David Bowie - Reality
(Columbia)
The Chameleon is one of those old school performers who, like The Stones, Dylan, etc. have been doing this for nearly 40 years and still refuse to get off the stage and let the kids have at it. In an attempt to revitalize a stagnant career that has failed to release anything of import in over 20 years (since Scary Monsters), Bowie reunited with Tony Visconti, knob twiddler behind some of his greatest triumphs, for last year's Columbia debut, Heathen. Having failed to raise any eyebrows, the two are back to try again on Bowie's 22nd (I think) studio release. The results are as underwhelming as expected.
Opener "New Killer Star" shamelessly steals the riff from the old Peggy March classic "I Will Follow Him" and then proceeds to run it into the ground under a barrage of annoying backing vocals. And speaking of stale ripoffs, what the hell was Bowie thinking in attempting to cover Jonathan Richman's "Pablo Picasso?" He knows damn well that John Cale has already done the definitive cover, making this version nothing more than filler, not to mention unintelligible, totally losing the tongue-in-cheek humor of the piece and coming off as flat as week-old soda pop.
Bowie mumbles and screams through "Never Get Old," which might have been enjoyable if he'd sung the ironic lyric with his tongue in his cheek and a knowing wink in his eye. Instead, he sounds way too serious and pathetically sincere. Face it, Dave. In spite of the ridiculous cartoon drawing on the cover, you're old! "The Loneliest Guy" is a pretentiously boring snoozer, wherein Bowie sounds like a cross between Anthony Newley on 'ludes and the Cowardly Lion with a mouthful of marbles. And having the balls to write a song called "Bring Me the Disco King" and then sing and arrange it like something off Joe Jackson's Cole Porter tribute Night and Day (or as an outtake from Elvis Costello's never-ending tribute to Burt Bacharach) is just sad.
Only "Looking For Water," "She'll Drive the Big Car," and the obvious choice for lead-off single, the immensely bouncy toe-tapper "Days" recall the vibrant energy from such seminal Bowie/Visconti recordings as Diamond Dogs, Young Americans and The Lodger. Otherwise, Reality only goes to prove once and for all the common advice applicable to hockey players, porno stars and musicians: they should all retire at 40. Unfortunately, no one makes Viagra for lounge singers.
I think it's time for these arrogant wash-ups who've long passed their sell-by dates to listen to the playback in the studio and face Reality (funny title, that, as this album is anything but). Perhaps they should also take a tip from their counterparts in the porno industry, where old schoolers like Paul Thomas long ago realised that it was time to get out from in front of the camera and pass the baton (as it were) to the up-and-coming (as it were) new generation of young 'uns. Perhaps Bowie has a future in the studio mentoring some new projects and taking the production reins to guide them in the early stages of their careers. I just can't take any more of these embarrassing disasters that threaten to wash the memory of his early genius out of our minds forever. Please STOP STOP STOP!!!
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