David Bowie Reality (2003)

From pitchfork.com

“There is a reason the present begrudges the past,” writes Harlan Ellison; I won’t pretend to be wise enough to know what that reason is, but I believe that statement to be true, regardless. The evidence is plain in just about anyone beyond a certain age, the all-consuming, epic oldness where a person can say “when I was your age” without a trace of irony. It hits some people as early as twenty or so, when they suddenly find themselves on the downhill side of life, confronted with a bleak realization that things were a whole lot greener back when they were still climbing (or before they knew any better, at least). Some people, they just never stop climbing; it’s rare, but it happens.

A great many of David Bowie’s fans, with each successive year, slowly but surely creep into the former category even as Bowie himself manages to still act like a card-carrying member of the latter. “I’m never never gonna get old,” he proclaims on the Toys ‘R’ Us-inspired “Never Get Old”, and to his credit, he makes yet another convincing argument. With one exception (the hokey, one-foot-in-the-grave Hours), Bowie– even in his advanced age (by fresh-faced rock standards), even after almost a trillion records– has never dwelled unduly on his past. If anything, while people will always hold him up to his past accomplishments, his career has floundered more than once out of his desire for self-conscious avant-gardism and an almost schizophrenic need to reinvent his persona. What last year’s Heathen implied, and what Reality seems to prove, is that those days are over; never looking back, and no longer focusing ahead, Bowie has finally joined us all in the present, mind-young as ever but old enough not to make a show of it.

And then, if you’ll grant this indulgence, there’s me, the one who’s supposed to be writing about him: “Plain Ol’ ‘Dave'” baffles me. Bowie’s work is traditionally seen in a terrifically damaging binary– common law states that if his work isn’t brilliant, it’s terrible; that’s obviously wrong, since there’re plenty of gray areas to be found in Bowie’s oeuvre, but it’s easy as hell to fall into the trap. Not much can stack up to Hunky Dory or Scary Monsters, after all. But then he goes and releases, consecutively, the two most earnest, unpretentious albums he’s ever dreamed up, and the Pocket Dichotomy that had been used so frequently to dismiss Outside, Earthling, and others, is now terminally, irrevocably broken. Heathen looked like it might’ve been a holding pattern on the way to greater heights, but only for rising from the ashes of Hours; Reality shows that instead, Bowie is not aiming for an unattainable Ziggy-caliber alien classic, but is simply going to rock like any other human, in a pleasantly mild, non-conformist manner.

This is as close as Bowie has ever come to simply “pretty good” in his storied career. A zealous few will say that he’s just further ahead of the curve than anyone can see, but if that’s so, then what lies ahead is MOR rock and roll, with producer Tony Visconti’s unobtrusive, light-handed electronic flourishes as gloss; no way– he’s too talented to be overtly influenced or obviously faddish, but that doesn’t mean he’s breaking ground. That’s not an insult. I feel the biggest strength of this album is how relaxed it is, how well this anti-pose suits Bowie. It’s freed him to craft some of the finest original material he’s done in quite a while; Heathen best expressed his singular vision through the compositions of others, but Reality‘s original material easily overshadows its covers.

In particular, the George Harrison-penned “Try Some, Buy Some”, though a kind tribute to Bowie’s recently deceased contemporary, might be the album’s only real mistake. Sappy, vacant lyrics and plodding, waltz-timed orchestration give a feel similar to a more fleshed-out version of the Morrissey cover “I Know It’s Gonna Happen Someday”, but without any the self-referential poignancy invested in the latter. The deep-space broadcast of “Pablo Picasso” is a substantial improvement, in terms of covers, with its echoing trills and white-funk syncopation and the intense surrealism of hearing the words “Pablo Picasso never got called an asshole/ Not like you,” come from Bowie’s mouth, but David promised that Reality would “rock”, and he proceeds to do so even more effectively elsewhere.

Hard-edged dynamics are supplied to direct, aggressive rhythms on numerous tracks like the supremely nervous, desperate “Looking for Water” and less obviously on the epic jazz kick “Bring Me the Disco King”, but only “New Killer Star” feels like more than an exercise with slightly dusty rock standbys. It opens the album with a bassline etched indelibly within our genetic make-up, instantly recognizable and irresistible, and once the hook is set, a deluge of static-hazed background singers, weird robo-choruses, and a shaky treble riff that easily marks the album’s finest moment simply spew forth from the speakers, overwhelming all but the most cynical of Bowie’s detractors. At least, that’s what I predict.

Also worthy of mention is the stark contrast provided by “The Loneliest Guy”. It sounds like the title to a forgotten Dudley Moore flick, and may sound somewhat like disingenuous fame lament coming from Bowie, but the song itself will dispel those thoughts. Nearly a cappella, with bare hints of strings and stray piano chords fading in from other rooms, Bowie instead offers that he’s “the luckiest guy/ Not the loneliest guy/ In the world/ Not me,” but does so with such mournful uncertainty that no easy reading of the song is possible; it seems surprisingly human, bittersweet, and altogether far more real than its name implies. It’s startlingly out of place, sandwiched between “Never Get Old” and “Looking for Water”, so much so that it almost implies sarcasm, but that’s fitting, as this is as eclectic and puzzling album as Bowie’s ever made. He’s not always at the top of his game, but Bowie’s musical ideas, not filtered through any sort of trend-grab, are unfailingly unique, and that alone should cement his continued role as vibrant, modern artist for years to come.