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"Have you ever listened to "The Bewlay brother", you bastard?" Lou Reed to Lester Bangs...
Let's put it this way: when talking about rock and art, the sixties alone would suffice. If we take folks like Barrett, Dylan, Morrison, Reed, we've already covered 99% of the subject matter.
If you're one of those who think rock is just divine noise and means nothing, skip this writing and go be a brute somewhere else. Still, know that I envy you; I've always dreamed of being a brute: big guitar, solo, and free belching.
If instead you think art is only for artists, well, you can leave too. Don't think I envy you, though. Blues, folk, and rock are art in themselves, without knowing or suspecting it in the slightest.
Of course, you can always water it down, that is, add poetry, but you need art to do it, because too much is too much, as aunts, grandmas, and wise folks of all times teach us.
Well, Barrett, Dylan, Morrison, Reed had that art, and, with the exception (perhaps) of Barrett, they knew very well they were artists and even poets. And, damn, they really were. To the point that everything that comes after seems just like a long, endless footnote.
With some exceptions, like Mr. David Jones (aka Bowie) and punk...
"Music for queers made by people who play badly and music for thugs who can't even play clean". That's how the Italian progsters of the time spoke. Actually, they didn't speak, they thundered...oh yes, despite their good manners, they thundered...
Being wrong about everything, except relating those natural enemies of theirs, since Bowie and punk were the two epochal turns of the seventies (kind of like a hook and an uppercut). And I'm talking about "Ziggy" and "Anarchy", of course.
In the midst of those two sensational discographic releases, there was music as exciting as five o'clock tea at an aunt's house smelling of wardrobe,
The dear, sweet, boringly progressive English music...
Then, of course, there was also good progressive (if not excellent), like generators or crimson kings, or Canterbury, but these were all people who, in some way, had more affinities than disaffinities with Bowie and punk.
Certainly the Bowie that scared the progster hordes ("clown, queer, jester, fascist!!!) was that of "Ziggy".
Ziggy, or the big thing, the awakening of rock 'n' roll even if in an almost parodistic form, something like taking a sacred rite and turning it into a children's game.
With a futuristic sound though...and sharp...and nervous...and exciting...and an image exuding a sort of hypnotic flow...
It was virgin territory, crossed by a sort of fake innocence.
But before this incredible mass ecstasy, there was another Bowie, or a restless and dark guy capable of announcing, like no other, the end of the sixties in mysterious and rather disturbed ballads.
Sure, not everything was clear, what the hell did, for example, that Cream sound in "The man who sold the world" have to do with it? Oh nothing, absolutely nothing...but there was still the glam spark peeking through, there was the tension of his voice, and above all, there were all those references to nightmare, confusion, and madness...
Then, among the early cries of the glam sound and much poetry still wrapped in itself, Bowie found the right path. But before taking it, he embarked on a carousel journey out of time, giving his last ghosts a scenario made of whimsy and classicism.
And we're talking about "Hunky dory".
And speaking of “Hunky dory”, all the discussions made earlier fall apart: the influence on the sound of the sixties, the link with punk, the big bang effect - in short, all the rhetoric about the good news for times to come, all the arguing about the Midas king and the visionary radar of those who dare a step into the unknown...
Here it's like when the little light turns on of things that are like this forever and that, despite fashion, uptight folk and whatnot, will never age.
Never...
From one rhetoric to another, you might say, yes maybe...but at least it's the right rhetoric. And then, damn, we're talking about one of my heroes...
It's that “Hunky dory” is “Hunky dory”, it's a unique piece. And you know what that means, right? I assume so.
I know it from personal experience, given that I'm a unique piece myself. It took me a while to understand, and when it did, let's say my life improved.
What is a unique piece? Oh, simple: it’s something that resembles only itself, which, mind you, doesn’t mean it doesn’t refer to anything, rather it's the opposite. When something gets inside you, it also changes the entire context around that something. No, it means that it’s hard to talk about that something without having terms of comparison. You should take a photo or draw it, but photographing or drawing music is quite challenging, you’d agree.
Even though, in fact, maybe the album cover helps, with that recolored photo of a still long-haired Mr. Bowie...a sort of timeless languor and, together, almost a nod to Warhol...a 19th-century decadent poet making a rock album,
That if rock had been invented a hundred years earlier, they would have invented it like this, mixing things you’d say you couldn’t. Take “Quicksand”, with that rising folk acoustic until it becomes shredded, only for a classical-sounding piano to steal the scene (the kind you usually can’t stand) and Mick Ronson's string arrangements (and also with those you generally end up fighting) The result ends up between folk, music hall, and an unintentional psychedelia, a huge mess though...but it works.
Oh yes, it works, it works...like those add, exaggerate, exaggerate, add things...Like certain orchestral Love or certain Zombies...too much is too much, but if it’s not, it’s magical. If then, as in this case, it accompanies a text about confusion and disillusionment, well, even better.
That then the piano is played by Rick Wakeman, that Merlin-like and cloaked guy who almost single-handedly, by reaction, gave birth to punk (and for this, thanks).
What the hell is a guy like him doing on a decadent rock album?
He does, he does...he sure does...and he fits perfectly/wonderfully. And he doesn't take the scene only in “Quicksand”, no, no, he’s the absolute protagonist of the album. It seems Mr. Bowie told him “you come, play what you like, and we’ll follow you”
So Rick: thanks for punk and also for “Hunky”.
And what about “The Bewlay brothers”? So intimate...singer-songwriter-like...and collected...with rare bewitching reflections...and the cyclical explosion of an acid refrain where the voice breaks and the emotion picked up along the way suddenly bursts out...and that crazy ending with a psychotic choir that reminded many of Barrett...
Here, “”Quicksand” and “The Bewlay brothers”, one a classicist pastiche, the other the ultimate acid/psychedelic folk piece, are the great obscure masterpieces of this album, poignant like pages from a private diary that good manners suggest not reading in public. In fact, the rare/very rare live performances can be counted on one hand.
But the songs are eleven, not two...
So let’s say that in an album roughly divided in two (the first part devoted to a sort of messed-up cabaret, the second to a kind of glam/folk), apart from the two already recounted tracks, we survey:...sublime little songs in their littleness, late freak residues, Sinatra-like numbers, tributes to underground heroes, general rehearsals for the coming ziggymania...
And plots of B-movie flicks...and semi-serious pedagogies...and a lot of poetry...yes, a lot of poetry occupying the one percent left free by the sacred monsters...
All with surprising cohesion, which means that the container is as big as what it contains and that each track shines with a unique light just by being where it is. Almost as if, despite a considerable variety, we were faced with a long, endless suite.
I’m almost done and must say I feel a certain satisfaction in not having spoken about “Life on Mars”, the Sinatra number. Let’s put it this way: in an old Frank song you’d hardly find a visionary text.
And Mr. David’s voice? Like Dylan's if Dylan had been born in London...a joke, sure...clever marketing, sure again...but I'm for the myth...and when I listen to this music, I’m still the kid I used to be...
But, okay...since it's one of the records of my life, I take from the sacred Bowie texts the following definition “a peculiar high baritone sliding imperceptibly in and out of falsetto”...I don’t understand much, but it seems okay to me...
Here, I’m done. Rereading myself, I wonder if I managed to say something decent.. It's hard to talk about a record you've (and loved) listened to forever.
To say, when you listen you don't sit there thinking about things like what I've told you, you just listen...
So no, I’m not happy...not if I think about listening...and I’d like to start writing again from scratch...but since I think very little would change, I’ll end it here...
Au revoir...,.
Tracklist Lyrics and Videos
01 Changes (03:37)
I still don't know what I was waiting for
And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets and
Every time I thought I'd got it made
It seemed the taste was not so sweet
So I turned myself to face me
But I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker
I'm much too fast to take that test
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strange)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't want to be a richer man
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strange)
Ch-ch-Changes
Just gonna have to be a different man
Time may change me
But I can't trace time
I watch the ripples change their size
But never leave the stream
Of warm impermanence and
So the days float through my eyes
But still the days seem the same
And these children that you spit on
As they try to change their worlds
Are immune to your consultations
They're quite aware of what they're going through
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strange)
Ch-ch-Changes
Don't tell them to grow up and out of it
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strange)
Ch-ch-Changes
Where's your shame
You've left us up to our necks in it
Time may change me
But you can't trace time
Strange fascination, fascinate me
Changes are taking the pace I'm going through
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strange)
Ch-ch-Changes
Oh, look out you rock 'n rollers
Ch-ch-ch-ch-Changes
(Turn and face the strange)
Ch-ch-Changes
Pretty soon now you're gonna get older
Time may change me
But I can't trace time
I said that time may change me
But I can't trace time
02 Oh! You Pretty Things (03:12)
Wake up you sleepy head
Put on some clothes, shake up your bed
Put another log on the fire for me
I've made some breakfast and coffee
I look out my window what do I see
A crack in the sky and a hand reaching down to me
All the nightmares came today
And it looks as though they're here to stay
What are we coming to
No room for me, no fun for you
I think about a world to come
Where the books were found by the Golden ones
Written in pain, written in awe
By a puzzled man who questioned
What we work here for
All the strangers came today
And it looks as though they're here to stay
Oh You Pretty Things (Oh You Pretty Things)
Don't you know you're driving your
Mamas and Papas insane
Oh You Pretty Things (Oh You Pretty Things)
Don't you know you're driving your
Mamas and Papas insane
Let me make it plain
You gotta make way for the Homo Superior
Look out at your children
See their faces in golden rays
Don't kid yourself they belong to you
They're the start of a coming race
The earth is a bitch
We've finished our news
Homo Sapiens have outgrown their use
All the strangers came today
And it looks as though they're here to stay
Oh You Pretty Things (Oh You Pretty Things)
Don't you know you're driving your
Mamas and Papas insane
Oh You Pretty Things (Oh You Pretty Things)
Don't you know you're driving your
Mamas and Papas insane
Let me make it plain
You gotta make way for the Homo Superior
03 Eight Line Poem (02:56)
The tactful cactus by your window
Surveys the prairie of your room
The mobile spins to its collision
Clara puts her head between her paws
They've opened shops down West side
Will all the cacti find a home
But the key to the city
Is in the sun that pins the branches to the sky
05 Kooks (02:54)
CHORUS (x2)
Will you stay in our lovers' story
If you stay you won't be sorry
'Cause we believe in you
Soon you'll grow so take a chance
With a couple of kooks
Hung up on romancing
We bought a lot of things to keep you warm and dry
And a funny old crib on which the paint won't dry
I bought you a pair of shoes
A trumpet you can blow
And a book of rules
On what to say to people when they pick on you
'Cause if you stay with us you're gonna be pretty kooky too
CHORUS
And if you ever have to go to school
Remember how they messed up this old fool
Don't pick fights with the bullies or the cads
'Cause I'm not much cop at punching
Other people's dads
And if the homework brings you down
Then we'll throw it on the fire
And take the car downtown
CHORUS (repeat and fade)
06 Quicksand (05:09)
I'm closer to the Golden Dawn
Immersed in Crowley's uniform
Of imagery
I'm living in a silent film
Portraying Himmler's sacred realm
Of dream reality
I'm frightened by the total goal
Drawing to the ragged hole
And I ain't got the power anymore
No I ain't got the power anymore
I'm the twisted name on Garbo's eyes
Living proof of Churchill's lies
I'm destiny
I'm torn between the light and dark
Where others see their targets
Divine symmetry
Should I kiss the viper's fang
Or herald loud the death of Man
I'm sinking in the quicksand of my thought
And I ain't got the power anymore
Don't believe in yourself
Don't deceive with belief
Knowledge comes with death's release
I'm not a prophet or a stone age man
Just a mortal with the potential of a superman
I'm living on
I'm tethered to the logic of Homo Sapien
Can't take my eyes from the great salvation
Of bullshit faith
If I don't explain what you ought to know
You can tell me all about it
On the next Bardo
I'm sinking in the quicksand of my thought
And I ain't got the power anymore
Don't believe in yourself
Don't deceive with belief
Knowledge comes with death's release
08 Andy Warhol (03:57)
Like to take a cement fix
Be a standing cinema
Dress my friends up just for show
See them as they really are
Put a peephole in my brain
Two new Pence to have a go
Like to be a gallery
Put you all inside my show
Andy Warhol looks a scream
Hang him on my wall
Andy Warhol, Silver Screen
Can't tell them apart at all
Andy walking, Andy tired
Andy take a little snooze
Tie him up when he's fast asleep
Send him on a pleasant cruise
When he wakes up on the sea
Sure to think of me and you
He'll think about paint and he'll think about glue
What a jolly boring thing to do
Andy Warhol looks a scream
Hang him on my wall
Andy Warhol, Silver Screen
Can't tell them apart at all
10 Queen Bitch (03:19)
I'm up on the eleventh floor
And I'm watching the cruisers below
He's down on the street
And he's trying hard to pull sister Flo
Oh, my heart's in the basement
My weekend's at an all time low
'Cause she's hoping to score
So I can't see her letting him go
Walk out of her heart
Walk out of her mind
She's so swishy in her satin and tat
In her frock coat and bipperty-bopperty hat
Oh God, I could do better than that
She's an old-time ambassador
Of sweet talking, night walking games
And she's known in the darkest clubs
For pushing ahead of the dames
If she says she can do it
Then she can do it, she don't make false claims
But she's a Queen, and such are queens
That your laughter is sucked in their brains
Now she's leading him on
And she'll lay him right down
Yes she's leading him on
And she'll lay him right down
But it could have been me
Yes, it could have been me
Why didn't I say, why didn't I say, no, no, no
She's so swishy in her satin and tat
In her frock coat and bipperty-bopperty hat
Oh God, I could do better than that
So I lay down a while
And I gaze at my hotel wall
Oh the cot is so cold
It don't feel like no bed at all
Yeah I lay down a while
And I look at my hotel wall
But he's down on the street
So I throw both his bags down the hall
And I'm phoning a cab
'Cause my stomach feels small
There's a taste in my mouth
And it's no taste at all
It could have been me
Oh yeah, it could have been me
Why didn't I say, Why didn't I say, no, no, no
She's so swishy in her satin and tat
In her frock coat and bipperty-bopperty hat
Oh God, I could do better than that
11 The Bewlay Brothers (05:27)
And so the story goes they wore the clothes
They said the things to make it seem improbable
The whale of a lie like they hope it was
And the Goodmen Tomorrow
Had their feet in the wallow
And their heads of Brawn were nicer shorn
And how they bought their positions with saccharin and trust
And the world was asleep to our latent fuss
Sighing, the swirl through the streets
Like the crust of the sun
The Bewlay Brothers
In our Wings that Bark
Flashing teeth of Brass
Standing tall in the dark
Oh, And we were Gone
Hanging out with your Dwarf Men
We were so turned on
By your lack of conclusions
I was Stone and he was Wax
So he could scream, and still relax, unbelievable
And we frightened the small children away
And our talk was old and dust would flow
Thru our veins and Lo! it was midnight
Back at the kitchen door
Like the grim face on the Cathedral floor
And the solid book we wrote
Cannot be found today
And it was Stalking time for the Moonboys
The Bewlay Brothers
With our backs on the arch
In the Devil-may-be-here
But He can't sing about that
Oh, And we were Gone
Real Cool Traders
We were so Turned On
You thought we were Fakers
Now the dress is hung, the ticket pawned
The Factor Max that proved the fact
Is melted down
And woven on the edging of my pillow
Now my Brother lays upon the Rocks
He could be dead, He could be not
He could be You
He's Chameleon, Comedian, Corinthian and Caricature
Shooting-up Pie-in-the-Sky
The Bewlay Brothers
In the feeble and the Bad
Bewlay Brothers
In the Blessed and Cold
In the Crutch-hungry Dark
Was where we flayed our Mark
Oh, and we were Gone
Kings of Oblivion
We were so Turned On
In the Mind-Warp Pavilion
Lay me place and bake me Pie
I'm starving for me Gravy
Leave my shoes, and door unlocked
I might just slip away, hey
Just for the Day, Hey!
Hey, Please come Away, Hey!
Just for the Day, Hey!
Please come Away, Hey!
Please come Away, Hey!
Just for the Day
Please come Away
Please come Away
Please come Away
Please come Away
Away
(Away)
Away
Hey
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Other reviews
By BrunoDP
Hunky Dory: when lightness reaches the metaphysical.
Absolute masterpiece.
By animasalva
The artist clearly embraces the nascent glam rock... his contribution will be crucial in renewing the genre.
'Life On Mars?' is the most beautiful song ever written by Bowie.
