In 1973, by killing Ziggy, and stepping away fully formed from the corpse, David Bowie, as every teenager knew, mattered. In 1983, David Bowie, with what looked suspiciously like a hair piece sliced from Billy Idol's scalp, ruled MTV as a superstar, urging the kids to dance and enjoy modern love. Then, David Bowie somehow lost his footing and stumbled. He embarked on two decades of halted experiments, failed comebacks, trend jumping and confusion.
In 2002, when he released Heathen, heralded as yet another return to form except to a hard-core few, David Bowie was remembered only for the few tracks—"Rebel, Rebel" and "Fame"—kept forever young in classic-rock purgatory.
Bowie's last real moment in the sun took place in 1985 at Live Aid. A major star, given a headlining spot, Bowie's performance that day was forgettable. That was not the case for the premiere of his campy "Dancing In the Streets" video with Mick Jagger. It was a good-natured victory lap celebrating Bowie's transformation from cult artist to rock icon worthy of prancing next to Mick. (On Bowie's Aladdin Sane's "Drive-In Saturday," he was just one of the fans looking up into Jagger's eyes.) Two years later, he released the last of his '80s stabs at the pop mainstream, Never Let Me Down. He supported the disc with an arena extravaganza, the much-reviled Glass Spider Tour, which mixed tired versions of his hits with bad theater and stale art patter. If Bowie had any doubt where things were headed, he needed only have looked behind him to where one-time superstar Peter Frampton was employed—Frampton's highest profile in years—as a tour guitarist.
In 1990, Bowie announced a final tour to retire his formidable back catalogue. This was an old con for Bowie. On July 3, 1973, he had announced the end of his performing career. But this time, he was going to milk the good-bye for all it was worth; the highly profitable Sound and Vision tour wound up playing 108 shows. And, with that, David Bowie vanished.
Of course, Bowie never stopped making music and touring, but he had managed to give his audience the slip. And, after a few years of Tin Machine, he could be sure few were still looking for his trail. No matter what, accepting David Bowie as a member of a band would have been hard, and it didn't help things that Tin Machine was a terrible group, mixing incoherent metal with overheated lyrics. It's hard to imagine that anyone would have signed the group if Bowie hadn't been a member.
But, even with Bowie, there were limits. It's been reported that EMI ultimately allowed Bowie out of his contract to avoid putting out any more Tin Machine discs.
In 1993, Bowie was a decade away from the hits on Let's Dance when he reunited with producer Nile Rodgers for Black Tie White Noise, the first of many comeback efforts. Despite the strong single "Jump They Say," there is little to recommend it. In a recent magazine interview, Rodgers all but accuses Bowie of actively sabotaging some tracks. One example: On Let's Dance, Rodgers had managed to make improbable gold out of Stevie Ray Vaughn's playing. Bowie brought Reeves Gabrels, a Tin Machine member, to the Black Tie White Noise sessions. Gabrels, who lacked any kind of finesse, did manage to supply plenty of white noise.
In fact, Gabrels would spend much of the '90s ruining Bowie tracks with his irritating guitar. (Heathen, among other things, gains from being the first Bowie disc since 1987 to be free of Gabrels' playing and writing.)
After the failure of the user-friendly Black Tie White Noise, Bowie reunited with producer Brian Eno for Outside. If the first failed to recapture Bowie's commercial glory, Outside was an even bigger failure in terms of reestablishing critical respect
Of course, on the earlier, highly prized collaborations between Bowie and Eno, like Lodger and Heroes, the singer and producer were assisted by players like Robert Fripp and Adrian Belew in building a sound of arty perfection. But for Outside, Bowie again brought along Gabrels, who predictably overwhelmed some strong songs and obliterated all of Eno's soundscapes and textures. What was officially a co-headlining tour with Nine Inch Nails for promoting Outside showed just how tiny Bowie's draw had become as the audience clearly wasn't there for him. Though Bowie had relented and begun playing some of his old songs, the NIN fans didn't know any of them.
It took two more discs for Bowie to drop Gabrels: the drum and bass experiment Earthling and the dull Hours… . Both were hailed as returns to form when released but then quickly forgotten. Bowie was honored with lip service and patrician respect. Another bid for a young audience, a tour with Moby, didn't change things.
But then things did change. First, Bowie released Heathen in 2002 and then Reality last year. Neither gathered plaudits or broke sales records. But they stuck around, and were noticed enough that it slowly began dawning on people that Bowie was back.
Honestly, neither disc is great, but both are good. On them, Bowie mixes covers and originals while comfortably placing them in music that embraces the sounds of his past. Both discs also are clearly cut from the same cloth. That alone makes them special, in that Bowie has for the first time in decades not had to make himself over between discs.
Still, no one should bother with Heathen if Scary Monsters is already in their collection. The cold way to see it is that this music is no more than familiar, but inferior, re-creations of past glory. But even at his best, Bowie has always ripped himself off. How different is "Fashion" from "Fame"?
Heathen and Reality have clearly restored Bowie and his confidence. And, with the new discs capturing the classic sound, the old fans have started to come back. It probably helps that on this tour, Bowie revisits his entire catalogue. He may no longer pack stadiums, but he can sure sell out the Hard Rock for two nights, even without a hip co-headliner, bizarre theater set, or even a farewell-tour gimmick
Suddenly, just when he gave up trying so hard to be relevant, it is exciting to see David Bowie again. Even better, it's worth wondering what he'll do next. It is 2004, and David Bowie's missing years have come to an end.