The aging rock star is a phenomenon uniquely relevant to today's cultural climate. Many of the pop icons we connect with the '60s, '70s, and '80s have continued to release new albums into the '90s and today, long after their "prime." Bob Dylan, Mick Jagger, Lou Reed, Blondie--the list goes on. Fans and critics have debated the merits of such artists' continuing presence, with some finding hopeful evidence that rock stars don't burn out and others seeing such late-career efforts as pathetic attempts to cling to the past.
David Bowie, whose career exploded over 30 years ago, has undoubtedly entered the territory of this debate with his recent releases. With Reality (Sony), the question persists: has Bowie "matured as an artist," or has he simply gotten old?
I'd have to vote for the latter. Maybe this isn't the best way to convince you of my critical authority, but my love for David Bowie is based on the fact that he confounds me. He never really fit into the general scheme of things that made sense culturally; he just snuck onto the pop landscape and, inexplicably, won over our hearts. He delivered weird, enigmatic lyrics as if he were just born a rock star with the authority to declare these things; he was a drama queen without ever telling us what exactly the drama was. There was nothing real about him; therein lay his appeal, and therein lies the problem with Reality. It's not that the songwriting is sub-par or unoriginal; it's that, ultimately, Bowie has abandoned that theatrical presence that once made him so fundamentally lovable.
A number of the album's songs, particularly "New Killer Star," "Pablo Picasso," and "Reality," are catchy, but, in the end, they lack the dramatic exuberance that made Bowie's past hits memorable. Bowie's presence on Reality just isn't strong enough to pull the album through. The songs feel so low-key, so grounded, so--shudder--earnest.
I don't have a problem with Bowie being serious, per se. My problem is that, on Reality, he takes himself too seriously. In the past, he has sung solemnly about Ziggy Stardust or Major Tom, but, well, he was singing about Ziggy Stardust or Major Tom. Now, instead of that take-it-with-a-grain-of-salt melodrama or that goofily charming, over-the-top egoism, Bowie has decided to sing about reality. He has reinvented himself as (again, shudder) a mature artist, soberly accepting his old age. On this note, "Never Get Old" is the most intriguing track. Bowie's slightly strained delivery, over a sometimes discordant synthesizer, suggests he means the title partly as an ironic denial of his inescapable fate. Bowie seems to have abandoned his old self (or selves) as a way of proving that he has turned and faced the changes, coming to terms with his aging. The problem is, it doesn't seem like his music has benefited from this move. When it comes to pop music, reality should not necessarily be valued over fantasy, and comfortably accepting old age is not necessarily a plus. For some reason--denial of their own fears about aging comes to mind--many critics have jumped to applaud aging rock stars for "dealing earnestly" with this subject, giving them extra props simply for continuing to create in the face of aging. Instead, critics should be judging whether or not the aging rocker is still effectively and innovatively exploiting the pop music medium, in the context of the self-image he or she has already established.
So is it ever possible to reconcile aging with rocking? I think so. I can imagine an ideal Bowie, growing old but still creating; he would just have to give up this newfound groundedness and go back to Mars. If this is what Bowie's mature reality sounds like, then I'll take his youthful fantasy, in all its galvanic, glam glory.