A standout, title track with plenty of solid album filler is how many artists made their way in the studio. This was the case for David Bowie on his first three albums, though you can discount the self-titled debut, so beyond salvageable it is. The Man Who Sold the World banks on the instrumental thrill found in its title track and appears to have pushed Bowie in the right direction on future studio efforts. But there is a depth and detail to The Man Who Sold the World as an album that must be considered. A lull in quality comes for this third studio album, about midway through, but either end of it is a spectacle Bowie would build on and maintain for a decade. Glam rock prevails here, a style which suited Bowie so well, irrespective of persona. The Man Who Sold the World will receive rightful plaudits for its title track, but it’s not the only song to bring about this brilliant rock choice.
Opening track The Width of a Circle is an outstanding piece of work. That floaty, surrealist style of writing Bowie would rely on is backed by some assured and firm instrumental work. A loud bass line, an incredible guitar riff, and some weighty percussion gives the song a crucial new layer, one that was lacking on his previous two albums. They bring around a confidence, that’s what matters most. After such a strong opener, it’s all the harder to crash back down to earth. There is a nasty reality at play across The Man Who Sold the World outside of the opening track and its title song. An eight-minute opener is ambitious work from Bowie, but it’s a tremendous start. It separates the work before The Man Who Sold the World from the image he was now chasing, and succeeding, in creating.
Experimentation is crucial to Bowie’s work, it’s the guiding force that does, ultimately, decide which of his albums are essential listening experiences. The Man Who Sold the World comes close. All The Madmen is a sloppy piece of work but a great thrill all the same thanks to those instrumental overhauls and the well-layered claps and glam rock fundamentals. Bowie’s influence on the genre is clear, and those pioneering risks are what keeps The Man Who Sold the World alive as a repeatable listen. Songs like After All, though, are fine lines between the sound which dominated Bowie’s twee debut and psychedelic rock productivity. It’s a tricky line to walk and Bowie doesn’t quite get it here, despite how beautiful the acoustics are. Those “oh, by jingo,” vocal additions derail what is an incredibly atmospheric piece of work. Running Gun Blues is, too, a frankly poor effort because of how closely it ties with the vocal style which tanked David Bowie.
Both Saviour Machine and She Took Me Cold have this problem too, where Bowie hasn’t quite grasped at what he wants for himself lyrically. He would get there, of course, and The Man Who Sold the World feels like a complete shock considering the material featured before it. Bowie is still trying to push the influences on his writing style into place, hence The Superman and its somewhat ambitious adaptation of Friedrich Nietzsche’s work. But it marks just a tertiary point of the song, one which throws all those blues and glam rock fundamentals together in what serves as a satisfactory end to a satisfying album. The Man Who Sold the World would push Bowie that little bit further into a glam rock sound that he succeeded with for decades, but there are some hang-ups from his earlier work holding onto this release.
