Voto:
Letâs consider that it was, alongside "Pin Ups," an experiment, or rather (given the character) a divertissement that preceded an artistic resurrection after the âdeathâ of Ziggy; a so-called "transitional album," much like "Black Tie White Noise" at the beginning of the '90s. With one fundamental difference: the light-heartedness of the latter reflected a newfound existential and creative serenity; in contrast, the atmospheres of the former can be seen as a mask, a reaction, if not even a transliteration into music of a profound disorientation. An album that can indeed be reassessed and defended, but in light of the benevolence that less successful albums of an artist enjoy when, after years, they appear as the necessary transition towards a more radiant creative season, rather than the antechamber of a downward trajectory, an irreversible artistic crisis. In fact, Young Americans falls into the latter category: it is true that it was the precursor - along with Station To Station - of the glorious Berlin period; but it was simultaneously, if not especially, the end of the artistic arc of what had been David's most famous incarnation: Ziggy Stardust. I mentioned divertissement earlier, but perhaps it would have been more appropriate to speak of a âbitter laughter.â David was gazing at himself, and what he saw reflected was precisely the cracker actor from one of his famous songs. David had failed to kill Ziggy; he had not reclaimed his own identity. Instead, it was the Starman, now devoid of any poetry, who had taken over the stage, and he was completing his own degeneration; while David was withdrawing into himself, lost in a cocaine dependency that now seemed irreversible. âYoung Americans,â seemingly so easy, so light, is in fact the photograph... the authorial shot of a drama. It was the naive fruit of an impulse, of an irrepressible need to continue his arc, whatever it was; the attempt to create yet another work of art, at any cost, elevating a terribly empty message in an apparent formal perfection. In what other way can we interpret the expression âplastic-soul,â with which David defined the sound of the album? an oxymoron, a contradiction in terms. An operation that, to the eyes (and ears) of those who â within the threads of this colossal pantomime - have the task of listening, may appear, depending on the level of devotion granted to the protagonist, as a visceral and sincere act, perhaps the ultimate embodiment by their idol; or, as yet another damned whim of a star who, by now, seemed incapable of living anything outside the spotlight, not even his own personal downfall, his irreversible self-destruction. While deeply loving his music, it is inevitable to lean towards the second hypothesis. Because this was Bowie in 1975: the confused and hallucinatory compiler of fake, useless, and irritating music, obtusely pretentious in its artistic flair of narrating nothingness. Fortunately for him, he came out of it. This album is usually remembered as it coincided with Bowieâs definitive consecration in the States. But if we wanted to indulge Bowie, and share with him his âmental stateâ (ciao Mr. Iko!), we could view this album as the final chapter of a saga, begun with âHunky Doryâ and a young, cocky Bowie at Warholâs court. We would interpret it as the last, dramatic act of Ziggy. The Starman died, and he didnât do so in glory, to make way for the new, definitive and cold artistic incarnation of David: the Duke.
