David Bowie - The Next Day

It has been ten years since the last David Bowie album, a distance that was pronounced enough that I paused for some personal reflection. It was the kind of reflection that ends up putting an entire decade into perspective, a vast journey that seems forever ago, but feels like it just happened yesterday.

The record was Reality. It’s an album that I’d recommend, with the disclaimer that much of its appeal for me is based on very personal associations. I’ll save the specifics for a proper review.

If you’ll recall, the fears of a retirement were valid considering Bowie had a heart attack towards the end of the run of the massive supporting tour for Reality. It would have been a tragic end to a career influential beyond words. Reality may be a decent late career offering, but it certainly isn’t one that’s worthy of being the last studio statement of a hugely vital catalog.

For me, reality was a crumbling marriage. When Reality was initially released, the façade of my marriage was still in tact. By the time the Reality tour was wrapping up, I had quit my managerial job of eight years, separated from my wife shortly afterwards and then proceeded to spent a good deal of time living out a suitcase.

Luckily, that suitcase ended up in the parking lot of an arena where Bowie stopped for a show. The concert was great, but the therapeutic quality of the event itself made the entire a personal milestone for me.

Reality meant it was time to move on.

Ten years later, I’m married again. It’s a better fit. Two children take up a large portion of my life, and both are blessed with a love for music, even if it’s not quite up to my standards. For example, neither of them have any idea who David Bowie is, or show any desire to learn anything about him. A connection was made when they discovered that they both know the words to a Bowie song (“Changes”) thanks to the placement of it in one of their animated movies they watch.

The way music is consumed is vastly different from the year that Reality was released. In fact, one of the complaints about the new David Bowie record was how unnecessary it really was. Music circa 2013 is single-driven. To suggest that anyone wants to listen to an entire album is presumptuous.

Before a note was heard, he was already being chastised for failing to recognize that nobody cares about a new David Bowie record. Suddenly, a man who was always considered to be part of pop culture’s cutting edge was now showing his age by sticking by a format seen as passé to the “experts” of such matters. A new record would be met with the requisite attention and then fall by the wayside. Unless a cash cow greatest hits tour is in the works and the Labyrinth dude sings “Fame,” then we all need to get over this David Bowie obsession.

The ammunition grew larger after the languid lead-off single “Where Are We Now?” was released to an unsuspecting audience on Bowie’s 66^th birthday. This hugely underwhelming teaser also did little to ease the collective sigh of disappointment that came with the “No more tour, probably forever” announcement.

The seeds of discontent firmly entrenched, the next shock came with the first images of the cover of David Bowie’s twenty-forth record. It’s a controversial repackaging of 1978’s Heroes, the title crossed out and David’s stoic pose covered with a white box. In the middle of the white space, the words “The Next Day” identify this sacrilegious piece.

It would be a struggle, wrestling with the fear that The Next Day would be as pointless as the indicators suggested, verses the loyalty that one possesses with an artist of this caliber.

Suddenly, a savior appeared. Its form came in a video, a format that Bowie certainly has experience with, but with no network to support an outlet for such an endeavor, what exactly is the point?

The point is this: the video for “The Stars (Are Out Tonight)” is a stunner. I sat in awe the first time I saw it, from a YouTube stream of the video while at a friend’s, each one of us in minor states of inebriation where David Bowie videos become points of strange occurrences and mild hallucinations.

In fact, a quick burst of N2O had me floating in a most peculiar way, and the next thing I know, it was time to leave the capsule and promise an imaginary Bowie-head that I would indeed purchase The Next Day on the first day of its release.

It just so happens that this purchase happened to be the vinyl version, which just saw the light of day last week-about three weeks after the album’s true release date.

The decision was more of an appreciation of the cover art. As controversial as it is, it’s a remarkably bold decision. I wanted the bigger package to absorb the artist’s choice, and I’m wonderfully taken by the gatefold layout.

I also love the way The Next Day is sequenced. The record has purpose and varying stages of high and low tides. “Where Are We Now?” for example, is positioned as the first song of side two-a critical position, and one where the song suddenly takes on a different role, it’s themes more detailed and prevalent. It now ranks as one of my favorite songs on the record, a huge turn from my initial reaction of ambivalence.

In case you’re wondering, the three additional tracks tacked on to the end of the vinyl version are noticeably of lesser quality than the rest of the record. They sound completely out of place in terms of the sequencing, but I have a strong suspicion that any one of the trio (“So She,” “Plan” and “I’ll Take You There”) would get picked out in a line-up, no matter where these also-rans ended up in the order.

Beyond these leftovers, the traditional sequence of the 14-song album is wonderful, but it’s more pronounced and it reflects The Next Day’s consistency much better.

The Next Day is the best record since whenever. There are notable commercial moments (“Boss Of Me” “Valentine’s Day”) that provide pop music with some much needed cleverness. There are hints of David’s Berlin era (“Dirty Boys” “Love Is Lost”) while other cuts touch on different Bowie creative peaks. With that being said, this is firmly a late-career product-themes of time and age flow throughout the record-that works very hard at making sure the self-reflection that ten years can provide were duly noted and properly executed.

The record is warm, inviting, and a little uncomfortable in certain moments. The dirge “Heat” ends the record, with a particularly haunting refrain of “My father ran the prison.” It’s unsettling enough to warrant an additional listen, and with each one a new reason to rank The Next Day as a golden years milestone becomes apparent.

In short, I’m glad that I survived the last ten years to see another David Bowie record, and it’s good enough to hope the next one comes a bit sooner.

Iggy Pop - The Idiot

If you’re planning on taking your own life tonight, may I suggest Iggy Pop’s The Idiot.

Too soon?

Yes, it was thirty-two years ago tonight where Ian sat down to a viewing of Werner Herzog’s Stroszek and a spin of Iggy Pop’s The Idiot.

Then he went to the kitchen to grab a bite to eat.

His wife found him the next morning, and I assumed put all of this together. It seems plausible. And The Idiot is a really good album.

It time to think so; can you remember the first time you heard it? If you haven’t yet, remember it, write it down. I’m curious to hear what Iggy novices think about it or, like me, familiar with his repertoire to the point where you can compare it to Idiot.

Truth is, I hated it. The Idiot was so unlike anything else in Pop’s catalog, never mind that it sounded like Iggy was just as loaded as he was during Kill City, it was just that he had Bowie funding the dope for him.

It’s confirmed with the fact that Bowie made RCA hold on to The Idiot for just a little while longer so that Dave could be the first to market with a Berlin trilogy, making it seem that he was the one who taught dum dum Jim Osterberg everything.

Actually, The Idiot is the record that truly confirmed Pop was a certified genius, briefly breaking away from that dumb Michigan shtick just long enough to see that, even if he’s not fully in charge of his capacities or the control board, Iggy Pop is capable of delivering a left-field hit of epic proportions.

The sound is as unexpected today as it must of have sounded back then, the claustrophobia is menacing and there’s a general unease throughout it. This is the part of the review where I tell you that I really like the record now, but I think it’s important to explain how this weird-sounding thing planted a fucking seed in my head telling me to keep coming back to it.

The Idiot is the equivalent of sharing an 8-ball of cocaine with your friend and you decide to start recording the room at 4:00 in the morning. It’s that time when your forehead feels tingly and the coke becomes more of a need than anything else.

Oh wait, someone left this rhythm machine behind…

The irony is that the most “normal” song on the record is the one that begins by naming off all the friends who have o.d.’d or died. “Dum Dum Boys” produces a sensible song structure and good rock groove, but then Iggy appears like he’s had a bottle of wine or three, singin’ “Dah Dah Dah Dah Dum Dum Day.”

Because there are times after work, driving home just trying to shake of the fact that you’re no longer at work, when I feel like singing through the marbles of “All aboard for fun times,” just dreaming for a chance to stay up late in a coke-fueled panic.

By “Tiny Girls,” the dawn is starting to creep through the curtains when suddenly Iggy brings in a smooth sax. It takes the edge off, particularly when Bowie fucks around with the echo.

“Mass Production” is probably the best song Neu! Ever wrote, mainly because Iggy Pop sings it. It’s the record’s forgotten treasure, a big-rock ending to an anti-rock concept album with Iggy politely mentioning, “By the way, I’m going for cigarettes” after David stops fucking around with a synthesizer.

By my count, I’d say it took at least a dozen spins for me to get comfortable with The Idiot’s art-damaged interior, to find the pleasure in its icy restraints and outta mind adventurism.

But once there, I was hooked

Get me a pack of Marlboro’s, Jim.

Twenty Five Years After The Death Of Andy Warhol

Twenty-five years ago today Andy Warhol died.

It came as a bit of a shock. Andy always seemed more like a caricature than someone real. The stories just seemed amazing, and he always could be found in those black and white photos about town in the village voice. I’d read them in the lobby of the public radio station I worked at-they had a subscription for some reason-and then I’d check the apartment prices in the classified.

“What if?” I wondered.

But I’m too much of a chickenshit to leave Iowa and move to New York.

That, and I’ve met enough people, thank you very much.

It fascinated me that people from across the country traveled to New York City and, at any given moment could have walked right into Warhol’s factory and made their introductions.

Sounded like a good time, until that bitch Valerie Solanas messed it all up.

I liked his work.

Several years ago, I got a chance to take my son down to our city’s Czech Museum where they had a bunch of prints of Warhol’s work. I didn’t have a bunch of time to absorb all of it properly; the little shit kept running around.

Years ago, a girlfriend got me The Andy Warhol Diaries. His obsessive behavior was amazing and his notes really demonstrated a human side to him.

But by that point he had gone, so I was never really able to completely separate him from the more powerful caricature.

So for today, I’m content with those stories of the Exploding Plastic Inevitable, Screen Tests and the song that put it all in perspective.

Happy Halloween

In case you're wondering, my kids will be Trick or Treating tonight as Cindy Lauper and the lead singer of Krokus.

Here's a sweet rendition of "Scary Monsters" featuring Bowie macking on Gail and Reeves Gabrels just killing it on the guitar.

Scary good indeed.



If I recall, this is from some MTV show in the late 90's when Bowie records began having another resurgence in quality. I remember that the show actually had someone else scheduled to appear-another big name who cancelled the day of the show.

They call up Bowie who was on tour and asked if he could fill in, to which he did and ultimately ruled the occasion.

I Want David Bowie!

There are moments where I understand this.

David Bowie & Bing Crosby - Little Drummer Boy/Peace On Earth

I know there is an update version-a parody which is more creepy than funny-but for me, the original is (obviously) still the best and just as weird.

Because the notion of David Bowie-fresh off of the androgyny of Ziggy Stardust and still considered a fringe rock artist in the mainstream-sitting down to croon a duet with Bing Crosby was absolutely bonkers back when this song was done for a Crosby Merrie Olde Christmas special.

Bing died a month after recording this song.

Bowie was asked about the weird paring, admitting that he did it because his mom liked Bing Crosby. He didn’t like the song “Little Drummer Boy,” so songwriters wrote “Peace On Earth” to tack onto the more recognized classic.

I’d looked for a copy for years, under the assumption that the performance was only available as a bootleg. I learned through someone that a record collector in Waterloo, Iowa had a copy-probably more than one, actually-and that he might be able to sell me a copy.

I was in college at the time, and I had a few rarities of my own. I called up the man unannounced and offered to meet at his place to discuss options.

I return for a promotional copy of Jimi Hendrix Live At Winterland, I scored a copy of “Little Drummer Boy/Peace On Earth” and an eighth of an ounce of weed.

Looking at it afterwards, I realized that RCA records had actually released “Little Drummer Boy/Peace On Earth” as a single. “Fantastic Voyage” was the b-side, and Bowie became upset with RCA Records for the yuletide cash-in, a full five years after the song was originally broadcasted.



And for a real hoot in parody, check out this stellar version from the Venture Bros. camp.

"Come in. Come in. Come in, David Bowie. Now."

No Soup For You!

True story: I was messing around online at work and I noticed that the number one search item for a few hours today was Soupy Sales.
What on Earth, in this day and age, are people searching for Soupy Sales on the internet?
And then I noticed that Soupy passed away today.
The dude rubbed shoulders with the Rat Pack, knew a bunch of hip jazz musicians, and sired on-time Iggy Pop and David Bowie rhythm section members Tony and Hunt Sales.
I never really paid much attention to Soupy; he was after my childhood and I really only remember him from those game shows in the 70's. I do remember my father speaking poorly of him as an unfunny hack. Balance that with Iggy Pop's claim (on the Dinah Shore show) that Soupy sales was an influence on The Stooges.
When in doubt, trust in Iggy.
Here's Soupy with a surprise visit from Alice Cooper.

David Bowie-Heroes

So, those of you familiar with the invite-only Glam-Racket 2 My Space page know that I recently bought a house, recently was made aware that I am expecting a child, and that I quit my job yesterday. I’m tired of explaining the events that led to this spur of the moment decision and I’m well aware of the implications, especially considering the aforementioned announcements. What it boils down to is that Todd Totale doesn’t appreciate being treated with disrespect, he has issues with authority (particularly ones that are utter douchebags), and that he doesn’t have a contingency plan for this unemployment.
This resignation marks the first time that I have left an employer without any formal notice. It was deserving, trust me, and there’s a little bit of punk rock when one can utter the words “I quit…effective immediately.” There is nothing punk rock, however, about worrying about shit like car payments, mortgages, and lack of health insurance resulting from uttering the words “I quit…effective immediately.” Who am I kidding: there’s nothing punk rock about being forty.
To look for a familiar frame of reference here is impossible, as life today is unlike anything else that I’ve been through. I suppose that this is a good sign; it means that my life has progressed somewhat and that I’m encountering new experiences. It also means that I think I understand the lines to that Dylan song that goes “I was so much older then, I’m younger than that now.”
The events have me thinking about the obligatory “Mix Tape For The Unemployed,” or specifically, what albums was I listening to when I left a source of income without having another source lined up. It needs to be said that this is something that Dad told me never to do. Sorry, Dad.
But it’s happened twice in my life now, and as usual, I can tell you the soundtrack to one of those events.
The first time came right after college. Actually, it was the fall after I graduated college in the spring of the same year. I had successfully managed to keep working at a part time radio job that paid just enough to pay rent, utilities, and provide a few nights at the rock club. Then, I was informed by my parents that it was time I found a big boy job.
Honestly, I had only half-assedly looked for work and I’m fairly confident that my parents understood this. It probably contributed to their newfound micro-management and their curious demand that I return home to look for a full time gig. In retrospect, I probably could have resisted and avoided the self-imposed ridicule of being an-adult-still-living-at-home-with-the-parents, but I was too weak to fight them.
So I packed up the records, unloaded the furniture I’d acquired in school to various friends, and made the trip back home in the 1987 Ford Tempo.
Upon arriving, my Mother suddenly became a tyrant, berating me about my lack of initiative in sending out enough resumes and that I was “too picky” in my employer selections. She also didn’t like the fact that I would go out drinking, spending my diminishing savings on liquor and sleeping in late. She was working and found it hard to suppress the anger when coming home to find her adult son asking “What’s for dinner?” while on the phone with friends, coordinating what bar they’d be hitting in a few hours. Her anger, in retrospect, was completely understandable.
At the time, it was oppression. To tackle this perception, I would come home late at night, sneak a few hits of weed in my old bedroom (which had been remodeled since I first left) and play David Bowie’s Heroes.
Smoking weed as an adult living in the parent’s house takes some planning. I implemented strategies previously used while living in the dorms of the public university. There was a strict ban on pot smoking, burning candles and incense. Thankfully, the R.A. on our floor was too consumed with controlling the belligerent drunks and understood that our group was relatively harmless. Every once in a while he’d remind us of the policy and then we’d remind him that the guy across the hall puked all over the carpet in the hallway. He’d realize that three or four pot smokers were the least of his worries; not once did was he forced to call maintenance on our behalf and we were very conservative with our music volume after midnight.
In addition to placing towels at the bottom of the door to prevent marijuana smoke from escaping the room, we used an additional technique to circumvent the odor. We’d take empty paper towel tubes and stuff them with Bounce sheets. Then we’d exhale our smoke through the tube, filling the room with the fresh smell of a dryer sheet.
I used the same technique at home and was able to achieve the same winning results. The weed, which was a fairly large quantity transported from my college house and which was wonderfully potent, was primarily smoked from a one-hitter, thereby conserving the drug and limiting the exhaled smoke.
For whatever reason, the crowd I ran with in my hometown was not deemed to be deserving of my chronic; they were primarily drinkers anyway, so why offer something so good that wouldn’t be fully appreciated?
I’d return home from the bars and retreat to my bedroom with a large glass of ice water or juice in case of a coughing spell. I had the CD player hooked into a boombox. I felt the accommodations would be temporary enough, so why bring out all of the stereo components.
I purchased Heroes used and wasn’t immediately drawn to it. It’s a difficult album to recommend to a passing Bowie fan. Unlike anything in the Bowie catalog (with the exception of the other two albums in the Berlin trilogy: Low and Lodger), its an album filled with atmospheric soundscapes and isolationist arrangements.
Hunky Dory and The Man Who Sold The World were more my speed at the time.
I kept at it, probably because the vast majority of my cd collection was still packed away, and suddenly, it came to me. It’s not lost that the isolationism reflected in the music of Heroes mirrored that of my own isolationism, secretly smoking pot in my parent’s house, struggling to find work and finding excuses to leave acquaintances behind at the bars.
On dozens of occasions, I found myself alone with the quiet of the house, sparking up to the opener of “Beauty And The Beast,” doing a bit of reading before nodding off to the instrumental portion of side two. It’s as if there wasn’t a more perfect album for me at that time and it, like the weed, was an album that I didn’t share with many others.
But really, Heroes isn’t an album that’s suited for social settings. Its strength can be found when you’re with it alone, carefully studying the intricate layers of sound. Because it requires such focus, it enabled me to forget the reality of my surroundings and, at least for forty minutes, to forget that I needed to find work.
It may be time to dig out that copy of Heroes again.