum and bass. Thankfully he now
seems to have partially resolved the essential problem- combining the organic
genius of his classic period with some forward facing steps into the future.
The piece essentially illustrates that I am truly no cold hearted critic.
As will become clear, had The Duke played the spoons that night, I'd have
still gone home a moderately happy man. However, I live in fear of his
first visit to Aiya Napa.
| DAVID BOWIE ACADEMY MANCHESTER
JULY 23
It starts and you're thinking that everybody else who has spoken about his recent live performances must be either stupid or heartless or both. Bowie appears alone and smiling, obviously genuinely touched by a rowdy, can-waving crowd. I've got my fingers in my ears waiting for chest- vibrating jungle tones to roll. Instead we're eased into a genuinely moving acoustic Quicksand. The sense of nostalgia is tangible- 2,000 people crushed together each imagining themselves alone in teenage bedrooms at least 20 years ago, wondering wether to end it all or see if anyone is going down the youth club. It's hard not to be overawed by this. What can these critics who slated his half ancient, half modern London shows be talking about ? A jungle revision of The Man Who Sold The World follows and, hey presto, works perfectly. A rewired Jean Genie almost electrocutes half the audience- they jump like the floor has just been attached to the mains. The rest of his band are on now, behaving themselves, paying attention to the core of the song and not pissing about in the way that musicians who can play too well often have to. After this, however, they start doing just that. A particular bollocking must go to guitarist Reeves Gabrels, who spends his time making those kind of eighties car crash feedback noises so beloved of older blokes who have listened to too much Robert Fripp. He refuses to even refer to the sublime funk of Fame and forces you to re-run the proper guitar parts of the closing Stay as he approximates the properly arty sound of a transatlantic jet in trouble. The bulk of the set has you looking at your watch during lumps of perfunctory jungle punctuated by oblique paranoid telegrams from DB. There is even a horrible banging techno version of V2 Schnieder which seems to last at least a week, and a take on Laurie Anderson's Oh Superman which makes me feel like I am waiting for a bus. Had I gone home after Jean Genie I would have called you all liars and idiots. But you're all right. This is an old man who should know better copying young men who know nothing. But the weight of that back catalogue still bears down. Even then you leave thinking, 'fucking hell, I've just seen David Bowie, and he can be crap if he wants to. John McCready
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