David Bowie's best album?

Obviously, anything from after 1980’s Scary Monsters... can immediately be discounted – the 90s were a particularly awful period full of electronica-influenced songs and ill-thought out concept album ideas which really didn’t suit the more subtle and mature sound he was looking for. More recent efforts Heathen and Reality have however provided a much-needed return to form such that they really have far more in common with the great Bowie albums of old than their contemporaries.

Obvious earlier high-points are the 70s glam-rock excursions of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars and Aladdin Sane, which launched Bowie into the mainstream with his mysterious androgyny and other-worldly ideas. Ziggy... came on the back of a number of years essentially in the musical wilderness, during which time Bowie had tried and failed to prove that he was more than a one-hit wonder. It is easy to draw parallels between these albums and that one hit which gave him his first big break – 1969’s “Space Oddity.” There are the obvious similarities in lyrical theme – aliens and spaceships galore, but more than that, it was clear from the outset that Bowie wasn’t going to be playing by anybody else’s rules

This manifested itself clearly on Ziggy... with its apocalyptical theme and typical glam-rock excesses; a far cry from “Space Oddity” and the album of the same name. This earlier effort had showcased a younger, perhaps more naive and idealistic Bowie, with acoustic songs that seem light, quaint and quintessentially English in an almost Kinks-esque way. But that is also to its detriment – Bowie’s best work has always been deeper, heavier, and dare i say more intellectual.

Perhaps then, one could make a case for another great period in his career as containing his best album – the so called Berlin trilogy of the late 70s. Considering the background to their writing and recording, they certainly fit the criteria for being darker. Consider Bowie’s mental and physical wellbeing at the time – living on a well-documented diet of just milk and cocaine he was able to create this groundbreaking experimental music. Low in particular blends avant-garde styles with his classic song-smithery to haunting and beautiful effect. A perhaps more interesting and certainly a clearly transitional album is Station to Station, released the year before, in 1976.

Simultaneously building on Young Americans’ soul and funk whilst moving in new electronic directions influenced by the likes of Kraftwerk and Neu! Station to Station remains somewhat of a paradox, marking the boundary between glam-rock Bowie and Berlin Bowie. Mixed with bizarre references to religion, politics and the occult though, the album as a whole is perhaps a little too impenetrable for some, despite containing arguably his finest and most beautiful vocal performance on a cover of Nina Simone’s “Wild is the Wind.”

This process of elimination seems to have left me with few options. There are two more albums however, which really stand out. In 1971, a still relatively unknown Bowie released Hunky Dory which provides us with an insight into a more settled period of his life. There are songs about his young son and half-brother, as well as semi-autobiographical lyrics paying homage to his influences, making this probably his most intimate and accessible album. Similarly, the hugely underrated The Man Who Sold the World has just the right amount of subtle introspection, merged with a developing heavier rock style, and marks the beginning of the David Bowie as we now know him. Both efforts are indicative of all that is fantastic about him – ever-changing musical styles complemented by his classic deep baritone drawl of lyrics about everything from his own childhood to an omniscient computer. Influences ranging from Nietzsche and Aleister Crowley to Bob Dylan and Andy Warhol give an indication of things to come and prove that David Bowie is one of the foremost musical innovators of all time.

King Crimson - In the Court of the Crimson King

This is where things start to get really weird. To be honest though, you could have guessed that just from the cover of In the Court of the Crimson King, with its screaming, terror-filled face, which certainly provides a suitably striking introduction to this prog-rock masterpiece.

But King Crimson are undoubtedly a very serious band. Even on this, their 1969 debut, the incredible musical complexity which has defined their simultaneously doom-laden and mysteriously ethereal sound is evident. But more importantly, In the Court of the Crimson King led the way for a mini musical revolution. At a time when much of rock music was based around the blues, guitarist Robert Fripp, for whom the band is essentially a vehicle for his own musical exploration, stripped away this foundation and rebuilt a sound with avant-garde jazz and classical music as its influences.

The tone is immediately set by anthemic opener “21st Century Schizoid Man” an apocalyptic mix of piercing saxophone, Greg Lake’s crunchingly distorted vocals, and lightning-quick drums. This was the late 60s after all though, and inevitably politics rears its ugly head with the lyrics “Politician's funeral pyre/innocents raped with napalm fire...” which would sound hyperbolic were it not for the incredible intensity and depth of sound achieved by the band.

However the flute managed to somehow work its way into popular music (think Jethro Tull, Focus etc.) “I Talk to the Wind” is a fantastic example of its merits in prog-rock. Ian McDonald’s lazy woodwind meanders through a comparatively serene six minutes (still easily the shortest song on the album) conjuring up the kind of folky and historical scenes which have always baffled foreigners trying to get their heads around this peculiarly British musical phenomenon.

But never fear, there’s a swift return to the weird and wonderful with “Epitaph” which builds to a scintillating crescendo as the lyrics plaintively proclaim “confusion will be my epitaph/but i fear tomorrow i’ll be crying...” in a tense and sombre finale. But it is the title track which surely defines the album, bringing together all the eclectic musical and cultural influences, with medieval lyrics, drums rumbling in the background, and an unmistakable choral chant, to create a song that sounds as other-worldly as it is atmospheric.

As an album, In the Court of the Crimson King pushes the boundaries compositionally and technically (Michael Giles providing some of the most intricate drums patterns you’re ever likely to hear) and as well as heralding the start of the prog-rock boom, showcases alternative musicianship at its very best.

Blame it on a simple twist of fate

How about some pretentious musical criticism?


Consisting of six seven-line verses, eschewing the all too obvious opportunities for a chorus in favour of an unusual rhyme scheme and repeated titular refrain, “Simple twist of fate” bears all the hallmarks of a Bob Dylan song;
The unusual rhyme scheme of a triplet of lines, followed by two further couplets (A-A-A-B-B-C-C) may seem counter-productive rhythmically, but in fact facilitates the initial descending baseline, giving the song its classic lilting quality.

Lyrically, these opening lines also tend to be more narrative than those more personal ones following, and the addition of the extra third rhyme gives more scope for Dylan’s own brand of storytelling; “He hears the ticking of the clocks/and walks along with a parrot that talks/hunts her down to the waterfront docks...”
With one exception, the opening three lines of all the verses end with long vowel sounds (“park...dark...spark, played...arcade...shade”) which Dylan really exploits with his classic nasal whine, making the whole song sound even more heartfelt and mournful. But surprisingly for a song so steeped in ostensibly melancholy emotion, there’s only one minor chord in each verse, as it moves from A major to A minor in the middle of the fifth line. This progression with the same root note makes for a particularly haunting change, as emphasised by the lyrics of uncertainty, loneliness and possibility which accompany it – “’twas then he felt alone.....felt an emptiness inside...maybe she’ll pick him out again.”

As with all Dylan songs though, it is lyrically where it gets really interesting. Set in the context of the rest of Blood on the Tracks, with its intensely personal, autobiographical songs like “Idiot Wind” and “You’re a Big Girl Now” it is easy to read “Simple Twist of Fate” as a commentary on missed opportunities, highlighting regrets over his family life and marriage breakdown. There is certainly something in this, with plenty of doubt and insecurity – “he wished that he’d gone straight/and watched out for a simple twist of fate.” But it’s interesting to note that only the very final verse is written in the first person; perhaps any analysis of what the song is really about should be focussed here.

There is certainly a feeling in the last verse of more conviction (“i still believe she was my twin...”) perhaps an attempt at resolution and mutual solidarity, but inevitably the disenchantment evident throughout the song wins over, and his despair is clear in the final lines – “but i was born too late/blame it on a simple twist of fate...”)

A chance meeting with a prostitute has been mooted as a possible inspiration for the song, and whether genuine or imagined, she would certainly fit perfectly with the characters of the song – the disillusioned and downtrodden members of society which have held a constant fascination for Dylan over the years. Here, a blind man begs, sailors disembark, and a man has an unhappy love affair. Dylan has consciously removed himself from all but the climax of the song, but this in no way prevents the intimacy which pervades all four beautiful minutes, from the gently wistful opening (“they sat together in the park/as the evening sky grew dark...”) to the tragically understated “he felt an emptiness inside/to which he just could not relate...”
Even the title is slightly contrary – the intriguing “twist” and the juxtaposition of “simple” with the idea of fate, which is anything but. This is by no means classic Dylan; gone are the veiled social comments and tenuous biblical references, but instead we hear a song from as close to his heart as he ever gets – a touching reminder that this master songwriter is human after all.

Made To Love Magic - a tribute to Nick Drake

Criminally underrated, unknown and overlooked

In a tragically short four year career, Nick Drake produced undoubtedly three of the most poignant albums ever recorded, full of songs of aching melancholy and heartbreakingly bleak desolation. But his music transcended the niche of barren despondency into which he is too often pigeonholed. His three albums are a timeless record of one of the most gifted and underrated songwriters of all time. It may be music to cry to, but it is also music to fall in love to, to watch the sun rise to and to assuage cares as a made-to-measure accompaniment to the autumnal British countryside.
1969’s Five Leaves Left is as astonishing for the depth of its lyrical insight and ethereal vocal performance, as for its remarkably confident musical accomplishment. Here is a man who, at the age of just twenty one was already producing songs of such intense sadness and introspection with a profundity that would have belied an adversity-stricken man three times his age, let alone the privileged, middle-class, Cambridge-educated Drake.
The centre-piece of the album is the eerily haunting “River Man.” Drake’s gentle vocals weave in and out of the sumptuous orchestral arrangements and delicate finger-picked guitar, for four minutes of lingering and evocative redolence. Suggestions that the lyrics are based on the poetry of Wordsworth are probably unfounded, but the lyrical ingenuity and prosodic scansion inherent in many of Drake’s songs is perhaps a reminder of the student of literature he once was.
The album can be enjoyed at face value as a masterful example of a folk debut, but delve a little deeper, and many aspects of Drake’s life which were to prove his tragedy soon become apparent. “Man in a Shed” is ostensibly a whimsical love song, but the lyrics “Come into my shed, please stop the world raining through my head” are scarily prescient of the depression which was soon to cut his life short.
The dearth of any footage and limited recorded material has elevated Five Leaves Left to such heights that it is now considered one of the singularly most influential albums for aspiring singer-songwriters. If it was this album that showed his emerging promise as a musician, it is 1970’s Bryter Layter which has seen him gain cult status.
Although selling fewer than 3,000 copies on its release, Bryter Layter has subsequently gained huge plaudits, even being named Rolling Stone’s 245th best album ever. This may be in part due to the more accessible, jazzier sound; drums were introduced on more songs, in a conscious effort for commercial success. But the exquisite polish of Drake’s guitar playing, singing and arrangements still remained untarnished. The gorgeous lamentations and wavering sustained vocals of “One Of These Things First” and the lingering saxophone refrain of “At The Chime Of A City Clock” add to an album that is simultaneously sombre and grave, yet strangely uplifting.
With hindsight, Drake’s problems should have been becoming increasingly apparent, but his flawless output of captivating songs papered over his increasing mental disintegration and subsequent spiral into depression. Compared to his other albums, Bryter Layter sounds so confident, composed and assured; a hugely accomplished grounding from which we can only dream of future possibilities never reached.
By 1972 it was clear that Drake was in a hugely troubled state of mind. Pink Moon is an album so intimate that listening to it almost feels like an embarrassing infringement into his mind. It is a startling window onto the psyche of a man immersed in a stark world filled with nothing but bleak melancholy. The songs are short but hardly sweet – he simply had nothing more optimistic to write about than an introverted collection of dolorous and forlorn songs, accompanied by just an acoustic guitar and a single piano overdub. It almost seems disrespectful to listen to without sitting in a darkened room late at night in a barren state of mind. Pink Moon is an album of rare truth and insight into the mind of the man who made it; a desolate portrait of severe depression. Yet throughout, he never misses a note of his exquisite guitar patterns, never fails to wrap up the listener in his sad world, and never stops producing timeless and evocative music of such delicate complexity that it must be considered some of the most beautiful ever written.

Paul McCartney = A Cyan Plectrum

Don't you just wish that you could have seen Paul McCartney live in Hyde Park on june 27? Well what a coincidence, it just so happens that i was there myself. Have a read of this wee review i wrote so that you can pretend that you went too:

I sort of want Paul McCartney to be my dad. Not necessarily a dependable and loving paternal kind of dad, but rather one who occasionally turns up to family functions bearing arm-fulls of presents, says something embarrassing to an elderly relative, and proceeds to get slowly drunk in the corner.
Whilst this is fairly unlikely to happen - faked DNA testing notwithstanding – 50,000 people sweltering in the Hyde Park sunshine got a little glimpse of that intriguing parallel universe as he stormed through his 3 hour headline set, replete with bad jokes, terrible impressions and old-man-at-a-wedding dancing.
His 38-song marathon came at the end of a day already graced with stand-out performances from Crowded House, Crosby Stills and Nash, and a fantastically country-influenced Elvis Costello. But Paul McCartney was undeniably the man everyone had come to see, and he rarely disappointed with songs spanning his whole career.
Opening with Jet (providing the hilarious sight of thousands of middle-aged men joining in with a falsetto “Ooooo-oooooh”) was an astute move, and revived a potentially flagging crowd – tired out by 30 degree heat, and England’s earlier World Cup exit. An early personal highlight was the inclusion of All my Loving, from way back in 1963; a timeless jaunt through the innocence of the early 60s and an exercise in perfect simplicity.
Let’s face it though; he could have improved his set no end by getting rid of everything recorded under his bizarre, electro moniker “The Fireman” which left everyone bewildered to the extent that Macca even had to remind the crowd of this ill-fated career turn’s existence. But these were just minor blips. Beatles classics obviously drew the biggest cheer, as McCartney led his band through songs as diverse as Back in the USSR, I’m Looking Through You, and Eleanor Rigby.
Musically as brilliant as ever, and with a band as tight as his early-Beatles trousers, he was never going to fail to draw adulation from the crowd. As the sun set though, there were also particularly poignant moments as he remembered those whose will sadly never be able to headline such an event themselves. Whilst occasionally lapsing into self-referential name-dropping (“So, I was talking to Jimi Hendrix one time...”) a ukulele-based version of Something with pictures of George Harrison behind him provided a genuinely touching interlude, and highlighted how comparatively unique his longevity and lasting popularity continues to be.
Paul McCartney has been doing this long enough to know how to entertain a crowd, and having previously confidently accused him of not being engaging enough as a live performer, i was forced, like a man with a bowl of alphabet spaghetti, to eat my words, as he rounded off with fireworks and explosions on Live and Let Die and a six-song Beatles encore. Whilst some of his more bizarre mannerisms may have been better saved for the aforementioned (and sadly hypothetical) family reunion, this is a man approaching 70 lest we forget, and anyway, anyone who ends their set with the reprise version of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band can do as many terrible Jamaican accents as they want.

"The bricks lay on grand street, where the neon madmen climb..."

Incidentally, the title of this here blog comes from empirically the greatest lyricist ever - lovely Bob Dylan, and the wonderful song "Stuck inside of Mobile with the Memphis blues again."
(On his 1966 album Blonde on Blonde for those of you not paying attention at the time.)
Perhaps controversially, i would posit that song as containing some of the finest words ever set to music. You decide. More on this to follow, i'm sure.

Are you sitting comfortably? Then i'll begin.

Hello there. I'm fine, thanks for asking.
What with all this modern technology around, what better way to appreciate that which existed before the internet (how did anyone cope, i hear you ask!) than a blog all about arguably the finest and longest-lasting legacy of those days - the music.

As a slight musical oddity in terms of the very stringent parameters i have afforded myself, i'll attempt to guide any careless reader through the murky swamps of ignorance, with their festering underbellies and dangerous pitfalls, towards freedom and enlightenment - think Gollum in Lord of the rings 3, but without the pyschopathic split personality, and tendancy towards unremitting violence. There will also be very few orcs, and more mentions of David Bowie.
Enjoy!