0 David Bowie, "The Prettiest Star" (1973)

(listen)

As time goes by, I find myself growing ever more fond of David Bowie's Aladdin Sane LP. One indication of the dimensions of the thing is how it seems like a different song stands out every time I listen to it again, and I believe each song on it has now had at least one turn by this point. Lately it has been this utterly ridiculous, utterly adorable valentine to happiness, led (by the nose, even) by a crackling electric guitar picking out the notes of the juicy tune one by one, like methodically going through the jelly beans to snag all the prizes. And what are those prizes? That guitar, I said, for one thing. The simplicity of the sentiment. The homely ardor. The plaintive quality. And all its many little parts, lyrical and musical. Reading up on it for once, I see "The Prettiest Star" was recorded originally in 1970 and featured Marc Bolan on guitar. This version, it says, has "Mick Ronson recreating Bolan's original guitar part almost note-for-note" (Wikipedia, of course). Looking that version of the song up (here) and hearing it for the first time, I see that that is true. In fact, Bolan's playing sounds better than Ronson's. But the 1973 version with Ronson is way the better recording and performance overall, I think. Bowie and everyone around him had been exposed to the New York Dolls by then, which did a world of good for the whole bunch—in terms of the music, I mean. In that way, "The Prettiest Star" straddles both its origins and its apex remarkably well, hippie dippie aplenty enough all right but all decked out now with the knowing Mick Jagger smirk. The saxophone, meanwhile, keeps it rock 'n' roll. And the hand-clapping, shuffle-stepping, workin' it doo dah that chugs it along, that's there for the effect. Pretty good effect.

Detail: David Bowie, "The Prettiest Star" (1973)

0 Heathen (2002)

Along the David Bowie comeback trail I must admit that this is (another) one I missed. Full disclosure: I have been off the David Bowie comeback trail since Let's Dance and certainly by Tin Machine. But to be perfectly clear, I bear him no real ill will. I just lost interest. Not even Outside, the 1995 reunion with Brian Eno, ever had much appeal. Some of the albums I arrived at late, perhaps most notably 1984's Tonight, possibly 1987's Never Let Me Down, turned out to be better than expected. But I have learned to be cautious with this fine old fellow. A little study clarifies the appeal of Heathen—mostly the familiar Thin White Duke/Bing Crosby persona reunited with a bunch of the old gang. A good bet. Tony Visconti, last seen with Bowie on Scary Monsters, is the producer, and those on hand include something new and something old at every turn: Carlos Alomar, Lisa Germano, Dave Grohl, Tony Levin, Pete Townshend, etc. There are covers of songs by the Pixies, Neil Young, and the Legendary Stardust Cowboy (which when listed that way appear almost focus-grouped in their clinical precision), but most of the songs are by Bowie. Now I would be kidding you if I tried to say this didn't have its share of some very delectable moments, e.g., the surprising crispness of Townshend's texturing on "Slow Burn," the sultry and effective mood of "I Would Be Your Slave," a certain vaguely retro charm to "I Took a Trip on a Gemini Spaceship," with some nice horns too, and especially the callow beauties of "Everyone Says 'Hi'," which somehow for me connects all the way back to the earliest songs he wrote, when it was Davy Jones & the Lower Third. And the sound of Heathen is resolutely familiar and comforting. There's no doubt about that—I never mind hearing it play. But ultimately it just kind of sits there and flops around a little. I note the nice moments in passing. The rest of it fades hard into the background. Even when I try to concentrate on it my mind wanders. It's just the same old problem. It doesn't interest me that much. I like it more than Outside, but maybe not as much as Tonight. Let me put it that way.

Detail: Heathen (2002)

0 David Bowie, "Moonage Daydream" (1972)

(listen)

Here's a nice David Bowie song from the Ziggy Stardust album. I have never entirely made up my mind whether I believe it's an album that should be listened to entire, front to back the way intended, in respect of its thematic aspirations (not to say pretensions). But shuffle has obviated all such questions anyway. "Moonage Daydream" plays big with the central concept about the alien who becomes a rock star or something. "Point your ray gun to my head," it goes at one point, "press your space face close to mine," etc. A wheetling baroque bridge comes in at the break. Some real nice guitar play. It's got the starchy Bowie sumptuousness, that crinkly dandy in tails with the operatic sense of doominess he has always managed so convincingly. He sometimes maybe means to be something rather more (and "other") than a dandy, but back of it all, always, is ... a dandy. He knew it, we knew it, he knew we knew it, and most of us were pretty sure he knew we knew it. "Don't fake it baby, lay the real thing on me / The church of man, love / Is such a holy place to be." That's what he's singing, man. That's part of what made it work so well for so long, and still can. But as for this, my quandary about the album is revived when I look at the list of songs: "Five Years," "Starman," "Star," "Ziggy Stardust" (one begins to detect a theme), and of course "Suffragette City" and "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide." Just tremendous, iconic stuff, and still sounds so good with Mick Ronson and the stuffy noise they concocted and the whole story and fashion passion drama too. Just wonderful kooky stuff. And, at that, "Moonage Daydream" belongs. It's also kooky and wonderful.

Detail: David Bowie, "Moonage Daydream" (1972)