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New Musical Express JULY 8, 1978 - by Nick Kent

BRILLIANT BOWIE... WITH ONE RESERVATION

David Bowie: Earl's Court, London

First, the most immediately impressive facets of David Bowie's opening night at Earl's Court last Thursday.

One, the general sound, as was the case during Dylan's sojourn there, was excellent, completely destroying all memories of Bowie's one prior shot at the 18,000 seater air-hangar in 1973 when, as Ziggy/Alladin Sane, his performance had been totally rendered null and void by a puny P.A. and criminal seating arrangements.

Two, Bowie's current back-up ensemble has to be his finest by many a mile; two guitars, synthesizer, piano, violin, bass and drums consistently spotlighting a heady diversity of material with a sense of precision and attention to multi-layered texturing that was on occasion, literally breath-taking.

Three, Bowie himself was in amazingly fine fettle. Gone was the condescending nonchalance of his Thin White Duke incarnation, ambling on and off-stage lighted Gauloise in hand, that I found so irredeemably irksome during the Station To Station tour, his previous four of the Home Counties.

On this showing, Bowie was constantly onstage, a model of agility, and physical grace, determinedly 'projecting' while singing loud and clear in a voice that has seldom sounded better.

Three blinding aces up the proverbial sleeve and it was obvious David Bowie was back performing with a vengeance, utilizing a cannily chosen cross-section of his '70's chameleon out-put so that no-one would leave his show feeling short-changed. And the mania that reached a steady pitch of quasi-hysteria as the second half of the show reached it's own version of a climax was really only to be expected.

The running order of songs on the night was virtually the same as that reported by one T. Parsons a couple of weeks back, commencing with the austere uncompromising cold music instrumental Warszawa (Carlos Alomar rather silly as conductor) before loosening up for the mock-heroic wall of sound histrionics of "Heroes" with Bowie as vocalist/performer.

From there on it was down to numerous dips into the new direction of Bowie's last two releases for the first half with a slightly perfunctory Jean Genie and a riveting Fame - an undeniable ensemble highpoint - as the only two back-tracks from the contemporary Bowie repertoire.

In the given context, the songs from Low's first side were shorn of their vinylised catatonic glaze and endowed with a power that made even the zombie-like utterances of Be My Wife animated good-natured burlesque. But where the neurotic blankness of Breaking Glass and What In The World sounded like high-speed subversive power pop, the grimmer portents of Beauty And The Beast from "Heroes" sounded somewhat lacklustre and lacking in venom.

Blackout, another "Heroes" gem, seemed too hurried.

The Bowie revue second half was the one for the fans, utilizing the lion's share of the "Ziggy Stardust" repertoire, which, though the band successfully transcended the archetypal power trio sound, and allowed Bowie to make with his best moves, somehow seemed too gratuitous a gesture, particularly in the light of last year's interviews wherein Bowie adamantly declared the ghost of Ziggy well and truly buried.

Whether or not the lengthy "Ziggy" section smacked of grand compromise to the fans or not, the fact remains that it's performance was powerful although in retrospect, it's tenacity recedes dully into the memory when the ensemble choose to unleash Station To Station.

This is the killer punch, even affording one the chance to forget a tepid and fumblingly melodramatic rendition of Kurt Weil's Moon Of Alabama (aye, that Dave can get deft as a brush when t'mood takes him). Guitarist Adrian Belew and synthesizer player Roger Powell work up a steaming head of electronic cacophony before the robotic rhythms of Alomar and Co lead Bowie into the fray. Now the band is flying and stays up there for a blistering encore of TVC15 and Stay, leaving even the most hard-bitten Bowie cynic awed by the sheer power of the sound and spectacle.

And that, when all is said and done, is all that needs to be said. Elsewhere, much has already been made about Bowie following Dylan's six nights at Earls Court, with all manner of dodgy comparisons and parallels being drawn. The only comparison I could draw, however, was that while Bowie impressed, Dylan moved me emotionally in a way that the former will, I can well imagine, never do. Because at heart David Bowie is as facile and limp as he is invariably brilliant with all his chameleon jestering and penchant for the sensational. Both Dylan and Bowie have bedazzled their audiences, throughout their respective careers by consistently confusing their expectations. Yet while Dylan's changes have been forced upon him by his muse and perceptions, Bowie's persona has always been totally self-conscious, with the outer gloss a shimmering sizzle of bedazzlement while the inner soul is unvariably limp, it there at all.

That shimmering sizzle, that fizzy brilliance that is undeniably attuned to Bowie's work, was all there on Thursday. It impressed me, it entertained me and very occasionally had me almost spell-bound.

It was a total success. To ask for more would be not only stupid but also futile.