A little reminder, DB onstage in Glasgow a couple of
weeks ago, the last show played on his A Reality Tour.
Like that sailor leaves, comes back again...
It is with much relief that I can tell you David will definitely ("unless anything unexpected happens") play Montreal tomorrow night. (Saturday) He confirmed the good news on the message boards this evening thus: Montreal - I'm there...or bust - Sailor.
So, spread the word, phase two of David Bowie's A Reality Tour will now kick of in Montreal on Saturday December 13th.
As you all know, the fun continues when David nips back over the border in time for Monday's show at MSG in NY, a show that A.D. Amorosi of the
While the press has labelled Springsteen?s The Rising as pop music?s most intense display of Manhattan?s loss, allow me to nominate someone less sentimental and, perhaps, even grander in his optimism: David Bowie. As the original alien/androgyne in New York, Bowie?s played it cool since his glam touchdown: walking in Warhol?s shoes, toeing the Velvet line, languorously playing the Jean Genie in an always a-go-go New York while presenting lyrics rife with low-level anxiety and nagging fear. If it weren?t the "side effects of the cocaine" that made him spill things across the carpets of Station to Station and Low?his robo-disco classics?he envisioned Scary Monsters with a rocking sound and vision most dissonant.
Bowie placed himself within an apocalyptic post-9/11 environs on 2002?s Heathen (ISO/Columbia). While that record questioned the gods that betrayed Lower Manhattan with Nietzsche-ian anger and a forlorn graceful voice at one with his finest croonings, its gloomy mood and Heroes-like ambience offered mere slivers of light that demanded "A Better Future." For his latest CD, 2003?s Reality, a relaxed, art-rocking Bowie casually but intelligently flits down sunshiny streets along Riverside, Battery Park and the Hudson. Though he spies "great white scars" ("New Killer Star") and women "sick with fear and cold" ("She?ll Drive the Big Car") while strumming noir-ish vibraphonic rock chords, Bowie remains opulently open to the bright future-forward possibilities that everything?s okay. In fact, rather than succumb to the wounded weariness that Springsteen has, Reality?s dripping lounge-lizard finale, "Bring Me the Disco King," feels jazzy, dark and invigorating, as if appropriating another of Bowie?s indulgent icons, Frank Sinatra.
Perhaps, rather than bookends to Bruce?s baleful soliloquies, Heathen and Reality are closer in spirit and tone to Sinatra?s Trilogy, a three-record set whose centerpiece?an epic, orchestrated "New York New York"?was set in a time of strife and victory, of piss and vinegar, for the city that never sleeps. Bowie has finally become what he once promised: a Sinatra for the modern age, whose sadness and sweetness are at one with his own theatrical reality.
Very well put sir. Welcome back David, your return to good health has made a fair few thousand people very happy indeed.