One glittering facet of David Bowie's genius is that he really doesn't seem to care whether you get where he's coming from or not. It's not ego, at least not entirely (the guy used to perform "Space Oddity" while sitting in a cherry-picker; I think we can agree that ego might have influenced some of his decisions), it's more like a chronic restlessness that's driving him on to the next skewed masterwork before the paint has dried on the last one.
"Low" is the first album in what is generally referred to as the Berlin Trilogy, the three albums that Bowie made in Berlin with Brian Eno between 1977-1979. ("Heroes" and "Lodger" are the other two.) It's also, along with "Ziggy Stardust," the album that shows up on the most Rolling Stone "all-time best" lists, as if the list-makers were hoping that by gesturing to Bowie's North and South Poles they could somehow imply the vast latitudes between.
"Low" certainly looks iconic; the elemental cover shot, an altered still from the film "The Man Who Fell to Earth," places the already extraterrestrial-looking Bowie (who, in profile, looks like he should be on a coin) against a background of reddish clouds with the effect that he seems to be waiting impassively to be carried away by a Martian sandstorm.
("Low" was meant in some way to modify, or enhance, or accompany "The Man Who Fell to Earth," but evaluating how well it does that I'll leave to Bowie's biographers. That there was supposed to be a film, though, reminds us of the rampant ambition in the air during the late 70s, when record executives hurled money at artists in the hopes of bankrolling the next "Frampton Comes Alive," when just making a record wasn't enough and Pete Townshend nearly offed himself when he realized that "Who's Next" was going to come out without an accompanying ice-ballet.)
The sound of "Low" is as elusive as Bowie himself. The album fades-in (midsong, it seems) on the funky "Speed of Life," a lean instrumental with bright guitars, huge drums and a chorus of interwoven keyboards, all bouncing along around one of the catchiest lead-guitar riffs in rock. The guitar sticks around for the strutting "Breaking Glass," competing with Bowie's unmistakable voice as he hollers "You're such a wonderful person / But you got problems / Oh oh oh oh / I'll never touch you." Bowie's voice might add a little humanity to the proceedings the electronic whirl of "What In the World" (featuring, I think, a burbling pinball effect), but he double-tracks and alters and calls and responds and he never sounds like he means it, anyway, so it's mostly up to the rhythm section to provide the song's beating heart.
After these skeletal funk sketches, the amazing Motown of "Sound and Vision" is like Dorothy Gale opening her front door and seeing Oz in Technicolor for the first time. The jangly rhythm guitar and shuffling beat and some downright soulful singing by the Thin White Duke ("I will sit right down / Waiting for the gift of sound and vision / And I will sing / Waiting for the gift of sound and vision") make this deserved classic a highlight in a career of highlights.
After the disco-soul thump of "Be My Wife" (which features some of Bowie's most heartfelt singing and revealing lyrics), "Low" changes gears entirely. Since Brian Eno is involved, it's tempting to call the songs on "Low's" second side "ambient soundscapes." But it's really not fair to give Eno all the credit every time something he's involved with gets a little spacey, and besides, Bowie's enormous energy can be felt even during the long stretches where his voice is completely absent.
The cinematic keyboard washes and chanting of "Warszawa"; the yearning psychedelia of "Art Decade"; the sparkling vibraphones and wiry, warring guitars and keyboards of "Weeping Wall"; these pieces possess a taut, straining vitality that Eno's placid solo albums don't approach. Even when Bowie isn't on the mike, his sound and vision are as distinctive as his voice.
The album closes with the glorious "Subterraneans," a tapestry of shimmering keyboards twined around a bassline more felt than heard, with a heartbreaking saxophone solo by Bowie (which is probably where Trent got the idea), and the zen koan final line "Share bride failing star."
In equal measure dense and slick, distant and warm, tossed-off and timeless, "Low" is a classic of the form. Tread lightly when approaching, genius at work. |