David Bowie
Hunky Dory

THE REVIEW

"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...,.