Here are we, one magical moment, such is the stuff from where dreams are woven.

I'm in church, for God's sake. Of all the places in all the world and in all the times, this is where I find myself? But my dismay soon gives way to curiosity and amusement, for this isn't just any church that I'm in. It's a peculiar kind of church indeed. For starters, it's massive. From where I've been dropped, I can see the cathedral doors that beckon me toward them like a light in a dark tunnel. But when I look inward to the room, the opposite wall appears to be so far into the distance that I can't see them, not even if I squint. The church's innards seem to stretch out across a vast expanse of geographical space with no discernible boundaries.

This is the thing that calls me to go deeper inside. The pews are empty but for a few people who've straggled in ahead of or behind schedule. I walk around the carpeted perimeter, looking up to admire the great, vibrantly coloured stained glass windows. Each window depicts a different station of the cross. A twisted tale of torture, betrayal, love, and death treated with vivid hues and rich dark lines becomes a work of art.

Here are we, one magical movement from Kether to Malkuth. There are you, drive like a demon from station to station.

I follow the story without breaking my gaze and find myself on the other side of the room - now I can no longer see the doors. I'm filled with a slight sense of panic. Flashes of fear, of love, of hatred, of devotion, of indifference are bursting in my brain, but it doesn't feel like they're coming from inside me. It feels like they're being zapped into me from some external, invisible source.

I turn to make my way back in the same direction I came, but something about this place compels me to stay and explore.  Suddenly I'm aware of voices. The sound isn't traveling over my eardrums from outside me, but seems to be occurring inside my brain as if other people could wander in and out of my mind freely. Rather than succumb to the panic I feel rising in my chest, I stop and listen.

The voice is a man's, much older than myself. His inner monologue is telling me he's grateful for the wife standing at his side. I glance around the room and find an elderly man and woman, standing at the pulpit with the priest attending them and their family and friends watching behind them. They're renewing their vows after 50 years of marriage.  I smile at the sweetness of it. 

I'll stick with you baby, for a thousand years. Nothings gonna touch you in these golden years.

(Amusingly bad lip sync attempt, but it's better than a still shot!)

Then the man's voice erupts within my brain again. He's sorry for his unfaithfulness. But the sentiment isn't directed at the beautiful white-haired woman by his side. He's thinking of someone else, from another land.  And his children.  All so far away. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

He moved away to make better money than he could make back home. He sent some money back to his pretty bride and their brood of pretty children, and used the rest to make a habitable place for them all. Someday they would come. Someday he'd save them from that wretched place. Someday he'd be with them again. Someday... but instead, he met the woman by his side.

He bears her no ill will. He was gone so far, and so long, and he has needs; she takes care of them. Gradually his old life fell away and he found himself trapped in a world from which he cannot escape. And oh, how he hates her oatmeal raisin cookies.

The man's thoughts fade out of my brain and I begin to feel that I should leave. Hurriedly this time, I walk back in the direction from whence I came, only to find that the interior of the building has changed. Unsure of which way to go, I run down the nearest aisle only to find that I'm crashing what turns out to be a funeral service. The weeping sobs of a man as he mourns the loss of someone dear to him overtake my brain. Utterly alone, the man prays hard and pleads with God to resurrect his beloved, or else reveal His master plan for him. 

Oh Lord, I kneel and offer you my word on a wing. I'm trying hard to fit among your scheme of things.

His pain is too much for me to bear. I dash away down another aisle and run for what seems like several minutes, only to find that I'm no nearer to an exit. Looking around me I see that I'm now in the midst of a sermon about the myriad vices that this physical world has laid out to ensnare and entrap us weak-willed beings. Alcohol. Drugs. Sex. Television? Television was the worst of the lot. It could suck you right in... no! Convince you to willingly crawl right into it, powering itself off the energy of your soul.

I brought my baby home, she... she sat around forlorn. She saw my TVC one five, my baby's gone, she...She crawled right in, my my... She crawled right in my... So hologramic, oh my TVC one five. Oh, so demonic, oh my TVC one five.

The evangelistic bawling competes with the thoughts of an increasing number of parishioners as they simultaneously lament, rejoice, weep, pray, and exalt within the walls of my cranium.

Holding my head in my hands, I stumble around aimlessly trying to move far enough away from the continuously morphing congregation to dull their voices in my head. As I stumble blindly away, I find that the roar of voices is fading... fading... fading...

Sweet silence. I take my hands from my eyes and open them to find I'm in a temple full of people practicing Islam. I'm happy for the peace and quiet so I stay a moment and watch as they rhythmically kneel and bend, kneel and bend, kneel and bend their way through their prayer.  Turning around to look behind me, I can barely make out a Catholic congregation in the distance as they kneel and stand, kneel and stand, kneel and stand through their own devotional.

It's clear that these two forms of faith coexist within the confines of this building without an awareness that they are under the same roof. It occurs to me that this vast room must be large enough to contain congregations of all kinds from every culture, from every corner of the globe. I wonder what would happen if they knew they were all here together, for the same purpose?

Knowing what I know about the world, I decide that I don't want to find out. I watch the news. (Yeah that's right, on TV. Put that in your crack pipe and fuck it.)

Careful to not disturb the prayer, I tiptoe quietly past, hoping that some kind of exit will find me. Instead, find myself wandering into another congregation. Here I find out that not everyone in this strange place is focused on their prayers or devotions. I hear the voice of a woman lamenting through the tissues of my brain. She's thinking about the object of her affection with a deep sense of regret. Why didn't she ask him to stay?  Why can't she just tell him how she feels? If only she could read his mind. If only, indeed!

Stay... that's what I meant to say or do something. But I can never say stay this time. I really meant to so bad this time. 'Cos you can never really tell when somebody wants something you want, too.

I chuckle at her wish for telepathy, in light of my own newly developed ability. She's right... It sure would solve a lot of problems if we could all hear each other's thoughts, know each other's true intentions.

Realizing that I may never find my way out of this place, the urgency to leave subsides into a kind of acceptance. I continue along the aisle I'm on, and close my eyes to listen to the voices as they fade in and out of my head. Suddenly I feel the warmth of the sun on my face, and a soft breeze in my hair. I hear the gentle rustling of leaves in the trees, and the delightful melody of birds. The ground feels cushiony, like earth and grass, under my feet, and I smell the sweet scent of lilacs and fresh air. I've made it out!

I open my eyes and see what my other senses perceived, but I can also see that this beautiful place seems to be contained within the same building. For though the ceiling and walls have vanished, revealing a pure blue sky and meadows stretching for eons in all directions, I can still make out the faint images of the congregations I've encountered previously. The meadow is dotted with people in meditative poses, still and serene, bathed in a sunlit glow.

Then, a new solitary voice softly whispers in my mind. A girl is having difficulty focusing on her meditation. All she can think about is her beloved and the force with which she loves him.

Like the leaf clings to the tree. Oh my darling, cling to me. For my love is like the wind. And wild is the wind.

I could stay in this beautiful, peaceful place for an eternity, become one with everything here. But in the back of my mind I'd always be afraid that the congregations in the distant reaches of this bizarre edifice might find out about one another and start some kind of war.  Not that it's any safer outside the confines of this place...

I blink and notice shards of light breaking through a shadow cast by an enormous oak tree. Is that...  a way out? I hurtle toward it and push the heavy wood and brass door with all my strength and slip through the crack. 

I'm in the gift shop. Of course. I can see the exit on the other side of the cash counter, but a turnstyle blocks the way. So this is how it is. I'll have to buy something to unlock the turnstyle. Dangling around the me are various amulets on chains representing any and all of the faiths I've encountered on my journey. So someone here is aware that they all co-exist here after all. 

I peruse beautifully photographed postcards that detail the interior in it's various forms. Oddly, I can't find one that depicts the exterior of the building. I select a postcard of the Buddhist meadow and deposit my coin into the turnstyle slot. 

I barely approach the door before I find myself transported outside, back in the dull, grey city, sky overcast, wind downright cold. The door shuts loudly behind me but when I turn to look, there is no building - no church, no temple, no synagogue, no meadow. Just a Starbucks. Grossest coffee in the world. But I could sure use a jolt of caffeine. God help me.

*****

This was a difficult story to tell. I LOVE Station to Station -- presently, it's vying for the title of my favourite Bowie album so far, very close to dethroning Hunky Dory. And yet it takes me to a place that makes me somewhat uncomfortable. I know they say "never talk religion or politics in pleasant company", but since this is where this album has taken me, it's where I have to go, I'm afraid.

My feelings about religious faith and spirituality are difficult and convoluted. In a way, Bowie's stage persona of the Thin White Duke that went along with this time period sort of embodies these feelings. Here's a guy who seems to be searching for Love with a capital L, but only because he doesn't seem to know what it feels like, and isn't sure if he'd even know it if it jumped up and bit him on his skinny arse. (If I've learned anything from 80's rock music is that Love Bites, so that saying is totally appropriate here.) When he's fairly certain he's acquired Love in some form, he accepts it more with resignation than joy -- because he probably can't feel that either. That might actually make him a psychopath, or at the very least a sociopath.

And I think that pretty accurately describes my relationship to spirituality. My current thinking is sort of "ah, fuck it", but there was a time when I wanted to feel something, maybe not so much because I believed, but because I wanted to know what it felt like to believe. And maybe so that I could relate to the people in my life who did believe, and who did feel something, and seemed to really get something meaningful from their faith. I've since learned that it's a waste of time and energy to force it, and my views have changed anyway.

I'm aware that some (if not all?) of the songs on Station to Station were written for the soundtrack to the 1976 film The Man Who Fell To Earth -- in which David Bowie also starred -- but were then not used. The album's thematic focus on the emotion of love, both romantic and spiritual, overlaid with a contrasting theme of emotional detachment and indifference would have suited the film, and Bowie's character, Thomas Jerome Newton, well.

You can read my thoughts on The Man Who Fell To Earth here.

Fascination, sho' nuff, takes a part of me.

I buy a ticket for the plastic soul train and board it with anticipation, excitement, and a little apprehension. 

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I have no idea where this train will take me, but I love a good mystery tour - the journey is the majority of the fun. So I take my seat and look around... I'm the only one on board. No matter. The doors close and I gaze out the window, watching the world slip behind me as I set off on my way...

...I wake up foggily, feeling as if I've lost time. Only a moment ago I was setting off on this journey, and suddenly everything has stopped. Was there some kind of accident? The sun is blaring through the window across the aisle of the train. I feel sore, stiff, and terribly heavy as I try to get out of my seat, and then I realize that the train car is no longer upright. The window next to me has become the floor, the window across from me a sun roof.

Orientation finds me and I'm able to climb out of my seat, up to the emergency exit. I push it open and pull myself through. Carefully, I slide down the side of the train car to the sandy ground. As I move away from the train, my eyes adjust to the sunlight and I see that I am on a desert island surrounded by a vast blue ocean, with coconut palm trees at the centre of the island.

I wonder how on earth a train could travel to an island when there is clearly no bridge to connect it to the mainland. Then it occurs to me that a soul train doesn't travel the same way as a regular rail train. Wonderment soon gives way to despair, as I realize I am stranded.

The sand zips noisily like a pair of corduroy trousers as I make my way to the island's core in search of shade. As I approach a huddle of palm trees,  I notice something bizarre --even more bizarre than riding a soul train to a desert island and getting derailed there. A record player sits upon the sand in the breezy shade, amusingly plugged into the nearest palm tree for power, with a single record ready and waiting for me on the turntable.

I lift the needle and the record begins to spin. Placing the needle at the edge, I sit down under the palm tree and gaze out to sea, listening as the music begins to play. Ain't there one damn song that can make me break down and cry?

The thing about getting on the soul train to begin with was that I knew it was going someplace different, someplace exotic, someplace foreign to me. I love new places and new experiences. But sometimes it can also be scary, when you don't know the language and you are unable to relate to the locals. As the record continues to play, I find myself falling in and out of daydreams. Can a heartbeat live in a fever?

The brief silence between each song brings me back to reality. I'm still stuck on this island. Night will eventually fall. I should really get around to building myself a shelter, getting a fire going, finding some food. And then the music pulls me back into another daydream. He's got his eye on your soul, his hand on your heart.

It's getting dark. A chill has found its way into the gentle breezes that caress me from my lazy, sandy couch. Suddenly, through spontaneous combustion, a small fire begins to burn,  warming my goosefleshed arms. A coconut drops from a nearby tree and splits open perfectly into two cups, the milk gleaming deliciously in the firelight. I reach over and take the gift in my hands and drink the sweet milk hungrily. I am being taken care of here... the universe has provided. Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my opened mind, possessing and caressing me.

As the fiery orange sun sets below the expanse of ocean in front of me, the wreckage of the derailed soul train becomes silhouetted in the distance. Instead of feeling sleepy, I begin to feel energized. Getting up off my sandy bed, the need to dance consumes me. It's a Me Party, and I'm the guest of honour. It's not your brain, it's just the flame.

Sunset has given way to blackest night. All I can see is lit by the fire that burns for me only. The Me Party is over and loneliness begins to set in. I begin to wonder what will happen when the album is over. Am I destined to live out the rest of my existence flipping this record over and over and over, slipping in and out of pleasant comas? Does anyone know I'm gone? Is this my new life? Is this who I am now, and until the end of my days? Now can I be real?

The record stops turning and the needle moves back to its cradle. The fire goes out, the wind begins to howl and blow fiercely. Things suddenly seem to be moving in reverse - the sun rises in the west over the ocean, and I'm being sucked against my will back to the soul train, through the emergency exit window, back to my seat. Suddenly the train rights itself and charges backward through space and time in super fast reverse, until I'm back on the platform where I started.

The thing about the soul train is that it'll take you home, but you're never the same.

*****

Young Americans is really still revealing itself to me. At this time, I'm not sure I fully appreciate it for what it is. Rather than compelling me to get out my light sabre microphone and sing along, it seems to put me into a daydreamy kind of state. Daydreaming is fun and I will never fight the opportunity to fall in, but in that state, I end up not entirely listening to the music, which is supposed to be the goal. 

I considered giving myself more time with it to see if it would take me someplace more vivid than the daydreamy exotic island I keep finding myself on, but in the end decided that this is where it took me, and that's okay. I expect that as I continue to listen to it, my perceptions will change - and that's part of what this project is all about.

Rebel rebel, you've torn your dress.

I've become untethered in time. What is time anyway, but something constructed by humans to measure our collective existence? Whether or not I call this moment the past, which it will be (is now), the present, which it is (just was), or the future which it was (still is), I'm just here (was, is, will be).

That's sort of how I feel about dystopian future stories that were written before I was born (1984, A Clockwork Orange, Brave New World, The Chrysalids...). Reading them has always been a surreal, otherworldly experience in which I feel like I'm observing something in a future that has already happened.

Largely inspired by George Orwell's 1984, with hints of other dystopian future stories woven throughout, Diamond Dogs gives me this same feeling, catapulting me into a timeless timeline in which I float freely between past, present, and future, all where history is made-up and the truth exists only in the little acts of defiance about which only you know.

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This timeless place is described in the album's opening track, Future Legend. The year is 1984. I'm only 9 years old, so I have to be careful out there in the Hunger City. My youthful innocence is enmeshed with a sort of memory of the future already lived. I learned about it in my History lessons at school. I make sense of it as best I can. 

 In today's History lesson, teacher told us that the government is listening to our calls, reading our emails, and tracking our Internet searches. It was foretold to us, but we kept calm and carried on, and look where that's gotten us. If you listen closely to the music on the radio, you can hear the blip-blip-blip of those watching over us as they record our conversations. The music becomes dotty and obscured in places where they listen in.

As families of the party we have to be careful. But teacher told us that the proles/peoploids are free, because they don't care. People like that real cool cat, Hallowe'en Jack. He stole a gold-plated granny-brooch off my jacket. It made me want to be like him.

Oh, the dirty, sordid future-past, where prostitution reigns as the best living you can score as a free person, and the price is only your hope, your soul, your heart. But you wouldn't have it any other way, would you? If you want it, boys, get it here, thing. 'Cuz hope, boys, is a cheap thing.

It's weird that as a 9 year old girl, I know about such things. I don't know them from personal experience, God no! I know them because they're in my memory, planted there from my travels through the thing we made up called Time. My family thinks I'm blissfully unaware of the crumbling society around me. They support the status quo, do what they have to do to survive and protect me.

I sit atop the staircase to the basement at my grandmother's house and watch as my uncle's cover band, The Suspects, rehearses songs for their next show. My uncle is the drummer and the singer, which is apparently really hard to do. To my 9 year old self, he's a rock 'n' roll idol and my favourite babysitter. The band doesn't always let me watch them rehearse - children cramp their style. But today they relent to my pleas. I'm a good audience - I sing along and clap after every song. Especially this one. You've got your transmission and a livewire!

Watching the Suspects rehearse fills my head with dreams. I go to school, but instead of paying attention to my lessons, I doodle pictures of rock stars. I start my own airband with kids from the neighbourhood. We rehearse in the basement, too. I'm the singer. My band members all play air instruments, but I don't lip sync. I break all the airband rules. When you rock and roll with me, there's no one else I'd rather be.

There is a conversation happening upstairs. My grandmother and grandfather are talking about things that children shouldn't hear. I don't understand, but 30 years later, my nightmares make sense of it for me. We are the dead. What did they mean? Who are the thought police, Grandpa? What are fuck-me pumps, Grandma? I never got to ask. I never saw them again. I went upstairs, and the window was open, and they were gone. 

When it turned 1984, I watched the ball drop in Times Square on TV, like you, like everyone, like every year. It was the first time I was ever allowed to ring in the new year. I was in a strange place though. Not my grandparents' house, where I lived. Somewhere else, where the kids were allowed to eat cereal that I wasn't allowed to have. Sugar cereal. Such an important night, and that's what I remember. Dick Clark and Cap'n Crunch. It scraped the roof of my mouth raw and I liked it. Beware the savage jaw of 1984.

I never did care much for Big Brother. The way people talk about him, you'd think he was God or something. I never did care much for Him either. The only difference between them is that God's a fictional character, but Big Brother is real. 

As I type this, Big Brother is watching my 9 year old self, noting her rebellious tendencies -- her penchant for not doing her homework, the improper way she wears her school uniform (shirt untucked, socks rolled down), the earrings she stole from the shop. She's just a child, but one day, she'll become vanishable. She'll write her thoughts and memories for others to read and... whose footsteps are those in the corridor?

*****

Sorry if the above is a bit fleeting and disjointed, but memories, and free movement through Time are like that. You sort of never know what's going to pop up. I like things that way. I like life "on shuffle" in some ways. But my habit of putting several Bowie albums on shuffle didn't exactly work for Diamond Dogs. In a way, this album dates itself in terms of its composition; there was a time, before music went digital, when shuffle didn't exist, and albums were meant to be listened to as a whole. I mean, I guess you could sit next to the turntable and move the needle around if you wanted, but why would you?

Diamond Dog's songs are woven together, bleed into one another, are part of each other. As a result, this album needs to be listened to as a whole to be fully appreciated. I hope I haven't done it a disservice by breaking it up into pieces above to tell the story of where it took me.  So without further adieu, here it is in it's full glory.

*****

Post Script: The above story is obviously fiction, but it's based on some true things. Like living at my grandparent's house as a child in the early to mid 80's and watching my uncle's band rehearse covers of awesome rock songs in the basement. During my first listen to Diamond Dogs, I just about jumped out of my seat on the bus when Rebel Rebel came on because I suddenly remembered that it was one of the songs my uncle's band used to play, and I remember watching them rehearse it. Needless to say was a rather joyous recollection. I just need you to know that really happened, and that it's one of my all-time favourite childhood music-related memories. 

There is no other day, let's try it another way.

Well hello there! How is everyone doing tonight? Are you ready to rock? I said, are you ready to ROCK?! Then you came to the right place. Welcome to an evening filled with glammed up, far out cover tunes!

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Pin Ups is David Bowie's collection of '60s covers. I have rather enjoyed Bowie's cover of the Stones' Let's Spend the Night Together -- of course I'd heard the original many times before, so that provided me with prior knowledge of the song.  This bestowed a bit of a quandary upon me. The line-up on this album caused me to feel a pang of reservation, mostly because only two of the covers were songs I already knew.

I began to wonder what the best way to tackle this album would be. Should I go in blindly, and just enjoy the songs for what they are, without trying to compare them to the originals, since I mostly don't know them anyway? Or should I listen to the original versions first, to give me some kind of basic foundation?

I decided the best thing to do would be to just jump in and see where the album took me. And if I felt the need to find out what the originals sound like, then I could do that whenever I felt like it. So that's what I did. So where did it take me? Well, I'm getting to that... just bear with me.

Recently I discovered that people listen to music differently. Over brunch and drinks, a friend and fellow Bowie fan who has been reading this blog told me that apparently what he gets from music is totally different from what I get from it. He listens and enjoys music for the composition, the instrumentation, the complexity, originality, what a musician can do with their instrument, what a singer can do with their voice. Don't get me wrong, I like those things too! But I don't listen with a critical ear. For me, listening to music is an immersive, sensory, meaningful experience. I see pictures and watch stories unfold, I feel pangs of pain, I get bursts of euphoria. And with that comes the desire... nay, the need to sing.

So it makes me wonder why Bowie chose these particular songs to cover on this album. Was it strictly something about their composition? Or do they mean something to him? Or is it as simple as they're just super fun to sing? I can relate to that. They are. Like most of the albums I've listened to so far in course of this project, I can't stop singing the songs on Pin Ups.

Here's a little glimpse into my world: As I mentioned, I love to sing. Singing's my favourite.  I give living room concerts to my boyfriend and a feline audience of two almost daily. Oh, and the neighbours, whether they like it or not. This is my living room concert microphone.

Yeah, it's a random plastic wand thing. Yes, I'm 38 years old. I'm not even sure how it ended up in my possession. One day I reached out my hand for something to use as a microphone, and there it was. When I press the button, it lights up. It has three speeds: slow flash, flash, and superfast flash. It also fills the role of guitar and saxophone, when appropriate. It makes me feel like a rock star.

Pin Ups on the whole is fun to sing from start to finish. Having said that, my living room concert usually goes something like this...

Here Comes the Night. It contains the best way to start a song ever: the yowl-cry. I can't reproduce it to my satisfaction (yet... I'm working on it...) but goddamn, that's some good catharsis right there. The whole bawling chorus feels like my soul is taking a shower in a thunderstorm. Brilliant. Microphone: set to flash. Ahhhhhhhhhhhh! Here it comes...

Here Comes the Night (Them Cover)

For comparison's sake, here is the original by Them. Before this, I had never heard of Them. Turns out Van Morrison was the lead singer. That's awesome. I like Van Morrison lots and lots. Now I feel like adding a bunch of Van Morrison/Them to my iTunes.

Next, with the first few bars of See Emily Play, I set my microphone to superfast flash, and launch into my best and most exaggerated British accent (which is hilarious, I'm sure - but it's the only way I can get this one out, apparently). Frrreeeeeee gahhhhymes fo' Maaaaaahhhhhhy, seeeeeeeeee Emily plaaaaaahhhhhhhy!

See Emily Play (Pink Floyd Cover)

Admittedly, I'm rather ignorant when it comes to Pink Floyd. I am familiar with a couple of songs off The Wall. Shameful? Maybe. This was my introduction to this particular song, so I gave the original a listen, and lo and behold, I rather enjoy it! I'm not even sure which version I like better, they both have their own special charms. I'm glad to have expanded my Pink Floyd knowledge, if even just a little bit.

And then... Ohhhh, little baby! You know I feel so good! Like seriously, this is the part of the living room concert where the imaginary fans have their arms outstretched in my direction, and I'm sprinting back and forth across the front of the stage, grabbing hands along the way. I stop and throw a few moves down in between hand-grabs, of course. Because how can you not indulge in a little pelvic swing action when this song is playing?

  Everything's Alright (The Mojos Cover)

The original didn't make me want to run out and listen to a bunch of The Mojos, I have to say. I mean, it's fine. But it's nowhere near as fun as Bowie's. Just saying. I couldn't blow the roof off my imaginary concert hall with that one.

And this is where I just about lose my mind. I got a feeling inside... it's a certain kind. If there is a song that kind of makes me... become someone else? It's this cover of I Can't Explain. If it's possible for meek little me to suddenly transform into someone not unlike Dr. Frank'N'furter, then that's pretty much what happens. If it's not, then I guess this song just... makes me horny in, like, a really weird way. Microphone set to slow flash... and handled rather suggestively during the performance.

I Can't Explain (The Who Cover)

Theoriginal was already one of my all-time favourite songs, so I was very curious to see what this was going to sound like. And I was not disappointed. Way to glam it up, Bowie. Emphatic slow clap while I lick my teeth and cross my legs in the other direction.

Um, yeah, is it warm in here? After that performance I need to chill out. The slow flash continues and the cooldown begins with Sorrow.

 
Sorrow (The Mersey's Cover)

Epic living room concert moment: I tried to find her 'cuz I can't resist her, I never knew just how much I missed her. There's just something about that bit that makes me go oooof! inside. You know that feeling. Oooof. Right there, in the stomach. The Merseys' version holds up rather well against Bowie's. They're both great.

Flash speed increases on the microphone for Shapes of Things. Off this album, this song gives I Can't Explain a run for its money where favourites are concerned. It's just so awesome. And I'm so thankful to Bowie for making me aware that this song exists, because The Yardbirds' version is also awesome.

 
Shapes of Things (The Yardbirds Cover)

Come tomorrow, will I be bolder than today? That's a line I take to heart. It's like, by asking the question, I'm opening up the possibility that one day I'll be able to overcome my ridiculous self-doubt and actually put something new out into the world.

Until then, I'll have to be content with expressing my boldness within the confines of my living room concert venue. I can go anyway, way I choose!

 
Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere (The Who Cover)

Once again, the original proves itself to be just as brilliant as the cover. Apparently, I love The Who. I think I always thought I liked them, but now I definitely know I love them. I may very well undertake a The Who Project when The Bowie Project is over. In fact, I think that's a very, very good idea!

Superfast flash, and the rockin' good times continue with Where Have All The Good Times Gone.

Where Have All The Good Times Gone (The Kinks Cover)

I like how Bowie changed the lyric in the first verse from never tried to sing to never tried to see. Because you know what? I know that feel. Sometimes, no matter how great a song is, a lyric just feels wrong. Sometimes you have to change it up a little to make it yours -- to make it true. Check out the Kinks'version here.

Finally, speaking of truth, my concert set list ends with a bit of The Boss. Apparently Growin' Up is a bonus track that wasn't included on the original release of Pin Ups. I think that's too bad, because it's a really nice way to end the album. Listening to this song, I definitely get the sense that this was chosen for a reason beyond Bowie simply liking it lots and lots. The lyrics support my theory:

I took month-long vacations in the stratosphere

and you know it's really hard to hold your breath
I swear I lost everything I ever loved or feared

I was the cosmic kid in full costume dress

Growin' Up (Bruce Springsteen Cover)

Um, yeah man, you were, like literally, that.

Sometimes you listen to a song and it's like it was written for you. And so it becomes yours. Pretty sure we've all experienced that. Even if you're the kind of person who is mainly impressed by how a song is performed in the key of whatever and was recorded with 1000 guitar solos layered on top of one another, and in order to play it live all the band members have to play 84-string guitars and wear tinfoil suits to get the right kind of sound bouncing off, I defy you to not  have "a song". That one song, conceived by someone else, that tells your story and makes you go ooooof in your stomach.

My story is told by hundreds of songs by hundreds of different artists. And while I don't pretend to know what goes on in David Bowie's mind, I am enamoured with the idea that Pin Ups is something not unlike that - a selection of songs that are fun to sing... but also tell some kind of truth.

And with that, my concert is over. I blow kisses to an imaginary crowd. My voice is raw. The battery in my microphone is dying and the flashes are growing faint. I've got to conserve some of its power for tomorrow night's show. It's been a blast. Thank you, and good night.

*****

So of course I was wondering, if I were to record an album of covers, what would be on it? It would be a collection of songs that are fun to sing, but that mean something to me, and tell my story. Pin Ups has 14 tunes on it (12 on the original release, plus 2 bonus tracks). Restricting myself to 14 songs, here is my very own Pin Ups! This was challenging, I have to say... somehow, the Smiths, the Jeff Healey Band, and Oasis didn't make the cut, which is astonishing. So I bet if I did this on a different day it would change. But this is how it came out today, and I'm sticking to it.

1. Here Comes the Sun - The Beatles
2. Mr. Jones - Counting Crows
3. Everything You've Done Wrong - Sloan
4. Get Off My Cloud - The Rolling Stones
5. Cruel to be Kind - Nick Lowe
6. Life on Mars? - David Bowie
7. Your Ex-Lover is Dead - The Stars
8. All Green - Clem Snide
9. Stuttering - Ben's Brother
10. My Favourite Chords - The Weakerthans
11. Vincent (Starry Starry Night) - Don McLean
12. Walk Right Back - The Everly Brothers
13. You and Me - The Wannadies
14. Driftwood - Travis

So now dear reader, I'm dying to know... how do you listen to music? What's on your cover album?

Who'll love Aladdin Sane?

source

I'm a bit late arriving for the show, but the usher happily takes my ticket and opens the door to the theatre for me. I find my seat, careful not to scuff the fancy shoes of the other guests I tiptoe past. Finding my seat, I look at my watch -- it says 9:25... the show should be on by now. Suddenly, as if on cue to my thoughts, the theatre darkens. Conversation turns to whispering chatter. Then silence. A cough. Cue the floodlight. I glance quickly at the programme.

Ziggy Goes to America: A Surrealist Play in Two Acts

Cast of Characters:

·         Ziggy Stardust/Aladdin Sane

·         The Spiders from Mars - Ziggy's band

·         Shakey - party host, in the style of Jay Gatsby

·         The Jean Genie

·         The Only Survivor of the National People's Gang

·         Buddy - a cracked actor

·         Twig the Wonderkid

·         Film Director

·         Lady Grinning Soul

Act One

The curtain rises on "another" fab party at Shakey's New York City mansion. The spectacular guests are all sipping from glasses filled with something nice. Ziggy Stardust stands in a corner, surrounded by an old fashioned band of married men, looking up to him for encouragement. He tries to slide away, only to find himself handed a phone. He answers, glancing around the party for his friend the Jean Genie, who sits across the crowded room, smiling like a reptile.

Shakey waves his security man over. Someone who has taken something that isn't agreeing with anyone is escorted out of the party.  The room is manic and filled with mayhem, but Shakey handles it gracefully, like a man whose sole purpose in life is to throw parties. He walks like a jerk, but he's only taking care of the room.

(The concert and other footage in this video is all taken out of context, and as such appears rather comical in some places... so you might want to not watch it and just listen to the song. But once you've done that, watch the video, because it is kind of awesome.)

The party lasts all night. As morning inches ever closer, a sea of bodies lay passed out in various uncomfortable asanas. Rumours of sunrise spread through the mansion by those still awake, waking the others. The partygoers look around the room but Ziggy is nowhere to be seen. Some say he left and went far away. But Shakey tells them he's gone out to the hill behind the mansion to watch the sunrise.

Brandishing bottles of champagne, a mob of disheveled party guests marches out to find him. Ziggy sits on the grass, holding his knees, gazing at the horizon. As the first shard of light appears over the city, the champagne corks start popping, and sighs of ecstasy wave through the crowd. Ziggy stares wistfully off into the distance, ignoring the scene around him. He gets up and exits stage right. The curtain falls for the set change.

The curtain rises on Detroit City, Michigan. Go to Detroit, they said. It'll be epic, they said. Ziggy enters stage left, seemingly having arrived squarely in the middle of a local citywide gang war.  The black pavement shines wetly in the night, reflecting the street lights. The streets are empty, but not quiet. A crash here, a scream there, a siren in the distance. The only person he meets looks a lot like Che Guevara. He asks for an autograph. Before Ziggy can find a pen, the man jumps into his diesel van and makes his getaway from the nearing sirens. Seconds later, Ziggy's tour bus pulls up and the Spiders topple out of the door, grab him, and pull him inside. The bus squeals off down the road, speeding through a red traffic light. The curtain falls on Act One.

Intermission. I get up to stretch my legs and sip on a glass of wine. Wandering around the lobby of the theatre, I'm impressed by the architecture - high decorative ceilings, carved, gilded arches, everything shining in the appropriate places. Everyone is garbed in their finest attire. It's a perfect picture of what theatrical glamour is supposed to look like.

Then I trip on a small tear in the carpet, spilling some of my wine. Fittingly, the colour of the carpet  is cabernet. I stumble to the wall to stop myself from falling. The tiniest of hairline cracks is visible in the wall. I follow the crack to an elegantly framed playbill poster. I find myself wondering what lies behind it. But Act Two is about to begin, so I toss the rest of the wine down my throat and hurry back to my seat.

Act Two

The curtain opens on a drive-in theatre. A film is playing to a lot filled with cars, the actors' broad visages reflecting on the shiny car rooftops. One more car takes its place among the others. Ziggy has arrived to take in a flick before meeting the band at the venue in LA. Munching away on popcorn, he watches as the movie scene unfolds predictably.  A doe-eyed ingénue nicknamed Twig opens the door to Buddy, a hairy, burly hunk of a man. He shrugs and asks to stay. She sighs and turns her head away, but then steps aside and lets him into her room. As Buddy and Twig get it on, the cars around Ziggy begin to rock and sway, almost in unison to one another and the action on the screen.

Downstage right, the director yells CUT! and the actors on the screen gaze blankly in his direction, in an amusing twist on fourth-wall breakage. He's speaking to them in some other language, something they can't understand. The man who plays Buddy storms off the screen. The rest of the cast and crew stand around stunned, and the director exits stage right. Off stage, a phone rings. Buddy's agent answers, and Buddy tears him a new one. He's had enough. He's too old for this. He started out as a bonafide actor, and now look at him. He was supposed to be better than this - fuck it, he IS better than this. Oblivious to the call, and to the kids shagging in cars, Twig picks her nose. The curtain falls for the set change.

The curtain opens on Ziggy and the Spiders, pre-gig, in their dressing room. The clock on the wall says it's 9:25. We should be on by now. The band looks exhausted, drunk, a little out of it. The spoils of Mardi Gras -- all kinds of beads and boas, as well as bottles of Quaaludes and red wine -- are strewn about the room. Ziggy leans back in his chair and smokes his cigarette, staring at the clock. The sound of his fans screaming for him is audible in the background. No one moves or makes a sound, with the exception of  Ziggy's nervous breathing. Suddenly one of the Spiders screams with boredom. 

There is a knock on the dressing room door. One of the Spiders leans over from his place on the lounge and turns the knob, pulling the door open a crack. In walks a lady - the prettiest star you've ever seen. Everyone sits up and takes notice. Her presence stops time. She's hot, she's cool, and she doesn't need anyone, but she sashays into the room wearing her desires like gold lamé. Lady Grinning Soul splits herself into multiples - there is plenty of her to go around - and each man in the band promptly disappears into the recesses of his own mind to engage in a fantasy romp. 

Now the dressing room is empty, except for the beads, boas and bottles laying everywhere. It looks like the band made it to the stage after all. The clock falls from the wall and smashes, stuck at 9:25. The curtain falls on Act Two. Applause.

*****

As you can see, Aladdin Sane unfolded to me like a theatrical production. I read that apparently Bowie described the album as "Ziggy goes to America", and indeed I felt like I was looking at a version of America through his eyes -- watching as a nation destroys itself through its hedonistic obsession with  movie stars and glamourous parties fuelled by excessive drinking, drugs, and sex -- a mass consumption of all things lacking in nutritional value.

With each listen, I am carried away on a mental journey, zipping from city to city, watching Ziggy take notice of the cracks in the paint on the walls, and then peeling that paint away, revealing that they're wallpapered with pages from dirty magazines. And I feel like I'm watching it all from the seats of an ornately decorated theatre, decked out in red velvet and gold tassels.

I love Aladdin Sane. I find myself listening to it over and over, never skipping a song (though I omitted Let's Spend the Night Together and The Prettiest Star from this story, it's nothing personal against those particular songs). This album has everything. A motley cast of colourful characters set against a backdrop of pornography, booze, drugs, crooked chandeliers, and doo-wop backing vocals. 

Of all the songs, Time is my favourite.  The whole thing is sonic perfection, but these lyrics make me feel faint and lightheaded:

I had so many dreams
I had so many breakthroughs
But you, my love, were kind

but love has left you dreamless
The door to dreams was closed
Your park was real and greenless
Perhaps you're smiling now
Smiling through this darkness
But all I have to give is guilt for dreaming

I'd say "get out of my head", David Bowie... but, it's fine. You can stay. Please stay.