Years had passed since I last listened to it, back in the vinyl days. The CD was still sealed.
David is a genius. And his genius is devoted to music.
David is always different, and in all his variations, he always manages to be great.
So too with this album of his, different from the others and from himself, neither the best nor the worst, it succeeds
in showcasing the greatness of this artist.
His albums always seem like the soundtrack to an imaginary film.
Here we have the brilliant production of friend Tony Visconti.
We have the quirky talent (schizoid, a serious reviewer would say) of Robert Fripp and the more seemingly conventional talent of Carlos Alomar that enriches David's interpretation, if possible.
“Scary Monster,” “Ashes to Ashes,” and “Fashion” are my favorite tracks.
Then “Because you’re Young” and “Kingdom Come” (by Tom Verlaine). Then the rest.
Nothing is discarded here.
“It’s no Game” (Part 1) introduces the album. Notice the guitar at the end of the track.
“Up the Hill Backwards” flows smoothly.
It is followed by the triptych of my favorite tracks.
“Scary Monster” perfect.
“Ashes to Ashes” melancholy, a beautiful interpretation by David.
“Fashion” modern, almost disco in style. Fripp…
Then
“Teenage Wildlife” showcases David's vocal skills. Fripp does the embroidery.
“Scream like a Baby” charming and contains a Zappa-like chorus (?).
“Kingdom Come” another great interpretation by David.
“Because you’re Young” features none other than Pete Townsend on guitar.
“It’s no Game” (Part 2) concludes the album. Once again, Fripp's guitar.
All told, the lyrics, which I have taken a marginal interest in, make it an album that reaches more the head than the heart. Not necessarily a flaw, just a personal perception. Still spinning…
P.S. I realized I wrote about David in the present tense and not in the past.
All in all, it’s fine that way.
It’s the last great album of the duke, aside from sweeping nonsense like teenage wildlife it’s no game parts 3-4-5.
An abyss of madness and abstinence in that final nursery rhyme, with those artificial chromakey lights, and the pitch-black starless beach.