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These compelling forces aren’t as obviously present in the more standard rock/pop vocal tracks that comprise the rest of Buddha.
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Indeed, Bowie states in the liner notes that, during the making of this album, he was meditating on “dozens of personal 70’s memories”, many of which he lists these include major sources like Pink Floyd and Eno, alongside more obscure musical reference points like the German group Neu and composer Harry Partch, plus cultural touchstones such as drugs and drag (oh, and his mum… awww). The others, meanwhile, more closely resemble David’s classic ambient collaborations with Brian Eno. Thanks to guest pianist 3D Echo and the horn playing of both Bowie and multi-instrumentalist Erdal Kizilcay, “South Horizon” takes on jazzy textures and an improvisational flair. This fine trio of tracks resembles the more abstract soundscapes of his 1977 albums’ flipsides. Bowie hadn’t allowed himself to work in these kinds of open spaces since the ’70s, and the looser structures pay off. The record features three instrumental pieces: “South Horizon”, “The Mysterie”, and “Ian Fish, U.K. Probably because of this, parts of The Buddha of Suburbia do feel like entries from a soundtrack. Still, Bowie did borrow and rework some of the themes he’d developed.
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No, this was a proper David Bowie release, with only its title track actually appearing in the TV show. Confusingly, the album of the same name that resulted was not a soundtrack.
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Later that same year, he became involved in composing music for a BBC television series called The Buddha of Suburbia. First came White Tie White Noise, an album of middling tunes encased in the stylistic trappings of the recently above-grounded electronic dance music scene. As he did in 1977, Bowie issued two CDs of new music in 1993. Not long after this ill-advised period in the recording history of David Bowie (1984 to 1991), he began to slowly climb his way back up off the mat (hey, the guy likes to box, so I’m allowed one pugilism cliché, right?).
On the other end of this spectrum, though, how could anyone issue something as marginal as 1989’s Tin Machine and then decide to follow that up two years later with the sonically similar (read: blah) Tin Machine II? But they were both incredible albums masterpieces, I’d say. In many ways, 1977’s “Heroes” was just another take on Low.
Again, this is true from the top to the bottom of his oeuvre. So much so, that, when he didn’t alter his tactics between releases, that is what became interesting. These radical shifts in personae aside, though, Bowie almost always made fairly major changes to his approach from album to album. He’s Ziggy one year and the Thin White Duke the next. Yeah, I know that you already know about this trait of his. Everything he puts out is at least interesting, even if what’s interesting about a given LP is how horrible it is.Īnother reason that each of Bowie’s efforts offers at least a whiff of intrigue is that he’s the ultimate chameleon. This broad range in the quality of releases can be frustrating for fans, but this same phenomenon is what makes every Bowie album worth investigating. From the stratospheric greatness of Ziggy Stardust, it’s a horrifying plunge into the lazy pap of 1987’s ironically titled Never Let Me Down. I can’t think of another musical act whose discography offers greater highs or more abominable lows than David Bowie’s.
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