Search - David Bowie :: Reality

Bring Me More Disco King

Gustave O. Frey | Oracle, AZ | 01/26/2006

(3 out of 5 stars)

"Of the 11 songs on the cd side, only 7 are really any good. But, boy are they good!



"New Killer Star" took some listens for me to like it. It is much like rowing a boat until you get to a certain speed; then you stop rowing and enjoy the coast. In this song, Bowie keeps turning the boat around, so he has to start rowing again. The most intense moment in this song is on the "Go" (of the much maligned "Ready, set, go"), which reminds me of some of the tortured, transcendent vocals on "Heroes." This eery, unhinged altissimo also appears in the synthesizers on the third song on the second side of "Low." (Can't recall the name of it.)



"Looking for Water" smacked of Bowie-on-auto-pilot, culled from this thing he has (had) for Andy Warhol. I kept picturing pink Marilyn Monroes in the guy's living room and questioning his true rock star status. Or a puckering chartreuse Mick Jagger, assuming Warhol ever got around to paying some groupie hack ten bucks to spray paint one for him. (Yeah, I know, silk screen one ..AHHH). I was on the verge of writing Bowie off: for good! On the 45th listen, though, I suddenly realized that "Looking for Water" is a really good song, as it conveys the morose view of "Slow Burn," but does so with a smart, up-tempo beat, unlike the slobbering hyperbole of "Slow Burn." (I really hate that song.)



"She'll Drive the Big Car" has a seductive swaying to it. The slight chord modulation is effective and, in the blues tradition, it's a good way to check out of reality for a bit.



"Days" is good but it peters off into Bowie-narcissitic-froth and is a bit dishonest. It's still all about him: he merely "owes" somebody something. There is no mention of him actually delivering anything in all the days of HIS life. He's a bit of a quack, but we know that.



"Fall Dog Bombs the Moon" is a pretty, sick little song - a sort of "Heroes" for seniors. It provides social commentary regarding the end of the end of the end of the end of art (and everything else) and has the feel of redundancy. Burl Ives, where are you when we need you? Like the now dead cat or dog you so loved - even worse, as you can get another cat or dog. To quote Jim Morrison, "This is it; this is the end." Now Bowie's really screwed: even if he could continue innovating, it wouldn't do any good - the masses, Nietsche's goons remember? - are all seriously addicted to money and iPhones. Like those burrowing animals without eyes, they don't want good songs; they want garbage and there is tons of it out there. So what's a phantasmagorical, genius chameleon to do?



Give 'em a couple more head-turners and then get out of the way. Bravo!



"Reality" is still pissed and recalls "Never Let Me Down." (He should watch it; he's going to hurt himself.) But, again, the social commentary is tasty and he effectively invokes the best New Wave intensity, a Dionysian, self-flagellating tour-de-force.



"Bring Me the Disco King" is the kicker though. Like an early 70's jazz composition, it lingers on Judy Garland's tired eyes. If any song captures the valor of defeat, it is this one. The rage and self-righteousness have marinated in a bowl of tears. They are now imbued with the heightened tenderness and tentativeness of final sensations. In this song, "no future" takes on a new, appealing meaning. It is the then-now of the beats, with reflections replacing happenings.



Since this song invokes the beat generation, I want to try to recreate its mood by writing like William Burroughs. However, I don't mean to suggest anything at all about the actual habits of David Bowie or the other musicians.



The dope has kicked in but the DK is still out to lunch. What else is new? You can't escape. Do you really want to? It'll happen anyway. Toot your horn; shuffle your feet; dream.



A hipster's (Mike Garson's) piano mocks fate's searchlight with agile modulations. (Or maybe he's just hitting the wrong notes, I can't tell.) The sax player nods. Like a fish out of water, he just keeps breathing. His eyes are too big. Stickman sticks his sticks in the river Styx, and this post-modern Der Bingle character croons about his coming departure. Like a high roller with big medical bills, he's got a lot on his mind. Hey, Danny Boy, don't let the door hitcha in the ......ah, what's the use?... "Life wasn't worth the balance, Nor the crumpled paper it was written on." Bowie's having a bad hair day I guess. Yea, I suppose if you had to escape and could escape somewhere "in these blackest of years, that have no sound...no underground," ("Fall Dog") you might drift back to circa 1973. The jazz is stark and luxurious and always sounds live. Everybody wants to kill each other. Whether it's Gato Barbieri's fiery "El Gato" or Keith Jarrett's "Belonging," the stakes are high (life and death no doubt?), as they are with all of Bowie's quality work. The musicianship is impeccable, otherworldly, marvelously alone. There's only one version of the song -- take it or leave it Jack. No remixes for Christ sake. Anything important has already been "mastered!" I'm being tuff, I know. (The Wheez coughs up a hairball, insists it's an all-Mendelssohn venue, and downs another goof ball. I keep telling the potato head it's the other guy.)



The Disco King is the junk when the junk runs out. No big deal...it's o.k., just bring him to me..."dead or alive." The third millenium bleeds on. There's "always a moron to hate" ("Fall Dog").



..... So, Danny Boy, where's my king at.



Garson's piano has as much regard for the future as does the Cleat and his spreading hot shot. The climax comes, as it usually does, when there's "nothing left to release," as the Cleat arcs back to the sweet spot moratorium on enlightenment he never shoulda violated and the croaker flops back like smooth stone into a warm pool of the good stuff. Conventional Minds: 95, Everybody Else: 0. (And, yes, folks, we have the ball again.)



Garson's little piano bit at the end reminds me of landing in one a them 737's. There's a coupla quantum maneuvers and then, oh boy, what were abstract patterns 5 minutes ago are now trees, buildings and cars, moving by at a pretty good clip too. The angst, anticipation and suspension are all there - the runway or some guy's living room? The ultimate feel-good. And this Garson cat squeezes some downright nastiness out of that wacky little harp of his, so as to help us to compose ourselves I guess, so as to prepare us for reality I guess. Who the hell knows? And before you can say pseudo-orientalist, THE BLOODY SONG IS OVER.



I think the strangest living curiosity is on to something here and I want more. This one would make a darn good swan song, however."