★

January 11 at 11:10pm ·


It's a post modern amalgamation of avant garde jazzmanship stirred into a potent rallying call for transgressive artistry worldwide. All seven songs push the envelope of the commercial mainstream past the shattering point. Each one does so in its own way. Some by virtue of their musical conception and length. Others for their savage lyrical attack which leave virtually no stone in our frigid culture unturned. Hearing it the first time my senses were so sharpened I swear I thought I caught subtle cues and references from blind pariahs like Kanye to lost jaded sirens like Beth Gibbons. I was born upside down. I was born the wrong way round. We're all Blackstars. We're not new stars. We're not wandering stars. Man she punched me like a dude. 'Tis a pity she was a whore. 'Tis my fate I suppose. That was patrol. That was patrol. This is war. 'Tis a pity she was a whore. Man I'm so high it makes my brain whirl. Dropped my cellphone down below. Ain't that just like me. Here's an album crafted with all the elements of classic records of the past. One twelve inch vinyl platter. Seven cuts from start to finish. I'm still marveling that he managed to consecrate this album to eternity just two days after his sixty-ninth birthday. I heard recently from someone that if you make it past your sixty-ninth, you gain another twelve years or so. Something tells me this must be true. Major Tom took this exit route through the Tannhauser Gate. There's something too canny in the way everything lined up. Hold on Side 1 just ended. I've got to go flip the record over now and listen to Side 2 again. The new version of Sue (Or In A Season Of Crime) is truly a jump forward into progressive popular funk blending and twisting into a sinister symphony awash in creepy beats stirring up a steady downbeat rhythm flowing on in weird and inventive ways. The original version released last year was a modest exercise in sophisticated noir jazz, all shadows and fog. On the album proper it sounds as if it were beamed in from outer space by a radio transmission from a distant exoplanet. I could listen to the music on this album forever. Bowie's crooned narration on this song borderlines on malevolent intent and blurs the murderous with a lovelorn longing I don't think I've ever heard elsewhere. When I first heard the beginning of Girl Loves Me I could not believe my ears. A song sung in Nadsat how about that. Where the fuck did Monday go. Talk about horrorshow.      #Blackstar