skip to main |
skip to sidebar
(RCA, 1973)
The two-volume Preservation saga is the first major embarrassment for the Kinks (but don’t worry – there are plenty more to come!), a pair of bloated, confused albums almost stunningly uncompelling and inessential in concept, composition, and execution. Still, among the pretentious wreckage of boring rockers and odious show tunes, there are a few tracks that can stand quite ably on their own, and “Sweet Lady Genevieve,” wisely chosen as a single, is one of them. This is a folksy stomp that could have easily come from the group’s ’67-’69 glory days – simple, sunny, laid-back, outstanding melody. It’s pretty much the last gasp from Ray Davies in this style, and it was released, coincidentally, around the same time as the musically-similar late-’60s outtake/rarity LP The Great Lost Kinks Album. Sounds more like a single pushing that disc than Preservation, sez a guy who tends to be right (me).
Perhaps reflecting band or rec-label awareness of the serious lack of strong material from these sessions (though I do like the “Celluloid Heroes”-esque “Where Are They Now”), Everybody’s in Showbiz’s “Sitting in My Hotel” is dusted off for the B-side of “Genevieve.” Which is fine with me, because, if nothing else, it’s nice that there was an attempt to score further exposure for the song, a slice of sad, piano-led self-examination wherein Davies observes his own rock-star ridiculousness from the viewpoint of his back-when friends. Cutting, hard-hitting stuff, and certainly one that deserves to be included on any Kinks comp that purports to collect the group’s greatest. Just a shame that Ray, his head burrowing its way ever further up his own ass, couldn’t train that same sharp, brutally-honest eye on his laughable Preservation and Soap Opera concepts before he decided to dump them on an instantly-vomiting fanbase (rather than into his own brain-toilet).
You know, I have Preservation Act 1 playing right now as I type, and I realize what it is that REALLY annoys me about this album. It’s the fact that, aside from the obvious dreck – a Lou Reed knockoff?! – there are elements of what COULD HAVE BEEN good songs in here, especially within “Daylight” and “Money & Corruption/I am Your Man.” But instead of developing these bits and pieces into lovely little self-contained tracks, Ray decides to strangle them with distracting, plot-advancing lyrics and the ugly musical/vocal bloat of his bellbottomed theater-troupe nonsense. A frustrating waste; he wasn’t out of ideas by ’73, he was just committed to pursuing grandiose ones he was incapable of pulling off.
(RCA, 1972)Mysteries abound on a Sunday night. Like, why did I buy and chew a boneless spare-rib combo from China One? I should have known it would only make me feel ill. And why did some kid of yesteryear write “LOVE IS LOVE – BARRY RYAN” on the back sleeve of my “Supersonic Rocket Ship” single? That ditty by Mr. Ryan alarms me to no end, and I’m not sure why anyone felt compelled to scribble its name on a Kinks 45 in 1972. The biggest mystery of all, however, is why in heck I really, truly LIKE “Supersonic Rocket Ship” when it’s essentially a rewrite of “Apeman,” a song I’m famous the world over for loathing. Escapism, tropical feel, Fey-Ray Davies – it’s all here. Still, as with much of the ultra-silly Everybody’s in Showbiz album, there’s a lazy-yet-punchy feel to the track – dig them horns and kettle drums! – that makes it hard to resist its goofy grooviness. A nifty single, a nifty songle. I woulda maybe preferred to have it paired with the incredible “Sitting in My Hotel,” perhaps the best, most honest song Ray Davies wrote in the ’70s, but hey, instead the B-side is “You Don’t Even Know My Name,” a slide-guitar shitkicker from Dave. Thing would’ve fit better on Muswell Hillbillies or Lola, and yet here it is! Funny how this world works sometimes. Really, though, tune’s fine and so’s life; I bear both but little ill will.
(RCA, 1984)You’ve gotta be a pretty sad chump to get your jollies ragging on Hall and Oates in 2009, but it’s impossible not to pile on when faced with ghastly, Pride Of The ’80s™ productions like “Method of Modern Love.” Whatever amusement one derives from noting the chorus’s influence on a Wu Tang Clan track (the sung-spoken “M-E-T-H-O-D”) is soon crushed under the weight of Hall’s oversinging and the garish, synth- and drum-machine-packed arrangement – the whole thing comes off like a cruise-ship band with a wrongheaded understanding of early hip-hop and an unlimited budget run amok in the studio. Terrible. Dudes were taking chances with their sound, yes, but this baffling, annoying single is prime evidence that some chances AREN’T WORTH TAKING. The silver lining is that the 7” at least has the decency to chop two minutes off the LP version’s runtime.
(RCA, 1983)Whoop-de-doo, it’s a pair of poorly-recorded and/or mixed live recordings from 1973 that are historically significant, perhaps, but not a whole lotta fun to listen to. Since the world needed another lousy Velvet Underground cover, Bowie and the Spiders From Mars strip “White Light/White Heat” of its tense, scuzzy excitement, turning it into faceless bar-band glam – a description that applies to plenty of the era’s Bowie rockers, by the way – that manages to rival Lou Reed’s Rock ’N’ Roll Animal version in terms of sheer dullness (don’t worry, Lou: you still win). Bah. Who put this cock in my rock? “Cracked Actor” makes a satisfying racket as it bashes along in its rudimentary way, but doesn’t differ enough from the studio version to give it any real worth. Why does this single exist?? Why does ANY live single exist?? Feel free to ignore it and its parent album (Ziggy Stardust: The Motion Picture) altogether, or just watch the concert video if you have some burning desire to experience old Ziggy on stage.
(RCA, 1980)
Time for another legendary Bowie Persona, and for this go-round it’s the unforgettable “Asshole In A Clown Suit.” Yet again, an artistic bulls-eye for Mr. B; yes sir, it looks like David’s successfully gone from Ziggy to Zippy! Oh… ZING!! ZING ZING ZING! Better call the jape-crisis hotline, Bowie, because you just got japed bigtime by a serial japist: ME! HAW! But seriously, folks, all my cleverness aside, this isn’t a bad single at all – even if the B does lazily recycle Lodger’s percussive “Run On” for some reason; ho-hum other than the tom-toms and the droning backing vox. Right? Now, I’m not the world’s biggest fan of the sproingy guitar (??) effect that pops up throughout “Ashes to Ashes,” but doggone me if this isn’t a catchy friggin’ song, and it’s got SO MANY DIFFERENT LITTLE SEGMENTS. I mean, it’s complicated stuff; it keeps changing and changing and changing! Weird! And the whole thing still works! If there’s gonna be an argument made for Bowie as a Smart Songwriter, “Ashes to Ashes” is the song to put on display. There’s also a perverse pleasure in hearing him trash his past by recasting Major Tom as a junkie in the chorus …which fact, he deadpans, we all knew about Tom all along. Did we?! I sure didn’t! If I had known, I woulda DONE something about it: laffed at the stupid weak junkie! And OK now lemme ask you this: Is there another pair of singles in your brainspace where the B-side of the first leads directly into the A-side of the second?? Cuz that tear-jerk remake of “Space Oddity” on the flip of “Alabama Song” is definitely setting the table for “Ashes to Ashes.” You’re a canny cookie, David, a canny cookie indeed.
(RCA, 1980)It’s surprises a-plenty on this post-Lodger, pre-Scary Monsters standalone 45. Surprise #1: Bowie takes a stab at “Alabama Song.” Unlike the Doors’ retrospectively self-parodic drunken circus version, Bowie’s hurtles forward with schizophrenic changes in tempo and mood, the general air being one of terror and disgust as he lurches his way through the song. Alternately jagged, swirling, and smooth, it’d be nightmarish if it wasn’t so dang campy in the self-aware, self-mocking posturing of the vocals. An extremely entertaining listen, and an admirable middle finger as a non-album single. Surprise #2: Bowie re-records “Space Oddity” on the B-side. Surprise #3: It’s fantastic! He sounds tired and beaten on here, emphasizing the heavy sadness of the lyrics, and the stark arrangement (acoustic guitar, bass, simple piano, minimal drums) lends a weight to the musical accompaniment that wasn’t present in the original. Blasphemous to say, perhaps, but this might actually be better than the familiar hit version. GASP. And as if all that wasn’t enough, as an extra-special bonus for all you freaky kids out there the sleeve folds out into a four-panel poster of our hero Davey looking weirdly fascistic!
(RCA, 1977)The music’s that same ol’ dramatic choo-choo chug-and-soar that you know/love, but HEY Bowie’s singing in some crazy gobbledygook! “Chante En Francais,” says the sleeve, whatever THAT means. Good joke, Dave! And good song, especially when you start howling in that pained voice a few verses in! Uplifting stuff. There’s also a third version of “Heroes,” released elsewhere, that’s sung in a made-up language called “German,” and I actually like that one best; the hard consonants give the vocals – Bowie’s finest, for my money (Euros) – an extra edge that further ups the emotional intensity. Listen to all three and judge for yourself, and then immediately throw them away in favor of the classic Wallflowers remake that anchors the smash-hit Godzilla soundtrack. Jakob: the talented Dylan.The other side features the brief, near-instrumental “V2 Schneider,” which is more synthesized merriment, jaunty low-end giving it a bouncy levity not unlike that of “Autobahn.” Given that Kraftwerk happened to include a member named Florian Schneider, go ahead and connect those dots, Mr. Dot-Connector.
(RCA, 1975)
In 1975, David Bowie decided to surprise everyone, even those of us yet to be born, by ditching the glam racket, buying a suit, and recording an album of sleek, forgettable “soul” poop – a real cocaine soundtrack for swingers all across the land, even those of us yet to be born. But though it’s true I can only remember about three of its eight songs twenty minutes after taking it off the turntable (that hammy cover of “Across the Universe”…yech!), Young Americans gets bigtime kudos for including the deathless “Fame.” Now, is it underwritten? Sure. A little off-putting and whiny lyrically? Well, yes. Still, this is a truly dirty funk single that, unlike everything else on the LP from whence it comes, transcends distracting genre-dabbling to achieve GREATNESS on its own merits. Bowie and pals sound like they’re actually having a whole lotta fun in the studio, and there’s an easy, jammy looseness to this hard-edged ass-shaker that stands in contrast to the up-tightness I sense in too much of his music. Again: Dirty. Note that you’re better off with the LP version of “Fame,” since this single mix chops off about 45 seconds, making the track feel even less developed than it is.The flip is “Right,” a sax-soaked bit of soul-funk that is a good example of the kind of shrug-worthy muzak that makes up most of Young Americans. Honestly, if I want to hear Bowie “do black,” I’d rather listen to his mid-’60s Pye singles (compiled on all sorts of LPs and CDs), which take a Motown-lite approach and are loads o’ laffs. Catchy, too, unlike this bloodless, expensive-sounding snoozer.
(RCA, 1973)RCA dragged “Space Oddity” out of the rubbish in 1973 and, ever savvy, wrapped it in an appropriately Ziggified sleeve (forget that foofy Barrett-loving folk-hippie of the song’s native ’69!) in order to squeeze more cash out of Bowie’s newfound mega-fanbase. It borders on novelty, but “Space Oddity” is one of the more emotionally accessible Bowie songs; where a lot of his material feels heartless and empty – are there many superstars who are less fun? – this one does a good job of connecting with the listener. The alienation of the lyric’s astronaut is handled deftly, and his passive acceptance of his fate at the song’s end is sad and slightly chilling, especially if, as “Ashes to Ashes” tells us a few years later, the whole thing’s actually about junkiedom. Musically, rich acoustic strumming and warm mellotron sell the package, sounding like a more pop-conscious spin on early King Crimson balladry. The label keeps things eerie by putting “The Man Who Sold the World” (from 1970) on the B-side, its mysterious lyrics suggestive of insanity or creeping panic – a skin-crawling classic. Bowie was always into image, but these two songs – especially when heard on this single, outside of the larger context of an era-spanning best-of – demonstrate how satisfying he could be before he allowed his play-acting to overwhelm and often suffocate his music.
(RCA, 1973)
