I've got seven days to live my life.

It's a cold evening. Winter is approaching, and with it, the end of another year - a year that seems to have passed within a matter of hours, not days or months. They say that the older you get, the faster the clock seems to tick. Here we are in the eleventh hour of this day called 2014, and yet it doesn't seem so long ago that I kissed midnight a frosty hello.

The year... my life, in fact, has flickered by like an elusive dream, where moments meld into one another almost nonsensically to form a memory that only fleetingly tells the truth.

As I sit contemplating the year and all that has happened, the plans that never materialized into actions, and the unplanned events that took on a life of their own, I feel the room growing colder. Frost appears on the windows, and the cats huddle together for warmth on the cushion.

I check the thermostat, but oddly, the temperature reads a balmy 22 degrees Celsius (that's nearly 72 Fahrenheit for anyone who swings that way). The room just keeps getting colder and I dive onto the couch and wrap myself up in the fleece blanket. What I wouldn't give for a fireplace right now! If it gets any colder, I may have to burn something.

As if on cue, a fireball appears above me, hovering in the air between the walls of my living room. I let out a high pitched shriek, and the cats are not having any of this nonsense, so they scamper frantically up the stairs. I'd consider making a run for it myself, if I wasn't sort of a deer caught in the headlights.

The fireball melts the frost on the windows and I realize that I'm no longer cold, so I shed the blanket. Burning cyclically through a rainbow of hues in their established order, and pulsating rhythmically, throwing a beam of light around the room like a lighthouse,  the pulsar in my living room seems to be trying to manifest into some other kind of form. The fireball goes supernova, and in the process I begin to feel myself being pulled toward it, its gravity nearly ripping me apart as it draws me up and in...

I land bluntly on the floor with a thud. I glare up in the fireball's direction to find that it has transformed into what I can only describe as an angel. I don't believe in angels, so this is a bit mind-blowing. But hovering before me is an ethereal, androgynous, human-like figure displaying enormous glowing wings. As far as I know, there is nothing else that fits the description, so angel it must be.

The angel speaks. It's voice (yes, I'm calling him or her an "it") is like nothing I've ever heard before, like a cacophony of musical instruments all playing at once, an orchestra of random notes in bizarre repetition. And yet somehow, through this noise, I am able to understand the angel's "words" perfectly.

The angel tells me that I'm being given the opportunity to go back to seven key decision points in my life and make a different choice - go in the other direction to see what might have been. After I've seen the alternative outcome of all seven decisions, I will be able to choose which of those seven lives I want to stay in permanently, and live out the rest of my life as though I had always made that decision.

This seems to me like a power that shouldn't be placed in the hands of a fool such as myself, but I decide that I would be an even bigger fool not to take the angel up on this tantalizing, once in a lifetime offer. It is once in a lifetime, isn't it? I don't suppose I can sleep on it and let it know in the morning? No, it bellows with a dissonant clatter. I didn't think so.

Alright then, let's do this.

My heart dislodges from its preferred location and begins to travel at near light-speed throughout my body as I hurtle back in time with the angel to Thursday, December 4, 1975, approximately 11:40 PM. This is the moment of my birth. Holy fucking shit. I feel like a character from a Dickens novel. I am present in the hospital room as my mother gives birth to me.

I turn to the angel and tell it I shouldn't be here. This is one of those things I shouldn't have the privilege of seeing. I can't watch. In that instant, the angel and I are hurtling through time and space, and I'm watching my life unfold before my eyes, from infancy to toddlerhood through kindergarten and beyond, all in a matter of seconds until we stop again. I am 14 years old. I'm watching myself tease my bangs sky high in my bedroom mirror, dousing my head with too much hair spray. I'm wearing my burgundy and grey plaid St. Mary's uniform. I have no idea how to apply makeup, and my iridescent green eye shadow screams it loud and clear. This is the first of my key decision points.

Not whether to tease my bangs or wear amateurishly applied eye shadow. Those are small things. And while certainly each decision causes our lives to split off into a new direction, I'm hardly concerned with the outcomes of other hair and makeup decisions. No, I know where this is going.At nearly 39 years old, I'm still terrified of getting on that school bus.

I always thought my decision to leave St. Mary's was a good one. Yes, I ran away from my tormentors, but I found a better, happier life in the public high school among people who more like me. What's wrong with that?

Clearly the angel has other ideas. What if, instead of running away to another school, I stayed and faced the music. Owned up to and apologized for the deed that got me shit-listed. Stood up for myself instead of hiding in the bathroom. Took charge of the problem instead of letting myself become a victim. What would have happened then?

As it turns out, as I watch myself right the wrong and try to make amends, things actually do get better. Not immediately, and it's certainly not the end of my bad times. The bullies and I never become friends, and that is as it should be. But eventually, the fear and the hate dissipate. I buckle down academically and my grades improve. I don't graduate valedictorian or anything, but I graduate with a greater sense of self esteem and far less anxiety about who likes or hates me.

Well isn't that something.

But I don't get to admire the green grass for long. We are on the move again laterally through space this time, and we wind up in my final year of high school - in the timeline I actually lived. Like I said, once I escaped the misery of life at St. Mary's, the remainder of my high school career went rather nicely.  I made good friends, got good grades, participated in the theatre department, and enjoyed school more or less.

Then at the very end of my graduating year, I went and wrote that stupid story for the city newspaper about how my school looked like a cheese factory, and my reputation tanked. It was supposed to be comical homage; instead, a student rebuttal in the school newspaper made me a social pariah. All of my favourite teachers turned on me. And instead of taking the opportunity to respond the way a real journalist would, what did I do? Nothing.

Angel, you have given me a gift.

I watch excitedly as 18-year-old me drafts a carefully worded response, clarifying my original intention and pointing out all of the flaws in logic presented in the student's rebuttal. I regain my status as a well-liked student just before graduation, and my editor at the city newspaper is so impressed with my poise and gumption that he offers me an ongoing feature gig while I'm at university and then eventually a full time journalist role upon graduation.

As promised, the angel takes me to other key decision points in my life...

...instead of studying English at Laurentian, getting my Bachelor of Fine Arts at Brock, leading me into a career as a graphic designer.

...instead of moving out while my boyfriend was away on a family trip, waiting until he returned to face him and tell him the truth, leaving him with grace instead of cowardice, enabling us both to heal faster and stronger.

...instead of leaving my job at the library after one year to go backpacking, keeping my job and working my way up to a librarian position, enabling me to take an even bigger and better overseas adventure a few years later.

...instead of spending all my money on a plane ticket to Australia, catching the train from Brussels to Berlin and finishing my European backpacking adventure.

...instead of holding out for my current job, accepting the first one that was offered to me at that teensy-weensy software startup.

Finally, the angel and I fly through space and time to arrive back at the current moment, here in my living room, mid-November, 2014. I have had the spectacularly unique and singular chance to see how my life would change had I made other decisions. Now I have one more key decision to make: which of those decisions would I like to activate? Which of those versions of my life would I like to be living right now?

This is perhaps the most difficult decision I've ever been asked to make. I've had so many callings in life... artist, journalist, librarian. I've left some wonderful loves behind. I have an incurable travel compulsion. And I've made my own bed, on more than one occasion.

I wish I had time to live them all. I still want to be an artist, a journalist, and a librarian when I grow up. I still want to finish my European backpacking adventure. I want to erase the damage I've done to good hearts. I want to stand up for myself and show everyone I'm not a victim. I want forgive those who have hurt me, giving me the strength to move beyond that pain.

Having the chance now to live out one of those lives, I, ever the fool, tell the angel that I think I will just stay where I am. I have lived the life I was always supposed to live. I am who I am because of my mistakes, because of my choices, because of my turn-on-a-dime adventures. I can't say I've no regrets, but my regrets make me thankful for the blessings.

And besides, I'm a vindictive bitch. Suck it, mean girls from St. Mary's.

*****

Can I just say that I'm really not a vindictive bitch? I think the only  act of retributive justice I ever committed was when I was 8 years old and my bratty little cousin, whose family we were sharing a house with at the time,  went into my room and  ransacked my toy closet, so I used my brand new birthday gift of painty markers to deface her toys. I permanently lost my rights to those painty markers, but it was so worth it. Every stroke I painted on her stuff filled me with an evil joy I've never experienced since. I subsequently learned to control such impulses.

'Hours...' is not my all-time favourite Bowie album. It's pretty alright. It has a few very good songs on it. As a whole, its listenability improves dramatically if I skip Thursday's Child. I'm so bummed about that song. Being an actual Thursday's child, I had high hopes for it. With a different approach, it could have been so good, but as it is, I think it's just terrible. Vocally, it sounds like it was recorded after a long bad day of being caught in the rain and then exhibiting the early symptoms of a vicious cold. And the nails-on-a-chalkboard backing vocals make me want to stab myself in the ears. I think this may be my absolute most despised Bowie song. Well, there was always going to be one, I suppose.

The album seems to have done what it was supposed to do though... it took me on a voyage through my life; it certainly sounds like that's what Bowie is doing himself. Don't we all look back and pinpoint moments we wish we could change, make a different choice, do over? I certainly have my share, as demonstrated in the above story, which is based on true events and true dreams.

Nowhere. Shampoo. TV. Combat. Boyzone. Slim tie. Showdown. Can't stop.

I'm sitting in a packed theatre. The show is already in progress, and I have no idea what it is that I'm seeing on the stage. Just one man, two empty chairs, and a microphone. Around me, the audience is laughing and clapping, telling me the mood is light. So he's a stand-up comedian, perhaps?

 

Then suddenly, a spotlight is blinding me, shining right down on me, and the man on stage is calling me up.  I'm reluctant to obey, having no knowledge of what was said in the minutes and seconds before I was transported to this seat. I'm quite certain I didn't volunteer for anything.

He calls me again though, and informs us all that my seat number matches the number he's just drawn from his coat pocket. The large monitor behind him shows the seat number 649 on a piece of paper in his hand. I barely have time to check my seat number to make sure it's not some mistake before he sends beckons someone from backstage to come and get me. In my pocket, feel a piece of paper that turns out to be a ticket stub, with the seat number 649 printed on it.

I am guided to the stage by the man's assistant, clutching my arm firmly in case I should decide to flee; I would if I could.

As I climb the stairs to the stage, the man with my seat number in his hand points to one of the two chairs which sit facing each other. I think I have a feeling where this may be going, and I'm not one bit pleased. Perhaps I don't know enough about hypnosis to make an informed judgment about it, and certainly if someone claims to have been helped by it, then I'm happy for them. But for entertainment purposes, I don't believe for a second that I'm capable of going under. I won't give up the wheel without a fight - it's just my nature.

So I suppose I have nothing to worry about, and I relax as I take my seat. The man with my number introduces me as The Person in Seat Number 649, everybody! and the rest of the audience applauds my luck... or theirs. Finally, he asks me my name and I tell him, which he relates to masses.

Now Shelley, have you ever been under hypnosis before? He asks. I simply say no, deciding not to tell him about that time when an amateur practicing friend tried once and failed to crack my resistance. He informs me that it'll be quick and painless, that soon I'll be under, and he promises not to cause me to do anything that might injure me physically. He says nothing about how I might come out of this socially, however. Do I have his consent?

Sure, I tell him, obstinate in my belief that he will not be successful. Not that I wish to embarrass him or anything, I simply am too in control of my mind to...

Nowhere. Shampoo. TV. Combat. Boyzone. Slim tie. Showdown. Can't stop.

I'm sitting on the stage in a chair facing a hypnotist who has just managed to lull me into a trance. I'm here, but I'm not really here. I can't really describe it. I'm a passenger inside my own mind, here for the ride, but not driving. I thought I'd feel violated, angry. But I'm surprisingly okay with it.

The hypnotist tells the audience that he's going to scramble my thoughts and my words - that what I'm saying will make perfect sense to me, but will sound absurd to everyone else. He asks me to tell him a story - something from my life, a recent event.

I begin to tell him about the time I was dancing on a slippery floor at a friend's Hallowe'en party, me in my Special Agent Dana Scully costume, and I slipped in such a way that my feet slid in opposite directions and I did the splits involuntarily, tearing the ligaments in my knee in the process, and then going home with borrowed crutches. I hear the words coming out of my mouth and they sound just as I've described it to you. But all the audience hears is:

"Stinky weather, fat shaky hands, dopey morning doc, grumpy gnomes.  Big screen dolls, tits and explosions, sleepytime, bashful but nude. Intergalactic, see me to be you. It's all in the tablets, sneezy Bhutan. Mars happy nation, sit on my karma, Dame meditation, take me away".

The audience laughs and applauds, and I think to myself "Yeah, I really hurt my knee, but I guess it was pretty funny the way it happened".

The hypnotist hushes the crowd and tells me that he is unscrambling my words. He asks me to tell the story again and I do. This time, the right words come out and in the right order. I'd be amazed if I wasn't, you know, incapable of amazement with him steering my thoughts.

Next, the hypnotist says that he's going to ask me to enter the place in my mind where my memories stretch back to a previous life, or lives, however far back I can go. He tells me to search that place and describe a memory - anything that comes to me, whatever stands out.

I tell him about my life as a Tibetan peasant in the mid 1940's. I want to be better than what I am, but my faith is shaky. I want to believe, but I don't. I try, but I fail, repeatedly, at forcing myself to feel something other than my corporeal self bumbling through the world. I cast off my possessions, only to regret it and acquire new ones. The battle within me rages for the full extent of my life on earth.

What the hypnotist doesn't know is that I made it all up. I didn't really mean to. I told him the story of my past life in earnest, because it felt true, all while the memories seemed to come from some other place, not from inside my brain, but from outside, like some unseen entity feeding them to me. I have no actual recollection of any of the events I have just described.

The hypnotist is content to believe my story. Actually he seems quite pleased with himself. But I can't tell him it's all lies, because he hasn't asked me. And even if he did, he's got control, so I would only be able to tell him what he wants to hear.

The hypnotist knows how to structure his show. With my past life regression out of the way, he decides to lighten the mood. He implores me to do perform a medley of dances: first, a waltz. He may be sitting in the chair, but he's taking the lead, and I follow dutifully, though I've never actually waltzed in my life. Next, I'm doing a foxtrot, then a tango, all at the hypnotists command. For my final number, he calls out the moves to a bizarre line dance, that he calls the Dead Man's Walk. Without any kind of guidance on what the moves should look like, I complete each "step" with a fluid grace:

Gone, gone, gone spinning slack through reality
Dance my way, falling up through the years
Until I swivel back round then I fly, fly, fly
Losing breath underwater well I'm gone, gone, gone
Spinning slack through reality
Dance my way, falling up through the years
Until I swivel back round then I fly, fly, fly
Losing breath underwater when I'm gone, gone, gone
Spinning slack through reality

The audience loves it. I sit back down and await further instructions. The hypnotist addresses the audience and tells them that soon he will wake me. When he does, I will be unable to recall anything that has happened here tonight. I will lose the events of this evening to the part of my brain that holds forgotten dreams.

But before he brings me back to consciousness, he has one more stunt for me. He asks me my nationality, and I tell him I'm Canadian. He asks me if Canada has always been my home and I tell him yes. Then he asks me if I like Americans, and I tell him I do. He replies "Not anymore. You're afraid of them".

And suddenly, just like he said, I'm afraid of Americans. This room contains hundreds of people, and any one of them could be American. My heart starts beating like it's going to burst from my chest, and I feel cold. I have to get out of here. What will they do to me if I stay?

With abject terror, I leap down the stairs from the stage and sprint as fast as I can to the door. The hypnotist calls out for the ushers to keep me contained, but it's too late, I'm already through the door and out in the lobby, running faster and faster as I realize that anyone around me could be American. I stop at the door that leads to the street with the realization that it's not safe for me out there. I tremble with fear and search the lobby for a quiet corner.

The hypnotist bursts through the theatre doors and finds me cowering in the corner. As he approaches I tell him to stay back. How do I know he's not American?!

With the word "stop", I become still. He tells me that on the count of five I will wake from my trance and remember nothing that has happened since my seat number was called. 5... 4... 3... 2... 1.

And here I am, back in the realm of the conscious, wondering what on earth I'm doing sitting on the floor in the corner of the lobby. The hypnotist turns and walks away from me without a word. Confused, I leave the building.

As I make my way to the subway to go home, I find I have the sudden urge to dance. Not just an urge, but a compulsion. I descend the stairs to the subway platform. I'm the only one there... so I dance my way, falling up through the years, until I swivel back round then I fly, fly, fly, losing breath underwater and I'm gone, gone, gone, spinning slack through reality.

*****

Earthling is a super fun album and a much-needed pick-me-up from the disturbed darkness that was Outside. I didn't find it particularly profound, just a really cool fusion of several different kinds of music, cleanly stitched together with Bowie's own unique thread.

I'm totally obsessed with Looking for Satellites. It actually does put me in kind of a hypnotic state; I get totally lost in it, and when it's over I'm sad. The repetition of the words Nowhere...  Shampoo... TV... Combat... Boyzone... Slim tie... Showdown... Can't stop... do something weird and wonderful to my brain, like I'm getting an intra-cranial massage or something.

And Seven Years in Tibet... come on. Way to bring the glam back in such an unexpected way. And Dead Man Walking, with its otherwordly "line dance" called out underneath the main chorus lines. This album has given me a few new favourites for sure.

Upon the first listen, I actually realized I've heard this album before - I'm Afraid of Americans on the radio, for one. But I also remember hearing several of songs from Earthling in the dorm at my university. It was nice to sort of have a wee little tingle of familiarity with it. I'm just glad that now I'm able to appreciate it.

It was definitely murder — but was it art?

Greetings Earthlings! Guess what I've started listening to... Ah, but no, I'm not quite ready to tell you about that just yet. I've barely come in from Outside. Which brings me to the reason I'm back again so soon. At this time I'm pleased to bring you a Bowie Project first: a Special Guest Post by my longtime friend and self-confessed music geek, Dave Miner. Dave and I agree that Outside deserves a little extra special treatment. So without further delay, give it up for Dave! 

*****

It was definitely murder — but was it art? 

Special Guest Post by Dave Miner (@daveophonic)

Please forgive me if this post is long and self-indulgent.  Given the topic, such structure might at least be considered thematically appropriate.

I want to tell you about David Bowie's "Outside", because I kind of want to tell everybody about David Bowie's "Outside".  It's a long-standing favourite.  It's one of my desert island discs.  But it's also an under-appreciated and divisive album - Allmusic's tepid 3-star review hails it as Bowie's "most satisfying and adventurous album since Let's Dance", but also calls it "severely flawed", where standout tracks are "buried under the weight of the mediocre material".

The album is seconds shy of the 75-minute mark.  It flirts with the abrasive textures of industrial music.  It intersperses songs with soundscapes and narrative interludes.  It's a concept album that explores art as murder, and is the first and only episode of a seemingly abandoned trilogy.  The story is therefore all setup and no payoff, and plot details within the lyrics and liner notes are scant and cryptic. 

I can understand why people wouldn't like this record, particularly from the David Bowie who gave us "Young Americans" and "Life on Mars".  Did that audience want an industrial concept album  from The Thin White Duke?  (Let me please be clear - I don't mean that in a dismissive "you just don't get it, man" way.)  This album was a risk, even if you listen back and hear the seeds of it on "Black Tie, White Noise" or "Tin Machine".  

Bowie has always been one of my very favourite artists.  I love work from all his phases, from early folkish jangle through Ziggy Stardust-era bombast, from the Berlin trilogy through his electronic/industrial/jungle phase, and even through to today.  I suspect many of his fans appreciate his gift for experimentation and reinvention.  In that regard, I think the album can be considered a tremendous success:  this doesn't seem like a contrived attempt by an established artist to reach a Gen-X audience or experiment with trendy new sounds.  There's an integrity to the album that has kept me hooked from the first listen.  I just happen to dig nasty guitars and electronic textures.  Mix in Bowie's vocals and songwriting?  Yes, please.

There were spans of months where I would listen to the album, end-to-end, at least twice a day.  I wanted to pull out its secrets and solve its mysteries, and most of all, I wanted to lose myself in those songs and sounds.

Here's the background:

The full name is technically "1.  Outside", but the rumoured followup albums - "2.  Contamination"  and "3.  Afrikaans" - never materialized.  However, an extra 20 hours of recording were evidently created during the Outside sessions that could yield the building blocks necessary to create the trilogy.  I would love to think a project like that might coincide with the album's upcoming 20th anniversary, but perhaps that's just wishful thinking.

If you're interested in learning a bit more of how the record was created, I recommend reading "A Year With Swollen Appendices:  Brian Eno's Diary", which talks a bit about his role in the project, and the strategies he used to try and help the musicians get into a headspace to fully explore this new creative direction.  ("You are the disgruntled member of a South African rock band. Play the notes that were suppressed.")

For the completionists, there are also some bonus tracks available on international versions of the album.  I'm aware of  "Nothing to be Desired" and "Get Real", which you can check out here.

Here's what I think I know about the story:  Detective Professor Nathan Adler is assigned to investigate the murder of 14-year-old Baby Grace Blue, and rule if her death and the exhibition of her body is legally acceptable as art.  Leon Blank is accused of the murder, but may have been manipulated by Ramona A. Stone, his ex-lover, while the real killer (The Artist/Minotaur) continues his work.  

And now we begin. 

The album commences with "Leon Takes Us Outside", a soundscape where fragments of dialog - years, months, dates - bubble up from waves of synthesizer and Reeves Gabrels' meandering guitar.  The bass drops, and we segue perfectly into the title track.

"Outside" invites you into the album - it's a classic Bowie croon with gentle harmonies and those perfect swells.  I don't want to say it's a safe song, but I think no Bowie fan of any vintage would have been surprised to hear him release this song in 1995.  Then "The Heart's Filthy Lesson" hits, and everything changes.

There were several points of pop-culture entry into this album.  "Hallo Spaceboy" may be better known from its Pet Shop Boys remix than for the original album cut.  A version of "I Have Not Been to Oxford Town" was covered for the soundtrack of Starship Troopers, Paul Veroeven's 1997 adaptation of the Robert A. Heinlein novel.  "I'm Deranged" played over the credits of David Lynch's film "Lost Highway".  But I first heard the music of "Outside" during the closing credits of Se7en, when "The Heart's Filthy Lesson" provided a perfect accompaniment to the scratched text slithering down the screen in the wrong direction.  

Whereas "Outside" sounded like updated Bowie, "Filthy Lesson" sounds like new Bowie - jagged guitar lines streaking the skies above pulsing bass and a insistent drum loop, creating a palpable air of menace.  When the song pauses to ask "Paddy - who's been wearing Miranda's clothes?", something implies the answer will be terrible. A piano comes in not as orchestral grandeur but as a blunt instrument, percussively slamming out low-register runs.  Even the instrumentation, we learn, will be warped and perverted and used in ways we don't expect.  Nothing is sacred.  The song seems to gasp for air before we lurch into the home stretch, with Bowie's vocal majesty, concluding with the ominous admission:  "Oh Paddy - I think I've lost my way."  The song fades out with the repeated observation: "What a fantastic death abyss - tell the others."  Is this a reaction to the terrible exhibit of what is left of Baby Grace?

We then move into "A Small Plot of Land".  Rapid cascades of piano notes might distract from a steady two-note pattern in the background around which the rest of the instruments collect and congeal as Bowie tells the story of a poor soul who learns that "prayer can't travel so far these days" - a haunting line that I think perfectly captures the fin-de-siecle anxieties Bowie so deftly tapped on this album.  Reeves Gabrels' frantic solo on this album is one of my favourite things that has ever been done with a guitar.  The song builds and builds and builds until you're almost claustrophobic, caught in the sheer density of sound, and then it's time to meet Baby Grace Blue.

"Segue:  Baby Grace [A Horrid Cassette]" is the first of several narrative sections, with each character voiced by Bowie with some combination of processing to help the characters stand out.  Bowie gives a great pitch-shifted performance, tripping over words as Baby Grace records what are possibly the final words of her short, unhappy life.

"Hallo Spaceboy" begins with an explosion, a lull, and then another explosion of drums and guitars as we launch into the song proper.  The song would serve as a fitting soundtrack for a dance party at the end of civilization, but its bombast stands in stark contrast to "The Motel", which follows.  Sung from Leon's perspective, it's a slow, ethereal dirge that muses "there is no hell like an old hell". Beautiful, virtuosic piano runs build to a euphoric crescendo with titanic slashes of electric guitar and a gentle fade.

"I Have Not Been to Oxford Town" bubbles and bounces, but the playful music belies the grave lyrics:  "Baby Grace was the victim.  She was 14 years of age.  And the wheels are turning, turning, for the finger points at me."  Imprisoned, is Leon trying to establish an alibi?  Prove his innocence?  Or trying to remember what happened in the first place?  "Outside" can be a frustrating puzzle, since most of the pieces are missing, buried in unwritten chapters.  With that in mind, it's almost comforting that the characters themselves are confused and powerless, which suggest's Leon's innocence.  After all, we have yet to hear from the Minotaur.  And, as Leon runs down the ways in which he wishes his life was different, we realize that we still have yet to meet the mysterious Ramona A. Stone.

"No Control" seems like a variation on the same theme, but presented with a driving, urgent menace.  Bewildered by the crimes he's investigating, Adler feels powerless in the face of a deranged world.  As I write this, I wonder if the music tells us something else - simple and cheerful, "Oxford Town" might underscore Leon as a hapless victim of a machination he doesn't understand.  He is powerless and wastes away while hoping somebody will help him.  Nathan gets it - he sees the horror and knows he must act, yet feels powerless because he understands the scale of the madness he faces, and the scope of challenging it.

The theme of powerlessness continues with our second vignette, "Segue: Algeria Touchshriek".  Algeria is a seller of curiosities of seemingly questionable legality.  He is also a broken man, rejected by the world.  Desperate for company, he tells us he's considering leasing a room above his store to another broken man.  We don't hear from Algeria again, but the next song is sung from the perspective of The Artist/Minotaur, suggesting Algeria's lodger will be the worst possible tenant.

"The Voyeur of Utter Destruction (As Beauty)" begins with a pleasant cycle of guitar, and a gentle vocal refrain.  "Turn and turn again", sings Bowie, which seems like an innocuous lyrical confection, but the words are recast in the second verse as Mintoaur tells us "The screw is a tightening atrocity; I shake for the reeking flesh is as romantic as hell".  It seems as though we've found our killer, as he assembles his exhibition before calling it a day.

And now, it's time for us to meet Ramona.  She delivers a short, seething rant, and although her connection to the other characters is not quite clear, there's something in the way that she says "We'll creep together, you and I" that suggests she is the axis around which the entire affair turns.  Ramona and her acoyltes then sing "I Am With Name", which is more chant than song.  

"Wishful Beginnings" shifts back to the Minotaur's perspective as he works, apologizing to his victim all the while.  The song is a modern dirge, punctuated by slow, deliberate kick drums and a synthetic accent that sounds eerily like a dead laugh.  The arrangement is sparse and the low end is crucial.  Notice how the bass elements drop out in the middle, and the strange catharsis when they come back in, repeating over and over again.  He stops apologizing.  All that is left is the work.  This is the album at its darkest.

"We Prick You" is sung from the perspective of the Members of the Court of Justice; presumably we're at Leon's trial as the administration tries to get the confession they want, seemingly by any means necessary.  Next is a segue from Nathan, explaining how some of the pieces fit together.  "Oh wait," he says.  "I"m getting ahead of myself.  Let me take you back to where it all began."

We go back to The Minotaur for "I'm Deranged", and a seeming freely-associated stream-of-consciousness admission that may reveal nothing about the killer except as a callback to Nathan's "No Control" - Nathan is right, and the killer is completely insane.

Up to now, the album may have been a dark, difficult listen, and I must admit that it's at this point that I've almost completely lost the plot.  I'm only tentatively sure of the arc to this point, but I'm not sure how to put the final songs in context.  However, whether you're invested in the narrative or not, the album concludes with two of my absolute favourite Bowie songs ever.  "Thru' These Architects Eyes" is sung from Leon's perspective, and it's tempting to explore the architect metaphor.  Has Leon been freed?  Was Nathan able to convince the Court of Justice that Leon was a pawn of Ramona?  Is she the architect whose designs Leon can now understand?  Or is it possible that, now freed, he can admit that he played a greater role in the fate of Baby Grace Blue than his jailhouse prayers would have us believe?

Musically speaking, I love this song, and if you've never taken a time to notice how much a bass guitar can enrich a song, then I urge you to please pay attention to Gail Ann Dorsey's brilliant playing here.  Instead of simply holding down the root notes of the chords, she contributes melody after melody that support and enhance the song.  Such elements are all over this album, and are testament to the gifted musicians with whom Bowie surrounds himself, but I find it's most evident here.

Adler interjects with a segue before the final song, revealing to us that evidently Ramona and Leon were lovers, and that Ramona had broken off an engagement.  Why?  And what is the significance?  For the answer, we'll have to hope that the "Outside" project is resurrected.

The only hint is the beautiful "Strangers When We Meet", which closes the album.  Sung once again from Leon's perspective, it seems like a post-breakup song, with Leon seemingly relieved that he and Ramona are truly nothing to one another anymore.  

The liner notes for the album (AKA "The Diary of Nathan Adler, or, The Art-Ritual Murder of Baby Grace Blue") ask "It was definitely murder - but was it art?"  This kicks off the album's narrative arc, and is an interesting question to ask as the 20th century dies and we seem to grow increasingly numb.  What does it take to shock us?  What does it take to inspire us?  

It's also an appropriate question to ask of the album itself.  By reinventing himself yet again as an industrial/electronic experimenter (which Bowie would successfully continue on his excellent follow-up album, 1997's "Earthling") Bowie arguably killed many pre-existing conceptions of how his music did and should sound.  To judge his success - is it art? - is subjective.  I can only say that I think he came sincerely to the genre and created a compelling album that can appeal to fans of both classic Bowie and new electronic music.  Certainly, reinvention is Bowie's game, and we all love those ch-ch-ch-changes.

It's not a perfect album.  There's a case to be made that it's too long, too jagged, too dark, too unfocussed, too far removed from Bowie's most iconic material.  If, like me, you want to know how the story ends, you might share my frustration upon reading a page at the recent "David Bowie Is…" exhibit which suggested the narrative was never intended to be clarified, and was deliberately left vague to inspire interpretation.  Still, I love this album because it tries something bold.  I love it for its many successes, for inspiring my curiosity and wonder, and for giving me some of my favourite songs ever.  I hope you might be inspired to give it a listen, either for the first time or with new ears.  The music, after all, is outside.

Anxiety descending.

A popup art gallery has blown into town with the autumn wind. Art "galleryvanting" is one of my favourite pastimes, and a popup installation is too alluring to pass up, even if I know nothing about the artist or the exhibit, save the title: Millennium Fetish. The details of this particular event have been shrouded in secrecy, despite the twitter campaign that brought me to the gallery's front door.

It's a blustery October evening, and the gallery is located on a quietish street in a not-great part of town, among low-rent apartment buildings and cafes that have been shuttered up for business.  About half of the streetlights are burned out or flickering their final breaths.

A sign on the door says that the gallery doesn't open until 7:00pm - that's sundown at this time of year in this part of the world. My phone tells me it's 7:08. I'm the only one here, so I'm kind of getting a creepy vibe about this thing. Just as my inner voice tells me "I've got a bad feeling about this", other people begin showing up. A small crowd of curious art fiends forms on the sidewalk in front of the old picture framing shop, its faded sign an indication that it may have been years since the last time anyone did business here. The lights are still off in the shop and we're becoming restless, wondering if we should call 7:30 as official "ah, fuck it" time.

Just then, the lights inside flick on, and a man in his 20's who looks like he's lived (and suffered) for a hundred years opens the door. He welcomes us inside and tells us the artist will be with us in a moment, but we are free to begin exploring the gallery. As we file past him, he offers each of us a complementary glass of champagne, which I finish almost immediately after taking the flute into my hand. I always drink champagne too quickly.

Tiptoeing into the main gallery hall among the other patrons, the first thing I notice isn't the array of canvases hanging on the walls or the sculptures arranged around the room, but the smell. It's the odour of flesh and blood, fresh and stale, combined with the scent of paint and glue, like the smell of humanity, dismantled and reassembled. What is the source of this unsettling aroma? How can I be expected to enjoy this exhibit if I'm forced to endure something so repugnant and distracting? 

By the looks on the faces of the others, I can see they're having the same thought. But no one is leaving, and I decide that there might still be very well something worth seeing, so I move toward the wall on my right. Most people go left, don't they? I prefer to avoid the pack, so I begin my journey through the room at the wrong end.

My eyes drink in an enormous, deeply hued palette knife-driven mural of a cityscape by moonlight. Reminiscent of Van Gogh's Starry Night, this viscerally affecting pastiche of blues and blacks and purples  with shocks of white and grey where the yellow should be gives me the disquieting sensation of insignificance as I shrink from the sheer size and magnitude of it. The number 9 swirls and looms repeatedly in the construction of the cityscape's imposing buildings. Nine's as big as houses. On the knoll next to the largest of the nines is a tiny void of a flower wearing a diminutive 6. The flower wilts with inferiority while gazing up at the skyscrapers with disdain, envy, fear. I am that flower; I am the six.

Backing away from the mural, I bump into an older gentleman dressed in a houndstooth suit with matching trilby. The poor soul gasps and cowers away from me, taking the hat from his head and holding it to his chest, sniveling a breathless string of apologies for being in my way. I assure him he need not apologize, it was my own fault for not watching my step. He smiles meekly at my assurance, and he introduces himself.

Mr. Touchshriek's near-nonsensical ramblings make me slightly nervous and worried that he might not be all right in the head, but there is nothing overtly menacing about him, so I shake his hand and excuse myself to view the nearest work of art in my vicinity.

I'm not alone in my slack-jawed shock as I stare at the grotesque statue: a monstrous creature constructed from the bones of many other creatures set in shiny polished metal. A housecat's skull resides in the chest where the heart should be. The tail is constructed from what looks like a human spinal column. Surely it is made of plaster, but the staining from blood and tissue looks authentic.

The monster is adorned with unusual jewellery and clothing... earrings in the form of a shining pair of blue iris-ed eye balls set in resin; a shirt woven from what looks like human hair in various shades of blonde, brown, ginger, black, and even grey and white; a brooch on that vest made from the teeth of various once-living things, painted ironically in cheerful colours; and the piece de resistance, a beautifully crafted handbag of an unidentified leather in a disturbingly familiar pink flesh tone. I swallow hard and wonder if this is partially where that gruesome smell is coming from.

I move away from the gory sculpture and find myself called toward a wonderfully realistic hand-drawn rendering of an adolescent girl drawn entirely in hues of red, rust, and brown. The lines of the drawing are so fine and perfect that it looks as though the girl could step right into the room off the canvas. Looking into her face, it appears as though that is exactly what she wants to do, as if something in her two dimensional world is terrorizing her, tormenting her both physically and emotionally. The scars on her half dressed body express terrible pain, and the wideness of her wet eyes, the only part of the piece painted  a cold lake blue, display a horrid fear.

I want to save this girl from the unspeakable fate she is clearly anticipating. I read the card next to the piece to find it titled Baby Grace, Age 14, after interest drugs. (Whatever those are.) Subject's blood on canvas. (Come again?)

The sick feeling in my stomach is telling me that I've seen enough. I define good art by its ability to make me feel something, whether that feeling is joy, sorrow, loathing or fear, and as such the pieces in this gallery qualify for that distinction; however, it also feels utterly wrong, as if I've stumbled into something horrifyingly real, and definitely illegal. Something in me wants to tell the cops about it, just in case.

Then from out of nowhere, Mr. Touchshriek appears next to me. He tells me he knew Grace. Her family lives in his neighbourhood, old Oxford Town. He used to see her walking to and from school every day. Then one day he saw her talking to someone through the window of a van. She got in, and was never seen again. I ask him if he reported it to the police, but Mr. Touchshriek simply removes his hat again and holds it over his heart, never taking his eyes from Baby Grace's dark blues.

That's it, I'm out of here. As I start to make my way to the door, the man who let us in takes the centre of the gallery. He introduces himself as Leon, and announces that the artist will be making her appearance shortly, and she's willing to answer any and all of our questions. I decide that it might be worth it to stay for a bit, maybe get a bit more information on the obviously deranged person responsible for this horrendous display. Then I'll go to the police.

The artist blusters into the room like a woman possessed. Dressed in leather and clanking with heavy metal jewellery with black hair all askew as if caught in a permanent windstorm, Ramona A. Stone is in her 50's and is doing her damndest to cover it up. She jangles her way to Leon, kisses him with wildly visible tongue and dispatches him with an expression and a gesture filled with a palpable hatred.

She smirks as she judges us silently from her pedestal. Before she can speak, the questions from her audience begin. Who is Baby Grace Blue? Is she alive? Did you really draw her portrait with her own blood? Finally, Ramona speaks.

Suddenly, a raucous thunderstorm begins, releasing a torrent of rain, ear splitting thunderclaps, and blinding lightning. The power goes out and the spectators begin shrieking and gasping as we bump into one another and into the works of art as we clamour to find our way to the door. A terrible cry pierces my ears - I recognize the voice as Mr. Touchshriek's. Another cry, this time from a young woman. What the fuck is going on? I slip on a puddle of something and land on the floor. That smell. I know this smell. I smelled it when I came in.

The lights come on, and as expected, I'm laying on the floor in a puddle of someone's blood. The young woman who cried out - she's on the floor next to me, cut from groin to throat, her guts spilled out onto the floor between us. I vomit convulsively onto the floor, my tears dropping daintily into the pool of blood.

Mr. Touchshriek offers his hand to help me up, a ragged gash visible on his arm. He asks if I'm alright and I scream that I'm not fucking alright, none of this is alright, we need to call the police!

As if on cue, a man comes bursting through the door, introducing himself as Detective Nathan Adler. He informs us that Baby Grace Blue's body, or what's left of it anyway, has been found and he's got it on good authority that the culprit is inside this gallery at this very moment in time.

There's been another murder just now! I blurt out, and point to the young woman on the floor, as if Detective Adler wasn't keen enough pick up on it himself. Unfortunately, my frantic outburst draws the detective in my direction and he begins his line of questioning with me. Have I ever been to Oxford town?

I feel faint. This can't be happening. I just wanted to go to an art show.

Old Mr. Touchshriek approaches in his typical skittish way, and he tells Detective Adler that he was a witness to Grace's abduction and he's not entirely sure who has done the killing, but he suspects it's the artist whose gallery we're visiting, or maybe she's gotten her hapless boyfriend Leon to do her dirty work. Detective Adler thinks aloud.

Ramona and Leon emerge from out of nowhere and begin an bombastic, unnatural looking dance in the centre of the room to a song with a rigid, jackhammer beat and otherworldly lyrics. As they move about the room, their total disconnect from each other seems almost choreographed. Ramona stops to take polaroid photos of the pool of the fresh victim's blood mixed with my vomit and tears. She tacks each polaroid to the wall as she continues her strange dance. 

I'm astonished at Detective Adler's inaction. Then, out of the blue, he begins to applaud. He's being ironic. I get it. Except... a number of spectators begin to applaud as well. Mr. Touchshriek is clapping away like a man who doesn't have an oozing wound on his forearm. And the poor girl with her entrails all askew suddenly rouses, and stands with help from Detective Adler, and she starts clapping. And then a girl resembling the unfortunate girl in the portrait enters from the back, clapping wildly,

It's all been a vast creation - more than a show, a ghastly, dramatic piece of performance art. Incredible. Ramona thanks us for attending. As we can see, no one has really been murdered in the name of art tonight, have they?

Leon throws his arms out in the direction of Ramona, encouraging us all to give her one last round of applause. This time I participate. Leon bows and says that he hopes that this performance has given us a new perspective on the definition of art.  Ramona glares at him with utter loathing for only a second before blowing us all a kiss and bidding us goodnight.

*****

Outside couldn't have come to me at a better time if I had actually planned it this way. Mid-October, the spookiest time of the year, is the perfect backdrop for a concentrated listening of this creepy-as-fuck album. Outside is art in its purest form, and it demands to be listened to as such. If you go in expecting something you can put on at your 39th birthday party surrounded by family, you're going to have a bad time. And everyone is going to leave. Which is okay, because then you can listen to it properly, and really enjoy the fuck out of it.

I advise against listening to it in the bathtub when you're home alone on a windy night in the weeks approaching Hallowe'en. By the time you get to Wishful Beginnings, you will be rocking yourself in the tub going "what was that?!" every time you hear your cat do something downstairs. It was the cat, wasn't it? Please tell me it was the cat.

I like when Bowie does concept albums. For me, Outside is like Nine Inch Nails fucked Twin Peaks and then Twin Peaks gave the baby up for adoption and it was raised by Sin City. It definitely contains some of the most disturbing ideas to come from Bowie's brain up to this point, aka, murder in the name of art during a time of social decay, rapidly advancing technology, and a future unknown. I have to say that despite my initial misgivings, this album is a masterpiece that really defines who David Bowie is as an Artist with a capital A. No doubt he is also a phenomenal pop star and songwriter in general, but Outside takes it to a whole other level.

It should be noted that I omitted some of the album's tracks from my story and shuffled the ones I did include to go with the narrative flow. To really get it, this album deserves to be listened to as a whole. The story contained within Outside is a bit abstract, as with previous concept albums in Bowie's catalogue. He doesn't spell it out for you. You need to listen, and you need to connect the dots, interpret it like you would a painting, and then you need to just chill the fuck out when you realize that there is no resolution. Make that part of the experience.

So without further adieu, here it is.

Someone should really organize an art gallery "showing" of Outside, don't you think?

Post Script - This post is dedicated to my friend Dave M.

I have a confession to make. There was a time when I ignorantly rejected not only this album but David Bowie as an artist. I recall a conversation with Dave (who, incidentally, I will be introducing you to shortly via a special guest post!) sometime in the mid-90's in which he told me I would really like Bowie, and I noped so hard I think I nearly gave him whiplash. I'm ashamed that it took me this long to open my mind and see just how wrong I was, but I'm happy that now I get to share my appreciation for Bowie's work with my dear friend. You planted a seed, Dave. It just took a really long time to take root and grow.

Post Post Script - If you're wondering wtf? about the nines and sixes I described in the cityscape mural, watch The Boy with the Incredible Brain. You won't regret it.