1973’s Pin Ups is the least essential of David Bowie’s 1970s studio LPs. An album of not-so-old oldies released as a stop-gap album to appease RCA Records, it was yet another example of the backwards-looking trend that took hold in the early to mid-seventies. The Band released Moonlight Matinee the same year Pin Ups hit the record shelves, and John Lennon’s Rock ‘n’ Roll was released two years later. Taking stock of the past seemed to be the order of the day.
But Pin Ups differed from those albums because it didn’t look to the distant past. Moonlight Matinee included songs like Clarence “Frogman” Henry’s 1956 hit “Ain’t Got No Home,” while on Rock ‘n’ Roll Lennon played tribute to songs as geriatric as Larry Williams’ 1957 hit “Bony Moronie.” But Bowie didn’t give a glitter fig about the likes of “Ain’t Got No Home.” Pin Ups was a nostalgic homage to the songs he loved as a teenager, and whose posters may have covered his bedroom walls. Hence the LP’s title.
On Pin Ups Bowie glams up beloved songs by bands working in a variety of genres, including beat music, English blues rock, mod rock, psychedelic rock and so on. The teen Bowie fanatically followed the latest trends, just like millions of other English kids who tuned in religiously to BBC’s Radio 1 and television’s Top of the Pops. You didn’t get your news from all the young dudes—you got it from your transistor radio and the telly.
Recording and releasing Pin Ups was, in one sense, was an ironic act on Bowie’s part. He released it at a time when the Glam Revolution was burying the very bands—with a few exceptions—he covers on the album. Sure, he gives the songs a glitter makeover, but paying tribute to the acts you helped make passe has the whiff of the perverse to it. The Glitter Rage promised starmen descending to Earth, moonage daydreams, and a coming apocalypse. And how do you compete with that? The likes of The Yardbirds, The Merseys, The Mojos, and The Easybeats belonged in Jurassic Park—they played the boring music your older sister listened to in her bedroom.
Pin Ups’ artistic downfall stems from the fact that its covers are almost universally inferior to their originals. Much of this is due to the LP’s thin, frigid, and brittle sound, which stands in stark contrast to the living breathing look-what-we-just-did excitement of the originals. And while there’s no denying Bowie’s mannered histrionics take the songs into Glam territory—which was, obviously, the point—the approach often backfires.
Take for instance his vocal flourishes on Them’s 1964 hit “Here Comes the Night,” which simply don’t mesh with the song and pale in comparison to Van Morrison’s impassioned Irish soul. And his take on The Who’s 1965 song “Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere” lacks the flash immediacy of the original, despite Bowie’s biting vocals and Mick Ronson’s guitar zoom and nice arrangement.
Likewise, his interpretation of The Yardbirds’ 1964 debut single “I Wish You Would” sounds refrigerator frigid compared to the original: Keith Relf’s harmonica isn’t there to warm things up, and the sound is downright antiseptic. The Yardbirds intended the single to sound like it might on stage, while Bowie’s version sounds like it was produced in a test tube in an antiseptic laboratory. It also sounds rushed—I’m a big fan of speed, but the tempo on “I Wish You Would” verges on hysteria.
The opposite problem bedevils his cover of The Who’s “I Can’t Explain.” Bowie slows it to a crawl and gives it a bloated feel, and nothing, not Ronson’s superb guitar work, Bowie’s saxophone, or the glam backing vocals can save it. I like his theatrical vocal approach to The Yardbirds’ “Shapes of Things” despite the fact that it borders on self-parody. I also like the way he moves the song in a neo-psychedelic space age direction, thanks in large part to his handy Moog synthesizer.
The album’s best track is the wonderfully detailed and quite charming cover of The Merseys’ “Sorrow.” Bowie shows some restraint on vocals and his saxophone solo is a show stopper, as is Mike Garson’s harpsichord. I could complain that it lacks the original’s garage rock feel, but that was the point of Glam—to take music as far from the grease pit as possible. Artifice was all, and in this regard Bowie’s version is a triumph.
Bowie’s adaptation of The Mojos’s 1964 song “Everything’s Alright” lacks the original’s Beatles-like sound and naive enthusiasm; Bowie’s in great voice, Ronson’s guitar solo is a stunner, and Garson’s piano has his characteristically jazzy sound, but the song is too sterile for its own good. And Bowie simply can’t compete with the Pretty Things’ vocalist Phil May—who sounds like Mick Jagger on a speed binge—on his version of 1964’s “Rosalyn.” And as is the case in several other instances, his cover doesn’t benefit from his abandoning the song’s mechanic appeal.
Bowie’s vocals are all over the place on his more or less straight-up cover of The Easybeats’ 1966 worldwide hit “Friday on My Mind,” and once again his cover lacks the naïve charm of the original. He sounds more desperate than chipper—as was the case with the original—but then again aren’t we always desperate to make it to the close of the work week? Bowie’s take on The Kinks’ 1965 song “Where Have All the Good Times Gone” has its advantages and disadvantages. On the positive side Ronson’s guitar is razor sharp and ups the metal quotient, but on the negative side Ray Davies’ accent is missed. Bowie may have been a great mimic, but Davies was a step too far.
Finally, try as he might Bowie simply can’t match the Day-Glo brilliance of the Pink Floyd psychedelic classic “See Emily Play,” with its backward tapes, heavy use of echo and reverb, and mind-warping studio effects. That said, the hard rock approach Bowie takes works well, as does the virtuoso piano work of Garson, whose solo on “Aladdin Sane” is one of the most extraordinary passages in rock. And the controlled chaos at the end is nice too.
Pin Ups is far, very far, from a complete loss. Every one of its songs is eminently listenable, and it’s a must own for Bowie fans. But there’s a reason my friends and I rarely put it on, and the reason is it disrupted the narrative arc of Bowie’s chameleon-like progress as an artist. Pin Ups put it all on hold and left us in limbo, and didn’t further his artistic odyssey a whit. It was, in effect, a musical cul-de-sac created by an artist whose fundamental characteristic was captured in “Changes.” 1974’s David Live was mediocre at best, but it least it served a function. The same can’t be said for Pin Ups. Ch-ch-ch-changes? For-for-for-get about it.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B-
