Metrobolist: David Bowie still rocks 50 years later

METROBOLIST (THE MAN WHO SOLD THE WORLD 2020 remix) (1970)

 

I don’t subscribe to the notion of the unfathomable, ever mutating genius of Bowie. I only like the Seventies rock albums, from The Man Who Sold the Word to Diamond Dogs (1974), and Low and “Heroes” (both released in 1977). Anything other than these leave me cold.

 

In the late Seventies, 1978 or 1979, NME published a version of Bowie: The Illustrated Record, which covered his career probably up to Heroes and it was illuminating to read of the earlier albums, before Aladdin Sane (1973),  such as Hunky Dory (1971) and The Man Who Sold the World,  so much so that I bought the latter album, before even listening to it, in Port Elizabeth in late 1979 when I visited family friends there and saw the record, not with the original “Bowie in a dress” sleeve though, in a record store. The argument that persuaded me was the description of the music as doomy heavy rock, with “The Width of a Circle” apparently featuring riffing that almost outdid Led Zeppelin.

 

I must confess, when I bought TMWSTW, that I’d not listened to any of the Bowie albums I mentioned above but was familiar only with the Bowie singles that received airplay on local radio stations and TMWSTW  was my first exposure to full Bowie. 

 

At the time I was baffled by songs with lyrics I thought of as rather immature, puerile and simplistic even if the riffing was indeed quite heavy for the most part. The authors of The Illustrated Record raved about Bowie’s skills as lyricist and this album didn’t seem to be much more than bog standard rock song writing, the kind of thing one would expect from most heavy bands of the era.  I think the apt, derogatory expression is “Sixth form poetry.”  However, I still liked the album at the time but once I’d immersed myself into Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, Aladdin Sane and Diamond Dogs, I concluded that TMWSTW was no more than an ambitious work by an aspirant rock star who was still  a bit clueless.

 

This remixed version of the album sounds impressively heavy, with the prominent bass being given even more bottom  and fits right in with so much of its peer group from that time, to the extent,  judged on its own merits, one would never have thought that this David Bowie would achieve any more fame than, say, Leaf Hound.  

 

I’d always thought that “Black Country Rock” was the odd track our,  too simplistic and silly even for a collection of simplistic, sometimes pretentious, rock but now, I hear Bowie either mocking or honouring Mark Bolan on the outro to the track, and perhaps that was the point.  The track is not written by Bowie, has really stupid lyrics and could almost be a heavy metal parody song.

 

“The Width of a Circle” and “She Shook Me Cold” are the textbook heavy tracks but the title track and “The Supermen”  are by far the best things on the album, with the best music and atmosphere of all the tracks. The lyrics still aren’t impressive and smack too much of teenage would-be poet trying too hard. The power is in the music, as in the rest of the album, and one can gloss over the imperfections if you don’t pay close attention to the singing and just enjoy the heaviness of the performances.

 

I don’t blame David Bowie for his ever evolving and changing musical styles; that’s his prerogative as creative soul. On the other hand, I like what I like and disliked his foray in to blue eyed soul/disco with Young Americans (1975) and Station to Station (1975) and the continuation of that strain, Low and “Heroes”excepted.  Let’s Dance (1983) baffled me as much as, in a way, TMWSTW did, as the huge hit of a title track had, to my mind, particularly stupid and unimaginative lyrics and the music didn’t move me either. My initial dislike of the post Ziggy music could’ve been ascribed to my youth and immaturity at the time but when I listened to the albums roughly 30 years later my original opinions were re-affirmed.  How on earth any of this stuff could be classified under genius is still beyond my ken.  Yes, it seems that Bowie kept evolving, never rested on his laurels, but, like Neil Young’s similar restless creativity, hot all change was good and not all inventiveness was interesting and captivating.   

 

Bowie was perhaps contractually forced to continue releasing new music, and had the nous, time and money to experiment (Tin Machine comes to mind as flawed result) so that arrangements and  sonic tonality were the instruments to make nis music sound contemporary, and even ahead of the curve, but most of it is just running on empty to me.  The albums Bowie released over the last 30 years of his life just blurred into one another as non-essential, anodyne product with high production values.

 

I guess I will stick to and keep on listening to my core Bowie collection of albums up to roughly 1974, with those two exceptions from 1977, and enjoy them as visceral rock and roll to the max, with some intellibenet, quirky lyrics to make things interesting, and ignore the rest of the oeuvre as if it didn’t happen.

 

This latest version of The Man Who Sold the World  reminded me of why I love this type of artless early ‘70s hard rock in general, and why I love Bowie’s take on rock in particular. 

 

 

 

 

A partial reconsideration of Uriah Heep

 

I’ve always thought of Uriah Heep as the poor man’s Deep Purple, mostly because of the very similar line up with prominent electronic organ, but with inferior songwriting.

 

A  schoolmate of mine owned The Best of Uriah Heep Pith the stark black cover and played it to me a few times to impress me, I guess.  He did better when he introduced me to Nazareth’s No Mean City. To me, Uriah Heep was ponderous pretentiousness to the max. I was into hard, loud and fast at the time and Heep wasn’t fast and definitely not hard enough.

 

Very ‘Eavy, Very ‘Umble (1970) opens with the ponderous and, to me, pretentiously poetic “Gypsy,”  which sets out the stall of a semi-progressive heavy band that wants to elevate its hard rock to something that will achieve artistic acclaim, or at least enthral lonely teenagers who obsessively read deeper meanings into rock lyrics and want to feel as if they’re part of a music that’s more ambitious than being merely good time rock and roll. 

 

The rockers rock quite nicely but Uriah Heep always feel like a Second Division heavy band whose records should turn up on YouTube as obscurities and rarities dubbed from vinyl that only a few hundred people bought when the LPs were first released.

 

I’ve never listened to this album before, hell, I’ve never listened to any Uriah Heep albums except for The Best of Uriah Heep album owned by a Heep-loving schoolmate back in my high school years, and Very ‘Eavy, Very ‘Umble doesn’t fill me with the deep regret that I missed out on something special when I was a teenager. This is dire, dreary hard rock.

 

The first impression of second album, Salisbury (1971), is that the production values have vastly improved since the debut album.  The music is still heavy rock laced with prog elements and the lyrics still tend towards the risible.  “Lady in Black” is a good example of pretentious poetics set to a rollicking folk beat, and, sadly, quite catchy too.  “Salisbury” Is 16 minutes of rock meets symphonic orchestra (possibly inspired by Deep Purple’s Concerto for Orchestra and Group) and you can‘t beat it for grandiose bombast. It’s the best thing on the record, except for the customary dumb lyrics that spoil what would otherwise have been a grand, over the top, instrumental delight. 

 

“Look at Yourself” from Look at Yourself (1971) and “Easy LIvin’” from Demons and Wizards (1972) are two short, sharp, muscular rockers that have always been my favourite Heep tracks, mostly because they hit, git and split in simple, direct fashion and do not dwell on the pseudo philosophy and pretentious poetry of so much else the band did.

 

 “Look at Yourself” also has “meaningful” lyrics of deep philosophical importance but the hard rocking music (very much prime Deep Purple-esque, referencing pounding rockers like “Highway Star”) mitigates the pedantic life lesson.

 

“July Morning” a 10-minute epic from Look at Yourself, though, is from the same artistically delusional and ambitious template as “Gypsy” and “Lady in Black,”  and my mate used to  point to it as the validation for his deep and abiding love for the band.   Musically, it echoes Deep Purple again, this time “Child in Time,” and though the lyrics are just simple musings on the search for significant love, the music ain’t half bad and. much like “Salisbury,” the song would be highly impressive as a purely   instrumental track. 

 

Look at Yourself is quite enjoyable (weak lyrics apart) as a worthy, journeyman’s hard rock record, especially if you like electronic organ heavy rock with a singer who can shriek in tune when required.

 

Demons and Wizards (1972) features tracks called “The Wizard” and “Rainbow Demon,” not to mention “The Spell” and magic and myths seem to be the high concepts  here. “Easy Livin” is the most uncomplicated rocker and the rest are brooding, mid paced stompers leaning towards the prog rock aspirations of the band. Drummer Lee Kerslake and bassist Gary Thain have joined and the band sounds more powerful for it, and somehow more proficient too.  Obviously, Heep are still a heavy band yet this album levels out the heavy and amps up the tunes.

 

Uriah Heep persists with the occult on The Magician’s Birthday (1872), well, on the title track anyway, as well as the smoother rock of its predecessor with accomplished, but not inspired, song writing and more introspection than before. The title track is another elaborate 10 minute piece of pseudo-mythic storytelling divided into different “acts” of a mini rock opera. It’s nowhere near as interesting and engaging as “Salisbury” or “July Morning,” though. 

 

I’d intended to listen to all of the Seventies albums, even if only on cursory level, until I got to whatever album features “Free Me,” a rather uncharacteristically pop (I thought) radio hit for Uriah Heep in South Africa, but after finishing The Magician’s Birthday I lost the motivation. I realised that, if I didn’t like Heep much when I was a teenager, the passing of time brought no change. My musical tastes have, uh, matured, and certainly changed considerably over the last 50 years but the heavy, posturing bombast of Heep still has not gained in appeal and it’s not  even heavy enough for me. I don’t care for Jethro Tull and bands of that ilk, and I dislike prog rock, and, if push comes to shove, I don’t have much appreciation for Black Sabbath either.

 

In 1977 the UK punks used the term “boring old farts” and the hip music press used “dinosaurs,” when referring to the heavy and prog bands that held sway in die late Sixties and the pre-punk Seventies, and for me Uriah Heep fits the bill precisely with its ponderous, “serious” music and “meaningful” lyrics that now sound silly, and didn’t even impress me at the time. It’s almost comical, like a bunch of brickies’ ineptly executed concept of high art. Punk should’ve killed Uriah Heep stone dead but the band survived, and is surviving to this day, apparently featuring only Mick Box as the last link with the original version of the band. This longevity is not due to the artistic importance  of the band, which will always just be judged as  a Second Division band, but to the tenacity of someone like Mick Box whose career and life investment this band has been. It also again proves the point that so-called classic rock has survived because of hard work and the unfathomable devotion of a fan base that may no longer buy as many records but still support the gigs of their old favourites.

 

So, this is no definitive overview  and assessment of Heap’s oeuvre. I can’t bear to suffer this much for my art. They were moderately successful, have a bit of a “name,” yet will never move me.  I can hardly believe anyone would place their albums on a list of the 500 top rock albums of all time, much less a list of the best albums of all time period.