For a lot of kids, David Bowie is a guy that's never been even remotely cool, let alone taken seriously. Yep, they remember him for what he's contributed to society in their lifetimes-- Tin Machine, Black Tie, White Noise, the "Cool World" soundtrack, Outside, Earthling, and now Hours. Who'd guess that a discography that unlistenable would belong to the richest man in rock music?
At this point, David Bowie has done more harm than good to his fans' cochleas. His last few albums have failed in almost every aspect, but not for a lack of trying. Outside, his 1995 "comeback," was a concept album about a futuristic murder case that featured an endless stream of clichés and banal S&M; imagery in lieu of lyrics. His 1997 follow-up, Earthling, attempted mock drum-n-bass, some shoddy reggae- tinged numbers, and a universally- panned tour with Trent Reznor.
Hours, of course, completes Bowie's late 90's trilogy in his usual fashion-- he's altered his sound to fit his perception of current musical trends. And as always, he's closer to getting it right than you might expect, but still way off the mark. Here, Bowie seems content to cut his losses with today's youth and reach for the older set. Hours opts for a spacy, but nonetheless adult- contemporary sound that comes across with all the vitality and energy of a rotting log.
For the better part of an hour, Bowie drifts through some the most sterile and unimaginative songs since Sting released Mercury Falling. On "Thursday's Child," Bowie acknowledges his issues with growing old, and possibly, his dwindling fanbase. "Throw me tomorrow," he sings. "Not that I've really got a chance." At least he can admit it. But just six songs later, Bowie regresses into "The Pretty Things are Going to Hell," an homage to his classic 1971 song "Oh! You Pretty Things" and Iggy and the Stooges' "Hard to Beat (Your Pretty Face is Going to Hell)" off Raw Power. As expected, it's not something you wanna find yourself listening to.
No, it's not a new low, but that doesn't mean it's not embarrassing. David Bowie is my dad's age, whether he likes it or not, and he needs to exercise some self-restraint-- you know, like taking a deep breath when he gets the urge to pen a sequel to one of his old hits. Or counting to ten when he feels the need to put a flanger effect on the guitar track. Or returning to an old drug habit when he becomes inspired to record another album...
