David Bowie – Self-Titled Review

Decades of work and, eventually, David Bowie would sound very different to what he offered on his debut. His self-titled start is far away from the glam rock revolution he would create on The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars. Getting to that point would take time, and through talent and luck, Bowie got there. But it wasn’t easy getting there, as is evidenced by his debut album. Those who cannot remove the Bowie they know with the early years will struggle to listen to David Bowie. Remove the history and context of Bowie’s influence on music across several decades, and you get to the core of his debut album. This is not meant to revolutionise, merely claim a spot in the charts. It didn’t quite work out that way but when every artist was swishing around with bowl cuts and a contemporary sound closer to The Beatles than any Stateside influence, it feels inevitable that Bowie would buckle to those same sounds. David Bowie is not all bad, though.  

There are a few moments of interest you can latch onto. But remove the Bowie name though and the project has an unbearable feeling to it. What we now know of Bowie’s success as a songwriter will, to some degree, elevate even the worst of his work. His debut is so far removed from what would define his career, but all great artists must start somewhere. It’s pretty embarrassing material in hindsight, but it’s about right for the context of the times. Opening song Uncle Arthur is a jolly, slice of life song which would sound a bit better if it had a rocked-out tone from The Kinks. It’s cultural signposting, from Batman comics to the nuclear family being a foundation for all the experiences of life. Oddly catchy though, and for all the warbling shortcomings, it’s a nice start to David Bowie. It does little for his image and, with the benefit of hindsight, feels moderately embarrassing, but it shows Bowie has an ear for the humdrum theatrics.  

Sell Me a Coat and Rubber Band are likeable efforts, more for their brass additions than any of the lyrics. Bowie writes with a spring in his step, the everyday seeming like a utopian dream of moustache-twirling, flowery occasions. There’s a lack of balance in the theme and tone. Scones and tea are the fixtures, and even when Bowie references lonely afternoons on Rubber Band, it never feels like a lasting malaise. It’s far from unlistenable material. Songs like There is a Happy Land play around with tones of escapism though it falls somewhat short by playing up the cliches of youth. Irrespective of those lyrical shortcomings is the easy-listening-like strengths of the instrumentals and the soft, clean-sounding voice Bowie has.  

Both would vanish from his albums in future because the grit and ruthless experimentation offers Bowie at his best. But it does make for a nice, if underwhelming, listen. When I Live My Dream highlights how Bowie could very easily have carved a comfy career in singer-songwriter stylings. Thankfully, he didn’t. David Bowie is a one-off and still worth a listen. That lightness only lasts so long, and unfortunately for Bowie, it becomes a real drag hearing him play up this tone. Instrumentally, there are some striking moments, like with She’s Got Medals, but the lyrical choices are unremarkable at best. A stream of consciousness is what Bowie is trying to grasp here but he relies all too much on his immediate surroundings, the London town and older generation, their actions informing the response of characters featured in these songs. Nothing dreadful, but it remains a very underwhelming experience that serves only to scratch a historical itch.