telling lies : 1.outside print archive

1.outside

spin (10/95) - 6 - reasonably good - "...his most substantial album since scary monsters....there are few pop hooks and the dissonant, well-played arrangements often recall recent king crimson..."

melody maker (10/14/95) - "...a clattering, funk-based stream-of-consciousness sound collage....this 48-year-old man is closer to the futurist edge than most of the 18-year-old babies we regularly canonise in these pages..."

new musical express (9/23/95) 7/10- "...no, it isn't the hoped-for addition to the eno/bowie low, heroes, lodger avant pop run. it is more the rock opera of diamond dogs minus the glam, plus the f-f-f-fashion funk and the s&m gilbert & sullivans. a bit sicko, a bit dickensian, a bit future-past..."

3 stars

strange days indeed. the struggle for creative rebirth that has been david bowie's career since let's dance has finally and inexorably drawn him back to his '70s heyday. welcome back brian eno, control room conjuror of the innovative, though largely feeble-selling, berlin period; mike garson and his spidery piano tumblings, first heard on aladdin sane; carlos alomar, slick guitar charge from young americans on. it is, in essence, as if the '80s never happened.

this is not to suggest outside should in any way be considered a regressive move, since it is a clear statement of david bowie aligning himself with the times to produce (and let's not be coy about this) a concept album. first, apparently, in a series of works centred around fictional art detective nathan adler (as previewed in q100) and the inhabitants of the lynchian oxford town, america, the narrative of outside concerns itself with the art murder (a notion inspired by damien hirst's animal carcass in formaldehyde prank) of 14-year-old runaway baby grace. in between-song narrative segues, by way of voice synthesis, he assumes the roles of not only the victim, but suspects algeria touchshriek (a shady 78-year-old man) and-get this-body parts jewellery store owner ramona a. stone. in the album artwork david bowie's face is imprinted into weirdly brilliant computer collages featuring each of characters.

so far out, so good, and all this before you've heard a note. clearly the music on outside is not designed for heavy commercial rotation, and as a whole it's wildly eclectic, veering wide-eyed and sometimes hare-brained from techno (hallo spaceboy) to avant-jazz (a small plot of land) to the meandering epic of the title track. the entire back catalogue of david bowie vocal styles are employed to full, schizophrenic effect, often in the space of a few lines of lyrical cut-ups that frequently border on the impenetrably enigmatic. in the best moments, he offers the hypnotising noir ballad of the motel and the stylised collage funk of i have not been to oxford town, easily the stand-out, while deflatingly, our 14-track trawl through a seedy end-of-millennium landscape of interest drugs, brain patches and concept mugging leads us to the stodgy rock strangers when we meet, perhaps a tina turner duet had it featured on the grim tonight.

a bold and fascinating trip to offer his devoted listenership, outside is undoubtedly david bowie's most dense and uncompromising work since scary monsters, and, as suggested on black tie white noise, it's clear that he is once again imaginatively sparking with life. even so, regulars might feel short changed on the tune front, and those legions who came in on let's dance will most certainly be left completely and utterly bewildered. perhaps though, that's entirely the point.

tom doyle

rolling stone

issue 719, us edition

three stars

david bowie has made a career of being anything and everything other than himself. as rock & roll's consummate quick-change artist, he has created some of the greatest leading roles in the pop-art theater of the imagination: the bisexual charmer of hunky dory; the star-crossed alien lipstick-killer ziggy stardust; the white-soul dandy of young americans; that vampiric-looking beanpole the thin white duke; the disco sophisticate of let's dance.

but outside, bowie's first album since his 1993 debacle, black tie, white noise – and a highly anticipated studio reunion with brian eno, the co-architect of bowie's bench-mark berlin trilogy low, "heroes" and lodger – is way too much of a good thing. bowie's almost pathological fear of dropping all the masks, of simply reveling in the power of a good chorus and the soulful quiver of his maturing tenor, has driven him into multiple-personality overdrive and forced melodrama. the music – a potent collection of avant-garage riffs and rhythm notions co-written mostly with eno and echoing the weird science of low and "heroes" – feels shoehorned into the script with frustrating rigidity.

it didn't have to be that way. when his voice isn't being abused by synthetic effects to suit some plot device, bowie sings with full-bodied vigor and an affecting drama that suits the burned-orange tinge of his and eno's industrial-apocalypse soundscapes. bowie digs into the plastic rattling funk of "thru' these architects eyes" with a ragged enthusiasm, and his simple, shattering delivery of the words i shake in "the voyeur of utter destruction (as beauty)" broadcasts the homicidal delirium of the song much more effectively than the heavymental title.

indeed, it's the superfluous wordage – the intrusive spoken monologues, the jury-rigged cybernoir narrative, the overelaborate characterizations – that damn near sink the record. you can practically feel the weight of bowie's own description of his story line: "a nonlinear gothic drama hypercycle." outside is really just a confusing highbrow detective fable – sam spade meets neuromancer via naked lunch – laid out as the diary of nathan adler, a futurist shamus specializing in art-crime investigations (as opposed to crimes against art, which too often go unpunished in real life).

on outside, adler is wrapped up a little too tightly in the high-concept ritual murder of baby grace blue, an adolescent of undetermined sexuality. a colorful parade of riffraff with nifty handles like algeria touchshriek passes through the diary entries, but nothing much happens aside from bowie and adler's fevered meditations on sculpted gore and the violent possibilities of self-expression. (best line: "art's a farmyard. it's my job to pick thru the manure heap for the peppercorns.")

all that explication belies the smart, sharp stab of bowie's more effective lyric writing. the lines "poor dunce/he pushed back the pigmen/the barbs laughed/the fool is dead" in "a small plot of land," a looping piece of freakcabaret jazz, say much more about the long dark shadows and desperate, clawing evil poisoning of the outside world than all of bowie's prose wordplay. "i have not been to oxford town," the jail-house lament of a petty thief falsely accused of the murder, is delivered by bowie with a nice slice of wry: "and the prison priests are decent/my attorney seems sincere/i fear my days are numbered." (also note the song's sly reference to bowie's 1975 hit, "fame," in the skittering, metallic rhythm guitar.)

taken in parts (a bit like the poor, disassembled baby grace), outside has irresistible charms: the tense euro-dance propulsion of "the hearts filthy lesson"; the layered, circular-guitar locomotion of "voyeur...," like philip glass in a king crimson mood. "hello space-boy" is the sound of bowie and eno going nuclear on trent reznor's death-disco dance floor, hot-wiring the migraine gallop of iggy pop's "lust for life" into a ferociously distorted whirl of slaughterhouse jive.

it's too bad that bowie and eno don't allow themselves the luxury of a straightforward pop song until the very end. you have to wade through 19 tracks of conceptual mischief to get to the simple melodic development and swelling chorus of "strangers when we meet." the song doesn't do much for outside's lack of dramatic resolution (the last line in adler's diary is "to be continued...."). but it shows that eno can whip up great, uncomplicated pop when he lets his egghead defenses down and that in bowie's best work, a little drama still goes a long way.

DAVID FRICKE

by kieran grant

toronto sun

4/5

david bowie recently admitted that it's time to make records for himself again. outside should do him proud. with the help of brian eno, bowie explores an amalgam of ambient techno, art-rock, and his trademark croon.

the sprawling disc is bowie's most experimental work since he last enlisted eno's legendary sound-manipulation capabilities on the late '70s trilogy of low, heroes, and lodger. based around the fictional diaries of "art-crime" detective nathan adler, the narrative is loose and the arrangements meandering.

outside is at times a difficult ride, requiring the full attention of the listener. otherwise, the album becomes a series of solid tunes (outside, the hearts filthy lesson, hallo spaceboy, no control, strangers when we meet) linked by elaborate filler. but while bowie sometimes misses the mark as a storyteller, substituting pretentious monologues that only drop hints at the plot, the abstract musical scheme is intriguing.

moreover, outside puts bowie back where he belongs, outside.



	1.outside :: spin (10/95) - 6 - reasonably good - "...his most substantial album since scary monsters....there are few pop hooks and the dissonant, well-played arrangements often recall recent king crimson..." melody maker (10/14/95) - "...a clattering, funk-based stream-of-consciousness sound collage....this 48-year-old man is closer to the futurist edge than most of the 18-year-old babies we regularly canonise in these pages..." new musical express (9/23/95) 7/10- "...no, it isn't the hoped-for addition to the eno/bowie low, heroes, lodger avant pop run. it is more the rock opera of diamond dogs minus the glam, plus the f-f-f-fashion funk and the s&m gilbert & sullivans. a bit sicko, a bit dickensian, a bit future-past..." :: q 3 stars strange days indeed. the struggle for creative rebirth that has been david bowie's career since let's dance has finally and inexorably drawn him back to his '70s heyday. welcome back brian eno, control room conjuror of the innovative, though largely feeble-selling, berlin period; mike garson and his spidery piano tumblings, first heard on aladdin sane; carlos alomar, slick guitar charge from young americans on. it is, in essence, as if the '80s never happened. this is not to suggest outside should in any way be considered a regressive move, since it is a clear statement of david bowie aligning himself with the times to produce (and let's not be coy about this) a concept album. first, apparently, in a series of works centred around fictional art detective nathan adler (as previewed in q100) and the inhabitants of the lynchian oxford town, america, the narrative of outside concerns itself with the art murder (a notion inspired by damien hirst's animal carcass in formaldehyde prank) of 14-year-old runaway baby grace. in between-song narrative segues, by way of voice synthesis, he assumes the roles of not only the victim, but suspects algeria touchshriek (a shady 78-year-old man) and-get this-body parts jewellery store owner ramona a. stone. in the album artwork david bowie's face is imprinted into weirdly brilliant computer collages featuring each of characters. so far out, so good, and all this before you've heard a note. clearly the music on outside is not designed for heavy commercial rotation, and as a whole it's wildly eclectic, veering wide-eyed and sometimes hare-brained from techno (hallo spaceboy) to avant-jazz (a small plot of land) to the meandering epic of the title track. the entire back catalogue of david bowie vocal styles are employed to full, schizophrenic effect, often in the space of a few lines of lyrical cut-ups that frequently border on the impenetrably enigmatic. in the best moments, he offers the hypnotising noir ballad of the motel and the stylised collage funk of i have not been to oxford town, easily the stand-out, while deflatingly, our 14-track trawl through a seedy end-of-millennium landscape of interest drugs, brain patches and concept mugging leads us to the stodgy rock strangers when we meet, perhaps a tina turner duet had it featured on the grim tonight. a bold and fascinating trip to offer his devoted listenership, outside is undoubtedly david bowie's most dense and uncompromising work since scary monsters, and, as suggested on black tie white noise, it's clear that he is once again imaginatively sparking with life. even so, regulars might feel short changed on the tune front, and those legions who came in on let's dance will most certainly be left completely and utterly bewildered. perhaps though, that's entirely the point. tom doyle :: rolling stone issue 719, us edition three stars david bowie has made a career of being anything and everything other than himself. as rock & roll's consummate quick-change artist, he has created some of the greatest leading roles in the pop-art theater of the imagination: the bisexual charmer of hunky dory; the star-crossed alien lipstick-killer ziggy stardust; the white-soul dandy of young americans; that vampiric-looking beanpole the thin white duke; the disco sophisticate of let's dance. but outside, bowie's first album since his 1993 debacle, black tie, white noise – and a highly anticipated studio reunion with brian eno, the co-architect of bowie's bench-mark berlin trilogy low, "heroes" and lodger – is way too much of a good thing. bowie's almost pathological fear of dropping all the masks, of simply reveling in the power of a good chorus and the soulful quiver of his maturing tenor, has driven him into multiple-personality overdrive and forced melodrama. the music – a potent collection of avant-garage riffs and rhythm notions co-written mostly with eno and echoing the weird science of low and "heroes" – feels shoehorned into the script with frustrating rigidity. it didn't have to be that way. when his voice isn't being abused by synthetic effects to suit some plot device, bowie sings with full-bodied vigor and an affecting drama that suits the burned-orange tinge of his and eno's industrial-apocalypse soundscapes. bowie digs into the plastic rattling funk of "thru' these architects eyes" with a ragged enthusiasm, and his simple, shattering delivery of the words i shake in "the voyeur of utter destruction (as beauty)" broadcasts the homicidal delirium of the song much more effectively than the heavymental title. indeed, it's the superfluous wordage – the intrusive spoken monologues, the jury-rigged cybernoir narrative, the overelaborate characterizations – that damn near sink the record. you can practically feel the weight of bowie's own description of his story line: "a nonlinear gothic drama hypercycle." outside is really just a confusing highbrow detective fable – sam spade meets neuromancer via naked lunch – laid out as the diary of nathan adler, a futurist shamus specializing in art-crime investigations (as opposed to crimes against art, which too often go unpunished in real life). on outside, adler is wrapped up a little too tightly in the high-concept ritual murder of baby grace blue, an adolescent of undetermined sexuality. a colorful parade of riffraff with nifty handles like algeria touchshriek passes through the diary entries, but nothing much happens aside from bowie and adler's fevered meditations on sculpted gore and the violent possibilities of self-expression. (best line: "art's a farmyard. it's my job to pick thru the manure heap for the peppercorns.") all that explication belies the smart, sharp stab of bowie's more effective lyric writing. the lines "poor dunce/he pushed back the pigmen/the barbs laughed/the fool is dead" in "a small plot of land," a looping piece of freakcabaret jazz, say much more about the long dark shadows and desperate, clawing evil poisoning of the outside world than all of bowie's prose wordplay. "i have not been to oxford town," the jail-house lament of a petty thief falsely accused of the murder, is delivered by bowie with a nice slice of wry: "and the prison priests are decent/my attorney seems sincere/i fear my days are numbered." (also note the song's sly reference to bowie's 1975 hit, "fame," in the skittering, metallic rhythm guitar.) taken in parts (a bit like the poor, disassembled baby grace), outside has irresistible charms: the tense euro-dance propulsion of "the hearts filthy lesson"; the layered, circular-guitar locomotion of "voyeur...," like philip glass in a king crimson mood. "hello space-boy" is the sound of bowie and eno going nuclear on trent reznor's death-disco dance floor, hot-wiring the migraine gallop of iggy pop's "lust for life" into a ferociously distorted whirl of slaughterhouse jive. it's too bad that bowie and eno don't allow themselves the luxury of a straightforward pop song until the very end. you have to wade through 19 tracks of conceptual mischief to get to the simple melodic development and swelling chorus of "strangers when we meet." the song doesn't do much for outside's lack of dramatic resolution (the last line in adler's diary is "to be continued...."). but it shows that eno can whip up great, uncomplicated pop when he lets his egghead defenses down and that in bowie's best work, a little drama still goes a long way. :: DAVID FRICKE by kieran grant toronto sun 4/5 david bowie recently admitted that it's time to make records for himself again. outside should do him proud. with the help of brian eno, bowie explores an amalgam of ambient techno, art-rock, and his trademark croon. the sprawling disc is bowie's most experimental work since he last enlisted eno's legendary sound-manipulation capabilities on the late '70s trilogy of low, heroes, and lodger. based around the fictional diaries of "art-crime" detective nathan adler, the narrative is loose and the arrangements meandering. outside is at times a difficult ride, requiring the full attention of the listener. otherwise, the album becomes a series of solid tunes (outside, the hearts filthy lesson, hallo spaceboy, no control, strangers when we meet) linked by elaborate filler. but while bowie sometimes misses the mark as a storyteller, substituting pretentious monologues that only drop hints at the plot, the abstract musical scheme is intriguing. moreover, outside puts bowie back where he belongs, outside. :: ::