A Year With Bowie [Part 3] – February

As a child, he could play practically anything he turned his hand to. However, rock music caused Mick Ronson to move away from his beloved cello into murkier waters, making his stage debut as a guitarist at the age of 17. Born in Hull, he made the inevitable trip to London in 1965, playing in a succession of bands, before disillusionment drove him back to his home town. However, he made enough of an impression for drummer John Cambridge to make the trip north to recruit him for a band called The Hype. This band was formed to provide backing for David Bowie, featuring Tony Visconti on bass. From here on, Ronson would enjoy a long association with Bowie, becoming a Spider From Mars and providing exhilarating guitar work for some of his finest work.

Rejecting the more considered, pastoral sounds of his second album, Bowie attacks The Man Who Sold The World with new found vigour, stimulated by his new backing band. The production is deep and rumbling, heavy with echo, progressive at time, redolent of Black Sabbath and other exponents of the harder musical edge. Although involved in composition, as the newly married Bowie was otherwise engaged the album was largely created and arranged by Ronson and Visconti. Regardless, there is no doubt, lyrically and musically, that Bowie had full creative control over the feel of this release.

Opening track ‘The Width of a Circle’ is a revelation, a shifting piece of progressive rock that has movements like a symphony. The twee, Anthony Newley wannabee of the 60′s completely evaporates as Bowie crafts a piece full of thumping riffs, and unsettling lyrics. ‘All the Madmen’ uses shrill, discordant flutes, further enhancing the general impression that pixies and the odd warlock might waltz into view at any moment. Thankfully, ‘Black Country Rock’ dismisses all these mystical pondering, slamming in with a cracking riff and a tight, classic rock arrangement.

After these three rather wonderful tracks, things come to a grinding halt with ‘After All’, the whimsical Bowie of old returning with naff lyrics and music that attempts to be different but just sounds irritating, keyboards snuffling and farting. ‘Running Gun Blues’ is not much better, ‘Saviour Machine’ taking us back to the progressive sounds evident at the start. ‘She Shook Me Cold’ reverberates like a Bowie pastiche of The White Stripes (ever the pioneer, doing this decades before their creation), and then ‘The Superman’, with vocals about lower case gods spat through clenched teeth.

And then the title track, which is great. Made famous by Lulu and latterly Nirvana, it has an amazing guitar line, full of loss and yearning, with scraped percussion and a rolling bassline. Bowie’s vocal is rich and full of echo, at times sounding as if he has been cast to the bottom of a well with only a microphone for company. The only thing going against it is the age of its stereo production, in particular the early 70′s habit of isolating tracks to one side only, casting percussion firmly in one ear and bass in the other. This minor quibble aside, it’s a fine song, on an average album.

I really thought I was going to fall for Hunky Dory in a big way. Everyone seems to love it. My wife adores it – it being the only Bowie album she owns (a vinyl copy pinched off her eldest sister). I myself hadn’t properly listened to it for a long time, and placed it on my stereo with fervent excitement. And I have to admit mild disappointment. Sure, it contains three of the finest songs of his career, and possibly (with the possible exception of ‘Heroes’) his finest vocal performance of all time on ‘Life On Mars’. But the whole album left me mildly dissatisfied.

It starts brilliantly. ‘Changes’, when you really listen to it, is a triumph. The way it builds in its introduction and then strips back down to piano and vocal is a revelation in song construction. These days, songs seem to lack light and shade, pummelling you into submission by sounding the same throughout. Here, Bowie makes the good bits exciting by allowing the song to calm down in-between, forcing you to get your breath back before tumbling into the chorus. ‘All You Pretty Things’ deploys a similar trick, and then ‘Life On Mars’, mysterious and dramatic in equal measure, like watching a stage show condensed into a song.

But after this, I find little to make me want to return. Maybe it’s because I still have his debut album ringing in my ears, but much of Hunky Dory reminds me of how naff he was when he started. ‘Kooks’ wouldn’t sound out of place amid Love You Till Tuesday and There Is A Happy Land, whereas ‘Song for Bob Dylan’ and ‘Andy Warhol’ just grate, particularly the latter which is repetitive and boring. ‘The Bewlay Brothers’ I find particularly annoying, a mess of a song, overblown and baffling lyrically.

However, it’s not all bad, as we have ‘Queen Bitch’, which is the kind of song Bowie does perfectly. Mick Ronson’s guitar is loud and strident, thick lines of sound over the smattering of acoustic guitar and a fine vocal performance. More of this would not have gone amiss to me over the rest of the album. I realise I may be in the minority here, so please don’t me mean to me if you disagree – but I just didn’t take to Hunky Dory as much as I thought I would.

Other than a brief dalliance on Black Tie, White Noise, Ronson’s association with Bowie ended on the covers album Pin-Ups. He continued his musical career with a string of solo albums, also working with other musicians throughout the 80′s as both guitarist and producer. The early 90′s saw him work with Morrissey on Your Arsenal, and record with the Wildhearts. Sadly, he died in 1993 of cancer, aged just 46. He remains a key component of all things Bowie, helping him to shape his sound. He would also take to the stage with a certain Ziggy Stardust, of which more next time.

The Man Who Sold The World 56%
Hunky Dory 65%

A Year With Bowie
A Year with Bowie