Michigan Boogie
Concert & Analysis
David Bowie
AT THE MICHIGAN PALACE
Most of us at the SUN had always dismissed David Bowie out of hand. Just lumped him with the other "glitter rockers," having assumed him thoroughly degenerate and mercenary on the basis of his album covers, tidbits of gossip read in the music rags, and little else. We've strived to maintain a particular political/aesthetic bias which determines, among other things, that we present and/or promote, when we can, those artists who, in our opinion, are aware of their immense power as performers and of the responsibility that that power implies, and who, consequently, are of a bent to bring only the purest, most honest, most positive vibrations to people through their music. That's why we've featured artists like Stevie Wonder, John Coltrane, Billie Holiday, Sun Ra, Joan Baez, Charlie Haden, Carla Bley, and others-people who, to a greater or lesser degree, made/make no distinctions between their music, their politics, and their lifestyle, who don't stop being warm as soon as they get from behind their instruments, don't rein up all the strength and knowledge they play with some super hip "attitude" off the bandstand.
It's no secret that there are pitifully few artists o the scene today with a consciousness that high, so the SUN features those who seem at least somewhat together, and does retrospectives on those other musicians whose lives remain an example for those of us scrambling today. None of us figured we'd ever have any use for David Bowie but we welcomes, with perverse anticipation, the sudden opportunity to catch him in concert at the Michigan Palace during his recent week-long, sold-out stand there. We expected this was just the chance we needed to expose him for the rip-off artist we thought he was. We drove to Detroit Thursday evening, October 17, and say down, in our smugness, and watched. Two hour later we left, dazed and confused. There were enough positive elements in Bowie's act to smash our prejudices and to warrant at least a cursory analysis of his whole shtick.
Bowie's whole approach is based on the conviction that Western Civilization is collapsing before our eyes. (Dig "Five Years" on Ziggy Stardust, the title cut from Diamond Dogs, and many others.) This conviction is hardly a revelation. (The Sunday, October 20, New York Times ran a story headlined "32 Nations On Brink Of Starvation.") And rock 'n' roll since its inception has been about the rocker's alienation from the culture that's brought the world to the edge of a new Dark Age. Among dozens and dozens I could list there is "Summertime Blues" by Eddie Cochran, Chuck Berry's "Too Much Monkey Business," "Mother's Little Helper" by the Stones, "Day In The Life" or "Eleanor Rigby" by the Beatles, Hendrix's "Up From the Skies." Our whole generation has grown up feeling that a hard rain's gonna fall.
At the point that an individual artist comes to this realization he/she an do, basically, two things: 1) resist this degeneration and strive to maintain or create a lifestyle based not on every-one-for-oneself capitalist greed but on community control of all the resources and services and planetary cooperation; which was, for example, what the whole San Francisco scene was about in its heyday and what Stevie Wonder, in a milder way, is about today, or 2) dive head first into the mung, live strictly for the moment, "for tomorrow we die," and scavenge as best you can. This form of irresponsibility is typified by groups like Kiss of the N.Y. Dolls. Now I, personally, can't deny the attraction and reasonableness of the latter philosophy at times, and I'd wager that there isn't an artist working of the former persuasion who isn't frequently beset by doubts as to the sanity of his/her actions-"I mean, who's really listening/watching/reading anyway?" or "Violence and aggression are just an irrevocable part of human nature."
But. The SUN speaks to what we hope is an ever-growing alternative culture, people determined not to get buried in Their shit slide, and we, naturally, feel sympathetic to those artists and others who share a similar optimism that something good will remain if we make it so. Now, Bowie seems to vacillate (from "Star")-
Tony went to fight in Belfast
Rudi stayed at home to starve
I could make it all worthwhile as
a rock & roll star
Bevan tried to change the nation
Sonny want to turn the world,
well he can tell you that he tried
I could make a transformation as
a rock & roll star
So inviting--so enticing to play
the part
I could play the wild mutation
as a rock and roll star.
On the one hand he's aware of his potential power as a rocker, on the other hand, aware of stardom's corruptive tendencies (see Ziggy Stardust).
What about his audience? Well, he feels some unity--in "Rock 'n' Roll Suicide" he affirms "you're not alone." But ultimately, Bowie's idea/ideal of a progressive or revolutionary personality is pretty undeveloped--listen to, say, "Rebel, Rebel"--probably because he is basically pessimistic.
As for Bowie's bi-sexual stance, the glitter and rhinestone jockstraps, it's mostly shuch, a rock star's easily-donned, easily discarded persona. He's made no clear public statements about his alleged sexuality and his lyrics deal mostly with heterosexual love, although we are given to ponder the nonchalant unisexuality of "Rebel, Rebel." (The folks in the audience I spoke to before the performance, admittedly a limited number, seemed oblivious to indifferent to antagonistic toward Bowie's sexual vibes. "Bisexual? If he is, I'm not against it." A Young boy, with distaste, "You mean do I want to ball him? Fuck, no!" Anyway, there's nothing in his lyrics as explicitly (and affirmatively) gay as in the Kinks "Lola."
Anyway, since his first glimmer on the scene back in 1968 or so, Bowie's gone through several metamorphoses and when we saw him live last week it appeared that David had jettisoned his glitter. Which isn't to say he didn't exude a polymorphic sexiness. He walked onstage dressed in a suit cut loose and rick, the jacket short like a woman's, dapper. Much of Bowie's manner and appearance were reminiscent of Garbo-the cut of his coat, his facial features stark and so finely carved. One also felt the presence of Presley, Bowie's orange hair swept back, the occasional pelvic thrust. It was entirely appropriate that Bowie posed with Twiggy on the cover of Pin-Ups. There is that unreality, a perfection and coldness about his looks that lends itself to objectification. Bowie is a star, and projects both the remoteness and the light of one. It's pretty apparent that he feels himself as much or more in the tradition of the Broadway stage or silver screen as of Rock 'n' Roll. And even though that theatricality posits a type of calculation and a traditional performer-audience dichotomy that I find unsatisfactory, there's no question but that, in his own way, Bowie loves to rock.
A church organ was playing quietly as a voice offstage announced, "and here he is, the Diamond Dog himself, David Bowie." The full house and 13-piece band and chorus exploded simultaneously as Bowie trotted on and kicked into "Rebel, Rebel." Right there that band and choir began to melt away my antagonism. It was a tremendous, churning rock unit--actually a soul band configuration--pounding percussionist, a mindrending feedback guitarist, a hip-shaking choir. You gotta give Bowie credit just for the ears and taste necessary to assemble such a group.
There were lots of nice touches throughout the show--Bowie blowing harmonica, quoting "Love Me Do" before crashing into "Jean Genie"; the stinky groove the band got into on a new tune called "The Young Americans"; Bowie coming back for his encore and, incredibly, grinding out Eddie Floyd's classic "Knock On Wood." There were, of course, low moments (we wouldn't know the highs without them). About the middle of the show he strung two lame ballads together and momentum was lost. But, the relative lowness that introduced "Rock 'N' Roll With Me" was sort of intriguing. Bowie sat on the stage, legs crossed, cigarette dangling, talking very low-key and night-clubby, the perfect image of...the young Maurice Chevalier!
We left with mixed feelings and a week later I'm feeling less mixed. Bowie in Detroit gave us high-energy, big production rock from a star no more, but no less, responsible than 90% of his contemporaries. While this isn't an endorsement, it isn't a condemnation. I'm glad I went. It was a good "show" and nothing more.
-Bill Adler