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Considering that even David Bowie himself disowned his 1967 self-titled debut, Space Oddity is—for all intents and purposes—his real debut to the world. Not only does it contain his earliest hit (the immortal title track), but most of the rest of the songs are no slouches.
Following up the classic title-track is the unrefined rock-n-roll of “Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed,” a not-so-remarkable track that’s enjoyable to listen to while it’s playing, but nothing to write home about. Afterwards comes “Letter to Hermione,” a song that should stand as exhibit A if one were to prove that Bowie could write a tender-hearted ballad with the best of them whenever he felt like doing so. Then there’s the nearly ten-minute “Cygnet Committee,” whose titanic length and prog-tinged brand of folk rock details a dystopian landscape in blistering detail. Opening side two comes “Janine,” the closest thing the album has to a throwaway pop song, but still enjoyable while it’s playing. Then, the tracklist moves on into “An Occasional Dream,” a track that tackles the subject of Hermione Farthingale, but from a different tone than “Letter to Hermione.” Which segues into “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud,” easily the track which owes the greatest debt to baroque pop and features some of David’s best singing on the whole record. Following that comes “God Knows I’m Good,” a folk-and-blues based number about a woman who shoplifts in order to avoid starvation. As for the album’s final track, “Memory of a Free Festival” contains two drastically-different halves: a morose woodwind-driven opening followed by a finale reminiscent of “Hey Jude” by The Beatles.
In regards to lyrical content, the title track appears as an outlier among the rest of the album. On one hand, Space Oddity contains songs such as “Letter to Hermione” and “An Occasional Dream,” which are folk ballads written after Bowie’s break-up with his first love, Hermione Farthingale. On another, both “Cygnet Committee” and “Memory of a Free Festival” demonstrate (to put it mildly) reservations regarding the hippie movement that had co-opted Bowie as one of their own, but in markedly different ways.
Although appearance and fashion remain cornerstones of how David Bowie defined himself, Bowie’s appearance at this stage of his career was relatively modest and unassuming. Which starkly contrasts with the androgynous personas (most famously Ziggy Stardust) that Bowie would adopt over the following decade.
Perhaps most importantly is that Space Oddity marked David Bowie’s introduction to his long-time musical associate Tony Visconti. Although Visconti is credited with “flutes, woodwinds” on the title-track and as the producer of one track (“Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed”), he’d end up being Bowie’s longest-lasting collaborator—producing thirteen of Bowie’s albums. Many of those albums—including the run from 1977-1980 as well as Blackstar—are among Bowie’s finest, so collaborations between the two more-often-than-not brought out the best in both people.
“Space Oddity” (5:16)
At the time of this writing, it’s almost hard to believe that this song—the earliest ‘hit’ in David Bowie’s catalog—has crossed the half-century milestone in 2019. That span of time and how “Space Oddity” has endured in the public imagination belies how it’s ostensibly a novelty song—a genre of music known for an incredibly-short lifespan. That David Bowie sparked his career with the most-famous novelty song ever written remains a testament to Bowie’s unorthodox approach towards music—and proof that Bowie’s instinctual oddities were present right at the beginning of his career. And the occasion of the increasing Space Race between the USA and the USSR (not to mention the moon landing later in 1969) were events which prompted the public to co-opt “Space Oddity” as a song that captured the zeitgeist of the moment.
Which leaves one wondering how a song seemingly tailor-made for a specific historical moment has not only remained one of David Bowie’s most iconic songs (in fact, it’s among his five most-played songs by Spotify listeners), but a staple of popular music—rock or otherwise. Coming to such a conclusion demands looking at the song’s mixture of sparse folk-esque acoustic guitar and lush melllotron arrangements (played by a then-unknown Rick Wakeman—later known as the keyboard wizard of progressive rock band Yes) as a pitch-perfect embodiment of spaceflight. Of course, that image of a spaceman can mean many different things to many different people: with isolation, uncharted territory, risk, wonder, and terror all serving as valid interpretations. Furthermore, there’s evidence suggesting that the meaning of “Space Oddity” changed for Bowie himself. But explaining that requires a look at one of Bowie’s enduring characters: Major Tom.
In one literal reading, Major Tom is a mere astronaut who’s met with a nasty surprise (more on that later). But the existence of David Bowie’s 1980 song “Ashes to Ashes” (with the chorus containing the lines “Ashes to ashes, funk to funky./We know Major Tom’s a junkie”) retroactively forces one to reconsider “Space Oddity” as a drug song. And with Bowie’s tendency to keep himself behind personas during much of the 70’s, the repudiation of Major Tom in “Ashes to Ashes” serves as Bowie turning his back on a past that led him down the road to addiction. Even moreso, the progression of technology which the space race embodied as an optimistic, spirited march—indeed, the feeling of society whenever “Space Oddity” was written—also becomes flipped on its head in “Ashes to Ashes” since the cynicism of the 70’s eroded any promising future until it resembled a husk. As a result, “Space Oddity” now inhabits an air of tragedy since the optimism of the moment of its creation proved ill-founded. Yet the soaring nature of the latter parts of the song—especially with David’s voice—transmit the optimism in an air which makes it feel timeless.
And perhaps a source of that timelessness stems from how “Space Oddity” revolves around communication as a theme. That’s evident from the motif of radio communication shared between astronaut and “Ground Control” as well as the limitations of said communication. Such motifs are even apparent from the way the song begins—with a couple seconds of silence prior to an acoustic guitar’s (played by Bowie himself) arrival (at 0:02). Slowly, the acoustic guitar increases in volume while scarce bass (played by noted session musician Herbie Flowers) and a set of marching-band-esque snare-drum-rolls (from jazz and folk drummer Terry Cox) gradually filter in before the presence of a stylophone (played by Bowie via overdubs) arrives. Considering that the lyrics entail a radio communication, that last instrument feels as though it aids the idea that the song itself is being transmitted through a radio signal.
As the song continues to build, David Bowie sings (at 0:31) the album’s first verse. But there’s substantial usage of harmonies present via overdubbed backing vocals, which creates an ethereal and scene-setting effect:
Ground Control to Major Tom. [x2]
Take your protein pills
And put your helmet on.
(10) Ground Control (9) to Major Tom (8)
(7, 6) Commencing (5) countdown.
Engines on (4, 3, 2).
Check ignition (1).
And may God’s love (Liftoff) be with you.
This constant affirmation of “Ground Control to Major Tom” that recurs throughout the song (a refrain, but an irregular one) provides a lyrical focus on the theme of communication. And space-travel demands that there’s a consistent and concise method of communication present at all times—hence the simplicity of the language. As for the name of “Major Tom,” that’s allegedly been inspired by a poster promoting Tom Major, a chamber musician and father of future Prime Minister John Major.
Whilst on the topic of procedures undertaken by astronauts, the next two lines outline some of them via the actions of “Take your protein pills/And put your helmet on.” Regarding “protein pills,” the astronaut food during the period of the Space Race usually consisted of a convenient, tasteless package that was pill-like and akin to military rations. All of which convey a hollow quality towards both the food itself and the system which believed that the Space Race was such a matter of life-and-death that it warranted endangering human lives—and killing them in the cases of Apollo 1 and Soyuz 1. Then, there’s the phrase “put your helmet on,” pointing towards an essential part of an astronaut suit—and not just for oxygen-based reasons. The headgear alone contains neck parts which stymie whiplash, shielding that affords extra protection from radiation, and a visor that shields one’s eyes from sunlight—vital since it hits more intensely without the benefit of an atmosphere.
Just as the third use of “Ground Control to Major Tom” is uttered (by both participants, achievable by Bowie performing vocal overdubs), an audible countdown appears within the backing vocals. Although there isn’t a ‘T minus’ like with actual NASA astronauts, the countdown does serve a function: generate additional suspense and place the listener in Major Tom’s state-of-mind just before his launch into orbit.
As the countdown continues within the final lines of the verse (“Commencing countdown/Engines on./Check ignition”), there’s the final preparations being made to ensure everything’s in order prior to liftoff. Even though this is an extremely simplified version of all the happenings that occur inside a rocket. There’s a large number of acronyms and technical jargon which (although not relevant to the song itself) benefits rocket technicians who would know what the acronyms mean—and a set of acronyms would allow them to operate quicker than if they were to state the whole thing each and every time.
With all the technical terminology within the song thus far, the last line of this verse (“And may God’s love be with you”) registers peculiarly for several reasons despite it being a well-intended message hoping that Major Tom has a safe journey. One of which has to wonder what religious viewpoint Bowie wrote the lyric from—and that’s not as simple as one may think. Namely because there’s evidence suggesting that—depending on which point of his life—Bowie was a spiritualist, a mysticist, an agnostic, a non-denominational Christian exhibiting a distrust of organized religion, or a Buddhist (the last of which ties into a stipulation of his will: that his ashes be scattered in Bali “in accordance with the Buddhist rituals”). Depending on which view is present, the form of prayer expressed in this particular line can register as genuine or as darkly sarcastic—and the song does leave room for both readings. In the case of the latter, there’s Major Tom’s fate in the final verse indicating that this prayer fell on deaf ears. But for the former, a believer could construe that since outer space (like Heaven) exists as another realm, God’s in outer space since He’s everywhere.
Once the first verse ends, one expects a song to shift immediately to the chorus. However, “Space Oddity” doesn’t do that. Instead, an instrumental bridge commences (at 1:14) and provides the listener with an auditory representation of Major Tom’s ascent into orbit. Part of which is achieved by a spacey guitar line played by Mick Wayne (delivered in an odd tuning). However, this section remains tense—appropriately so since all the working parts of a rocket are potential things that can go awry. Such tensions render the mellotron from Rick Wakeman as a signal to breathe a sigh of relief. Apparently Rick himself thought similarly since he’s quoted as describing this particular moment of the song as “one of half a dozen occasions where it made the hair stand up in your neck and you know you’re involved in something special.”
On cue with the mellotron’s arrival comes the return (at 1:25) of David Bowie’s spry vocal delivery atop instrumentation that’s clearer than before. As for Bowie’s second verse, the lyrics are as follows:
This is Ground Control to Major Tom.
You’ve really made the grade
And the papers want to know whose shirt you wear.
Now it’s time to leave the capsule if you dare.
This is Major Tom to Ground Control.
I’m stepping through the door
And I’m floating in a most peculiar way
And the stars look very different today.
Simply the manner in which Bowie raises his voice in the lines “This is Ground Control to Major Tom./You’ve really made the grade” conveys a few notions to the listeners. One of which is that Ground Control echoes the general public’s joy that nothing went wrong—a joy which the ending indicates was short-sighted. Perhaps this risk of failure has an inkling in the phrase that Major Tom “really made the grade.” Although that phrase appears like an endorsement, it’s a half-hearted one since Ground Control’s acutely aware of what can still go wrong. Which leaves open the idea that Ground Control’s a corrupt institution that sent Major Tom out even knowing the likelihood of things malfunctioning.
On the topic of corruption and short-sighted authority, the line “And the papers want to know whose shirt you wear” contains relevance. In this instance, the detail of Ground Control informing Major Tom of his newfound fame—while having the function of raising Major Tom’s spirits—also serves as a satirical point. Namely that of all the questions that the media could ask of an astronaut, to endorse a shirt seems like a petty and shallow one. In that sense, it’s akin to how Bowie’s 1975 song “Fame” roasted the music industry on similar grounds. However, the detail of a “shirt” may also contain historical relevance regarding the Space Race between the USA and the USSR: the “shirt” conveys allegiance to one’s nation or to a political ideology.
Another method of potential malfunction arises via the line “Now it’s time to leave the capsule if you dare.” Upon considering that the resources available to astronauts in the 1960’s are rather primitive compared to those of modern astronauts, there’s further risks associated with the tiresome discomfort of a spacewalk. But the wording of “dare” paints this with the language of a challenge—almost as if it’s an overtly-masculine game of ‘chicken’ that ends up undermining the whole mission. Regardless of the risk, the lines which follow (“This is Major Tom to Ground Control/I’m stepping through the door”) make it clear that Major Tom accepts the challenge raised by Ground Control as if it were part of his job.
Unfortunately, that’s a façade which becomes complicated by means of the next line: “And I’m floating in a most peculiar way.” Namely that this line factors into multiple meanings. On a literal level, it’s Major Tom experiencing the effects of zero gravity. On another level, the hindsight provided of “Ashes to Ashes” have led some to assume—wrongly or not—that this line refers to Major Tom tripping on drugs and possibly having an out-of-body experience induced by them. A third possible interpretation pertains towards a difficulty in connecting with others emotionally—possibly the most thematically-relevant one to “Space Oddity” and one where a listener should consider that Bowie recorded the song the day after breaking up with Hermione Farthingale. As in the instance of Major Tom, the third meaning can factor into the first and/or the second insofar as the third marks the moment where Major Tom realizes that he prefers that he’s not returning. Whether by space-based isolation or drug-based hallucination, either are just a mechanism.
Another line which holds a few kernels of truth in relation towards fame emerges directly ahead: “And the stars look very different today.” Although the literal meaning of this line entails that—without Earth’s air pollution—Major Tom can now gaze as far as the stars are able to stretch. For David Bowie, the line holds a more figurative meaning insofar as his newly-famous state imbues celebrities with a different lens—and that’s including the factors such as success, rampant sexuality, false glamour, drug abuse, and a downward spiral from any of these things being taken too far. With that in mind, this line’s one where the later subversion found in “Ashes to Ashes” registers poignantly—especially considering the coke-addled state in which Bowie spent the mid-seventies languishing in.
In a seamless manner, the song transitions (at 2:13) into the first chorus, wherein there’s a different drum rhythm consisting of a barrage of ride-cymbals with the occasional accented snare-drum. Which creates a manic undercurrent bubbling beneath the dulcet woodwinds of Tony Visconti, Paul Buckmaster’s string section, Rick Wakeman’s continued presence of mellotron and David’s still-incredible vocals. The last of which deliver the following lines:
For here am I sitting in a tin-can
Far above the world.
Planet Earth is blue
And there’s nothing I can do.
Bowie’s initial lines in the chorus to “Space Oddity” (“For here am I sitting in a tin-can/Far above the world”) are definitely indicative of the state of spaceflight in the late 1960’s—and it’s not a pretty portrait. On one level, the confined state of “a tin-can” is miniscule compared to the infinite vastness of space which surrounds Major Tom. But the historical context of 1967—a year where three astronauts (in Apollo 1) and a cosmonaut (in Solyuz 1) perished in their tin-cans—informs these lines. In fact, that context embeds the lines (and the song) with fatalistic connotations. Such connotations factor into the pursuit for glory which fueled the Space Race, the resultant tragedies of Apollo 1/Solyuz 1, and function as a pretty heady metaphor. In reading the song (with the aid of “Ashes to Ashes”) as describing a drug trip, than the state of the space program in the 1960’s serves as a metaphor for the throes of drug addiction—both the euphoric highs and the subsequent crashes. But there’s another metaphor inherent to the ‘tin-can’—a fragile bubble of optimism which excesses and bitter realities end up bursting.
Indeed, it’s this state of reality clashing with ambitions which ends up informing the rest of the chorus: “Planet Earth is blue/And there’s nothing I can do.” This one’s another set of lines loaded with secondary meanings, but all of them point towards Earth’s insignificance and humanity’s limitations. Considering that “blue” can hold connotations of sadness, there’s the connotation that the professions of Major Tom and Bowie aren’t dissimilar in one regard: they feel as if they can’t do anything to permanently alleviate that sadness. Also consider the miniscule nature of the planet and how the planet where Major Tom’s spent his whole life on now resembles a blue marble, a sight which can induce a sensation of helplessness. Part of that helplessness stems from Earth’s reduced size entailing that Major Tom’s already too far gone for anyone or anything to help him. But a second (and more relevant) method connotes that all of humanity’s ideas of progress and self-importance as a species amounts to a tiny blue dot—regardless of anyone’s words and/or actions. In turn, this deflates any significance assigned towards the Space Race—effectively rendering Major Tom’s goal a meaningless one.
Immediately following the chorus, a lone acoustic guitar riff commences (at 2:37) just before a saxophone fill from Tony Visconti ushers the rest of the band back in. Whilst drums and bass keep this section rhythmically-airtight, the stars emerge via Mick Wayne’s sparse lead guitar and the otherworldly veneer which Rick Wakeman’s mellotron casts over the whole affair. At least before a jazz-like drum fill segues into Bowie’s third verse (at 3:05), where everything goes wrong for Major Tom—and why this song is not an inspirational anthem:
Though I’m past one-hundred-thousand miles,
I’m feeling very still.
And I think my spaceship knows which way to go.
Tell my wife I love her very much (she knows).
Ground Control to Major Tom.
Your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong.
Can you hear me, Major Tom? [x3]
Can you—
It’s telling that only the first four lines of this verse are delivered from Major Tom’s perspective, shifting the remaining lines to Ground Control.
On the subject of the first pair of lines (“Though I’m past one-hundred-thousand miles,/I’m feeling very still”) from the Major Tom segment of this verse, it’s denoted that Major Tom’s still within Earth’s orbit. Consider that the sensation of “still” is one enabled by the fact that (since he’s outside the atmosphere) there’s nothing relative to the ship’s movement—despite that the “tin-can” rotates at such a velocity that Major Tom can’t feel it. Therefore, that Major Tom’s “past one-hundred-thousand-miles” refers to velocity, not to distance. Yet “still” harbors a dual meaning insofar as it applies to Major Tom’s mental state at this instant. Although one would think he’d grow panicked in how his spaceflight’s unfolding, “still” suggests that he’s grown calm or complacent about what may befall him.
That same sense of complacency factors into the subsequent line: “And I think my spaceship knows which way to go.” If one believes that this line marks the moment where Major Tom decides to sever connection from Ground Control, than it’s not too far of a stretch to assume that predeterminism plays a part. In other words, the helpless feelings brought on from the chorus has convinced Major Tom to stop believing in himself because his insignificance in regards to the universe amounts to the voyage’s outcome being already set-in-stone. With this consideration, the steering of a spaceship is analogous to charting one’s course in life—and stopping either one entails a total faith in destiny over free-will. All of which does get cast into doubt with “I think,” entailing that there’s no way Major Tom can be truly sure. Which suggests that the connotations of the chorus have so overwhelmed Major Tom’s mind that his insistence on destiny amounts to a coping mechanism.
Even then, the coping mechanism does have a hole emerge during the next line: “Tell my wife I love her very much (she knows).” Despite the last line leaving some ray of hope, this line outright acknowledges that Major Tom’s never returning to Earth. For all the talk of Major Tom as being calm in this moment, his last message to the people on Earth may be borne of panic. And that’s in spite of Ground Control’s reassurance of “She knows,” a portion of information which Ground Control can’t possibly know—and would be concerning (on a level of privacy) if they did. It should be stated that a similar line (“I miss the Earth so much, I miss my wife”) in Elton John’s “Rocket Man” have led some to deem the latter song as a parallel to “Space Oddity”—with both songs sharing Gus Dudgeon as producer.
Now that the final words of Major Tom have passed, the next usage of the familiar “Ground Control to Major Tom” refrain mark the exact instant where everything takes a morbid turn. For all the connections people have made between “Space Oddity” and the ‘hopeful’ spirit of the culture which spawned it, the song is quite a dark one. And people tend to focus on the earlier parts of the song and gloss over how it ends. Which is a mistake since the ending lyrics are inseparable from the rest of the song’s meaning—especially if one intends on linking it towards the progression in mindset Bowie had between 1969 (“Space Oddity”) and 1980 (“Ashes to Ashes”).
For the line which follows (“Your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong”) to fully cohere, one should recall that a radio circuit was how astronauts communicated to Ground Control. Although Major Tom’s ship no longer transmits the signal, he could still receive communications from Ground Control as long as the receiver’s still functional. One could try to link the Major Tom character to the various personas that Bowie would don over the course of the 70’s by suggesting that—despite being aware of the possible critiques he’d receive—Bowie didn’t give a shit and simply marched to the beat of his own drum. This would make the subsequent subversion of “Ashes to Ashes” just another step in that march. However, it is striking that such a triumphant conclusion can stem from something as catastrophic as “there’s something wrong” since—for both astronaut and Ground Control—the failure of communication is undoubtedly the worst thing which can befall a space-bound journey. But this was disarmingly prescient on Bowie’s part since Apollo 11 (which launched on July 16, 1969—five days after “Space Oddity” was released as a single) experienced a misfire in its emergency systems as it approached the moon.
But unlike the triumphant spirit of the event surrounding the song’s release, the plea uttered by Ground Control (“Can you hear me, Major Tom?”) evokes an unquestionable defeat. Not only has contact with Major Tom been severed, it’s guaranteed that he will die an agonizing death. Furthermore, Major Tom’s corpse is at the mercy of forces such as zero gravity, zero oxygen, and eternity. In a macabre sense, Major Tom’s mythos has permanence in its loss.
Although there’s a final “Can you—,” the word ‘hear’ never arrives. Instead, the word “Here” acts as a homonym and abruptly starts a second chorus (at 3:49). Only now, the contents of the third verse imbue this iteration of the chorus with a different flavor than the one from earlier. Sure, the previous chorus contained themes of isolation and hopelessness, but they still had a faint glimmer of hope. Such a faint glimmer vanishes from this variant of the chorus once the severity of the situation is illuminated by the third verse.
That severity becomes frightening once the return of the acoustic guitar riff (from 2:37) gives way into an outro guitar solo (at 4:18) which has instrumental elements of both bridge sections. What’s most alarming comes from the discordant high-pitched pickings of guitar (at 4:34) which continue to ascend in pitch to the point where it achieves tones that a guitar can’t achieve naturally. If one goes by the song’s literal meaning, these guitar pickings are the auditory representation of Major Tom suffocating from lack of oxygen—something supported by one interpretation of an image found in the music video for 2016’s “Blackstar.” Apart from the guitar pickings, Rick Wakeman’s mellotron evokes a nightmarish tone which warps the song into a malaise of chaos just as the song’s fade-out marks the end of the signal. With the later subversion found in “Ashes to Ashes,” one can conclude that this nightmarish soundscape has another meaning: that the optimism of the late-sixties was woefully misplaced.
Regardless of anything which I can possibly state about “Space Oddity,” it’s a classic song without question and remains the earliest example of the promise which David Bowie would deliver upon in the decade to follow. And with the existence of the later subversion via “Ashes to Ashes,” the song remains one of the most important songs that David Bowie ever wrote.
“Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed” (6:13)
In most respects, “Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed” is an unremarkable, cookie-cutter rocker that one has heard several of its ilk many times before by just turning a dial on any classic rock radio station. Not to knock on classic rock, but when it’s been done so many times by so many other people, it’s hard to stand out without doing new tricks. “Space Oddity” proved that David Bowie was indeed capable of new tricks. That being said, this song does capture a ‘rockin’’ vibe quite nicely with only two chords of a guitar: Asus2 and D9. However, this song is notable in Bowie’s oeuvre for one reason: it’s the first song Tony Visconti ever produced in David Bowie’s career.
As far as lyrics are concerned, “Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed” concerns a young man’s cultural gap in between him and his middle-class girlfriend, making it so that she (in Bowie’s words) “thinks he is socially inferior.” Some may deem that the song plays this schism humorously, as did David Bowie himself circa 1969. There’s a few things to consider here before anyone dogs Bowie as a sexist. First is the quote from him that “This is a rather weird little song I wrote because one day when I was very scruffy I got a lot of funny stares from people in the street,” suggesting (from “when I was very scruffy”) that the boy in the song’s at least partially in the wrong. Secondly, there’s the notion that this boy may be a member of the counter-culture hippie movement, rendering the song’s title a literal description of his physical characteristics. Thirdly, there’s the fact that—regardless of whether it’s coincidental—the schism in class acts as a mirror image between that of David and Hermione Farthingale, constituting a thematic segue into the lyrics of….
“Letter to Hermione” (2:33)
One of a handful of songs in David Bowie’s catalog that’s plainly autobiographical, “Letter to Hermione” offers a scenario of ‘what if’ and a small indicator that Bowie was far from a perfect human being (something which will become abundantly clear in the eventual Station to Station review). For the sake of context, the titular Hermione refers to Hermione Farthingale—whom Bowie had met through renowned dancer/mime-artist/actor/teacher/choreographer Lindsay Kemp (1938-2018). Bowie’s relationship with Farthingale—the earliest-known in Bowie’s life—began when she was nineteen and lasted about one year before she left him. And Bowie himself would later admit that had a streak of infidelity at this time, so he only had himself to blame. Not that the David Bowie of 1969 would admit that any sooner than 1976’s persona of The Thin White Duke would.
All that context coheres in a statement from a 1969 interview with David that was quoted in Nicholas Pegg’s book The Complete David Bowie: “I’d written her a letter, and then decided not to post it. ‘Letter to Hermione’ is what I wished I’d said.” Those last three words—“wished I’d said”—are the most-crucial in the quote since they entail that the song’s lyrics were a failed bid to win Hermione’s heart back. But also that Bowie knew that this letter wouldn’t work even if it were sent.
In musical terms, “Letter to Hermione” falls squarely into the structure of a ballad—a striking choice since there aren’t that many of those within David Bowie’s catalog. Furthermore, the song begins with a chord progression reminiscent of folk music—and a tone of voice that ends up evoking an effect akin to the laid-back, wistful quality found in Simon and Garfunkel. All the while, the song’s intro has Bowie singing a non-lexible set of ‘do’ lyrics before a brief isolated guitar figure transitions the song into the David’s first verse (at 0:15):
The hand that wrote this letter sweeps the pillow clean
So rest your head and read a treasured dream.
I care for no one else but you.
I tear my soul to cease the pain.
I think maybe you feel the same.
What can we do?
David’s first lyric in the entire song (“The hand that wrote this letter sweeps the pillow clean”) serves multiple functions. First, the action of “sweeps the pillow clean” indirectly compares the act of preparing for her staying the night to clearing up the void left behind by her absence. Such a comparison implies that the relationship between David Bowie and Hermione Farthingale was doomed from the start—likely due to the class differences detailed in “Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed,” alongside the later admission of infidelity on Bowie’s part. Second, this line has a rather malicious undercurrent when one realizes that this letter was intended to be sent. That undercurrent amounts to the suggestion that Bowie wants Hermione to realize think of his feelings, effectively emotionally manipulating her. That Bowie didn’t send the letter speaks to Hermione’s personality and to Bowie’s ability to judge a person’s character.
That ability’s thrown into question via the song’s next line: “So rest your head and read a treasured dream.” On a strictly surface-level reading, this line’s a platitude that everything will be alright. Furthermore, “read a treasured dream” instructs Hermione to find comfort in sensations possible only in stories. Applying that exact same phrase towards Bowie conveys that he (at the time of writing the letter) had a subconscious awareness of the relationship’s unsalvageability. Finally, this ‘everything-is-gonna-be-alright’ platitude suggests that Bowie’s issues in personality and behavior would improve overnight. Unfortunately, the decade ahead—including a ravenous cocaine addition, a voracious sexual appetite which some would frown upon, and a difficult detoxing period—indicates that such a platitude couldn’t be further from the truth.
Perhaps that addictive personality marks a thematically-appropriate transition into the line which follows: “I care for no one else but you.” Not only does that line present a malicious undercurrent, but it also implies that Bowie harbors an unhealthy obsession with Hermione. However, upon considering Bowie’s later admission that the relationship with Hermione disintegrated due to a streak of infidelity at the time, this line registers as hollow, a lie to himself, and an insult to Hermione’s intelligence.
Such a quality of meaningless factors into the song’s next pair of lines: “I tear my soul to cease the pain./I think maybe you feel the same.” The action behind “tear my soul” amounts to a response which ends up making matters worse—an accurate assessment of what this letter may have accomplished had David Bowie sent it. Additionally, the phrase “maybe you feel the same” entails that Bowie believes that Hermione thinks the exact same way about this break-up, but “maybe” leaves it open that he can’t be certain. As such, an otherwise emotionally-manipulative moment is rendered into an act of fumbling in the dark. Finally, the lone question (“What can we do?”) concluding this verse illustrates the futility of Bowie’s situation insofar as he has an inkling that his actions have inflicted irreparable damage.
A revolving figure of restrained electric guitar ends up being laid over the top of the primary acoustic pattern once the refrain (at 0:42) rolls around:
I’m not quite sure what we’re supposed to do,
So I’ve been writing just for you.
There’s definitely something concerning about the couplet of “I’m not quite sure what we’re supposed to do/So I’ve be writing just for you.” On one hand, the sense of denial ascertainable from it connotes that Bowie still thinks matters can be reconciled with Hermione. That the “writing” is reserved for Hermione alone suggests that the single-minded obsession hasn’t dissipated and that Bowie hasn’t quite fallen out of love. Considering that that’s not-far-removed from a stalker’s inner monologue, there’s something unsettling here.
Following a brief break, the song’s second verse (at 0:56) operates the same as that of the first:
They say your life is going very well.
They say you sparkle like a different girl.
But something tells me that you hide
When all the world is warm and tired.
You cry a little in the dark. Well, so do I.
Whenever discussing the lines “They say your life is going very well./They say you sparkle like a different girl,” one should conclude that the “They” in question most likely refers to friends among Bowie’s inner-circle at the time. Ironically, these same sort of friends would fall under David’s crosshairs in “Cygnet Committee.” However, this “they” isn’t Bowie or Hermione, so neither party’s capable of knowing exactly how the other feels at any given point in time.
That inability of know fosters a reading of the lines “But something tells me that you hide/When all the world is warm and tired.” Namely that “something” amounts to a suspicion/inkling/hunch held by Bowie about Hermione’s state-of-mind. Given that Bowie only has access to his own state of mind, the suspicion must be based on Bowie’s feelings at the time. To the song’s credit, it does leave it up to the listener as to whether Bowie’s perceptions are correct or a ruse to make himself feel better.
If it’s an attempt to make himself feel better, the verse’s last line (“You cry a little in the dark. Well, so do I”) paints Bowie as desperate. Particularly insofar as the commonality of “so do I” constitutes an attempt to salvage matters via anything which Bowie can latch onto. At the very least, this reads as an act of emotional manipulation.
Just as the second verse mirrored the first musically, the same holds true of the second refrain (at 1:23):
I’m not quite sure what you’re supposed to say,
But I can see it’s not okay.
Although there’s a similar construction to the words in second refrain, the lines “I’m not quite sure what you’re supposed to say/But I can see it’s not okay” do not mean the same thing as the first refrain. One can assume that asking “what you’re supposed to say” entails that Bowie believes she owes him an answer. However, a listener knows things couldn’t be further from reality, a facet denoted by the preceding construction of “I’m not quite sure” and its implication that Bowie unconsciously knows that things are over. Despite that, Bowie’s definitely feeling insecure since the idea that Bowie “can see it’s not okay” reflects more on his own insecurities than the reality of Hermione’s situation.
The good thing about a song like “Letter to Hermione” is that the simple musical structure leaves me with just the lyrics to talk about. Since the third verse (at 1:37) holds true to the same schema as that of the first and second, the song’s focus lands squarely on David’s lyrics:
He makes you laugh.
He brings you out in style.
He treats you well and makes you up real fine.
And when he’s strong, he’s strong for you.
And when you kiss, it’s something new.
But did you ever call my name, just by mistake?
There’s a lot to say regarding the third verse’s first four lines: “He makes you laugh./He brings you out in style./He treats you well and makes you up real fine./And when he’s strong, he’s strong for you.” On a basic level, this “He” denotes that Hermione’s found a new lover (in real-life, this new lover was a fellow dancer named Stephen Reinhardt). As for what Bowie’s lyrics ascribe to this new lover—such as taking care of Hermione financially and being a strong person to lean on when the going gets tough—these are particularly galling on Bowie’s insecurities. Especially because—at this point in his life—Bowie wasn’t capable of being that person for anyone, least of all himself. Although the traits ascribed to men and women in gender roles are also reflective of the values and upbringing of people in Bowie’s generation as opposed to modern times.
As for the last two lines of the verse (“And when you kiss, it’s something new,/But did you ever call my name, just by mistake”), there’s some pretty unfortunate implications within these lines given that they insinuate that Hermione still thinks of Bowie when she has sex with Stephen. Furthermore, “just by mistake” can be read as Bowie shaming Hermione—as if it were a mistake to leave Bowie. However, that same phrase does have a more-charitable reading connoting that Bowie (specifically his fame) left a mark on her life that wouldn’t go away overnight, if ever. Regardless of how one reads “just by mistake,” the entirety of the two lines comes across as prying into something that Bowie can’t possibly know.
Once the song settles into the final refrain (at 2:03), it’s the song’s final lyrics (which end up giving way to a brief acoustic guitar solo as the song fades out):
I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to do,
So I’ll just write some love to you.
One subtle detail within the first half of the last refrain (“I’m not quite sure what I’m supposed to do”) derives from the switch back into “I’m.” Almost as if a large part of this song attempted to mask a sense of selfishness which the final switch to first-person pronouns drops all pretense towards. This wasn’t about Hermione, it’s about him. And perhaps that’s why he never sent the letter—only after reading over what he’d written out did Bowie realize that ugly degree of selfishness.
Or maybe (as ascertainable from the line “So I’ll write some love to you”) the framing device of a ‘letter’ was just a clever façade devised by Bowie—there was no real-world equivalent to a letter, just the lyrics. Instead, the last line of the song constitutes a thematic transition into “Cygnet Committee.” Namely that this notion of “love” as an abstract concept implies that the speaker views the letter as a band-aid. That effectively amounts to a hollow idea of “love” identical to that which was perverted from the one originally intended by the hippie movement, which thematically segues into…
“Cygnet Committee” (9:35)
Another track which demands context, “Cygnet Committee” clocks in as the third-longest song in David Bowie’s entire discography. The context in question involves Bowie’s experiences with the Beckenham Arts Lab, an art collective of hippies that he began with Mary Finnegan. While this collective’s intent was to promote artistic and creative expression in a thoughtful, constructive manner, it morphed into something ugly as time passed. Namely that Bowie felt as though everyone else in the collective ended up putting him on a pedestal, but at the expense of the values which the group was founded upon. In that sense, “Cygnet Committee” was borne from a sense that stardom and hero-worship makes hypocrites out of the general public. But the song’s title shares its name with that of the meetings which the Beckenham Arts Lab would have—an ironic touch since the song tears that collective to pieces.
However, the song isn’t just about the Beckenham Arts Lab, but about the hippie movement as a whole. Although it was a movement sparked from good intentions, “Cygnet Committee” makes no bones that the entire movement has lost touch with its roots and morphed into something not unlike a totalitarian regime. Lyrically-speaking, the song’s open-ended enough to embody the squandered opportunities of generations past to better the world in a meaningful, long-term manner. One would think that since the Baby Boomer-generation fell roughly into the same span of time as the hippie movement, there’d be a lot more cultural change that’s occurred between then and now—unless the hippie movement became irrevocably corrupted. Such corruption stems from the invasion of capitalism and commercialization—a process enabled by sanitization and marketability (think sloganeering), but ultimately undermines the original message.
Ironically, the benefit of hindsight renders David Bowie a hypocrite at a later point in his career (namely 1983’s Let’s Dance). With that album in question, Bowie unambiguously ‘sold out’ and even in 1983, Bowie himself made no bones that that’s exactly what he was doing. Given that that particular album’s purpose was “to have hits” (Bowie’s own words), it makes sense that Bowie decided that if he was going to sell out, he’d sell out in the most ‘Bowie’ way possible. However, the action of selling-out is a little more understandable upon learning that—despite being a top draw during the 1970’s—Bowie was short-changed on money thanks to a raw deal with his manager at the time.
Back on the topic of the lyrics to “Cygnet Committee,” the basic tenant of the song implies that two factors destroyed any noble intentions that the hippie movement ever had: the invasion of commercialism/capitalism and insufficient self-leadership. Although a previous paragraph already expounds upon the first factor, the second idea’s worth pursuing since it points towards a contradiction. That contradiction boils down to this: that the noblest goal a movement can make is for a movement to become so successful that eventually becomes no longer necessary. Even then, that resulting freedom to express one’s own free-will renders it so that whenever one person’s free-will infringes upon another’s, it becomes necessary for a movement to occur again—rendering the entire process cyclical.
On a strictly musical level, one would expect a song of such an extensive length to contain layers upon layers of intricacy. However, the layers aren’t as immediately-noticeable as in prog-rock epics such as “Supper’s Ready” by Genesis, “Close to the Edge” by Yes, and “Tarkus” by Emerson Lake & Palmer (two of which exceed the twenty-minute mark). Instead, the layers behind “Cygnet Committee” are rooted in undulations and crescendos of the same repetitive chord progression. In fact, “Space Oddity” has more twists-and-turns in about half the length—and is arguably a more-cohesive song. The focus on repetition present in “Cygnet Committee” renders it an outlier among the nine-minute-plus songs in the David Bowie catalog. Since the other two examples (the title tracks of Station to Station and Blackstar) go through several sections/movements beyond the standard verse-chorus structure whilst holding the listener’s attention the entire time.
Where the complexities of “Cygnet Committee” lie are in the song’s lyrics—so much so that each and every line adds to a cumulative effect of raising the stakes in the song. In that regard, there’s definitely a Bob Dylan-esque quality to several of the lines in the song, with one podcast (From A to Ziggy) describing the song as “like a less cohesive “Hurricane.”” While that latter song’s subject matter is inseparable from racial politics (in a way that’s best saved for when/if I tackle the Dylan discography), the concerns of “Cygnet Committee” are—at their core—founded upon economics, art, and human behavior. However, both songs are—to some degree—protest songs with subject matter that’s inherently political.
As soon as “Cygnet Committee” begins (at 0:00), one notices the presence of a bassline front-and-center. What’s not instantly detectable (in fact, it’s more noticeable in the version found on Bowie at the Beeb) is that the bassline’s a note-for-note thievery of the one played by John Paul Jones on Led Zeppelin’s “Your Time Is Gonna Come” (from their 1968 debut album)—ironic given how Led Zeppelin have a pretty long history of musical plagiarism.[1] Anyways, the bassline’s soon responded to by shimmering guitarwork until the basic folk-style chord-figure (at 0:19) introduces itself. This restrained, folksy chord-progression constitutes the backbone upon which David Bowie sings (at 0:30) the song’s first chorus:
I bless you madly.
Sadly as I tie my shoes.
I love you badly.
Just in time, at times, I guess.
Because of you, I need to rest.
Because of you, that sets the test.
Not included among these lyrics is the detail of faint chattering ascertainable in the mix—even though it’s hard to hear without headphones. In context of the song, this chattering makes the sound of the committee. It’s left in the air whether this chattering amounts to nefarious plotting or ignorantly fumbling about.
For an opening duet of lines, “I bless you madly./Sadly as I tie my shoes” contains a load of relevant information in a compact form. For instance, “bless you madly” indicates that the manner of idolatry which Bowie’s subjected to via the Beckenham Arts Lab undoes the movement’s purpose. At the same time, the descriptor of “Sadly” comes across as Bowie/the speaker lamenting that the Arts Lab had to devolve into such a sorry state. However, the phrasing of “as I tie my shoes” conveys that the speaker’s torn between either shunning the idolatry or acquiescing in order to satisfy them. But to achieve the latter, one has to appear god-like to them, which is impossible.
That impossibility is further elaborated upon in the line “I love you badly.” Particularly in the phrase “love you badly,” where the speaker has some awareness that the idolatry sets an impossible standard. That or the sort of idolatry described in the song isn’t “love” at all. Either way, it’s clear that the speaker/Bowie wants to escape for one reason (guilt) or another (feeling false).
Such a desire to escape the movement gains some reinforcement via the next line’s (“Just in time, at times, I guess”) construction. In fact, the progression from “in time,” to “at times,” to “I guess” reflects that matters grow less-and-less certain over time. Therefore, the line mirrors the speaker’s/Bowie’s growing doubts about the validity of the Beckenham Arts Lab/hippie movement insofar as it shifts from certain, to selective, to uncertain.
In regards to the duet of lines (“Because of you, I need to rest./Because of you, that sets the test”) which wrap up the chorus, it speaks about both idolatry’s effect on the speaker/Bowie and the future of those who partook in the Beckenham Arts Lab/hippie movement. First, “Because of you, I need to rest” provides a clue that the speaker/Bowie has had enough of the movement’s foolishness—being upheld as an idol’s likely draining insofar as one has to concern themselves with how others perceive them. Next, the phrase “that sets the test” does beg the question as to the nature of the “test.” The most likely answer denotes that by setting the test, some of those that partook in the Beckenham Arts Lab/hippie movement end up influencing public policy later down the road—after they’ve submitted to capitalism.
Upon the moment which David’s sings the word “test,” the song breaks into a small drum fill which smoothly transitions into the first verse (at 1:04), the beginning of which is among the song’s more relevant sections:
So much has gone and so little is new.
And as the sparrow sings dawn chorus for someone else to hear,
The Thinker sits alone growing older and so bitter.
Before discussing this section’s lyrics, there’s a few musical components worth elaborating upon. First, the folksy chords inhabit an airy, warm feeling that’s in juxtaposition to the easy-going restraint with which Bowie sings the first line (before the echo-effect on his voice drops that restraint in the second and third lines). Meanwhile, the bass wanders about in higher-registers while some faint swells of electric-guitar sustains end up sending faint chills.
However, the primary musical element that’s significant to this section comes from David concealing a portion of an older song (one from the 1967 debut) in the background. Specifically, the love theme from “Ching-a-Ling” (that’s also used in the bridge of “Savior Machine” (from The Man Who Sold the World)) reappears in “Cygnet Committee" in an altered form. Instead of a note-for-note playing, that love theme is played in reverse. For the curious, the reversed section appears in the parts where Bowie's lyrics introduce characters such as the Thinker (in an echoey ethereal set of vocals). In “Ching-a-Ling,” that love theme signifies that love and music were the very things binding the two lovers in that early song together—in turn fulfilling their longing for connection with people. That same section's usage in “Cygnet Committee” accomplishes—through a reversal—an auditory representation of an idealism becoming warped beyond recognition. Essentially a subtle musical cue that this wouldn't ever prosper—an effect similar to how Lord Byron lampooned Romantic-era tropes in works such as his unfinished (thanks to dying in 1824) masterpiece Don Juan (pronounced ‘JOO-un,’ not ‘Wan’), with implications that are just as cynical as that literary work.
Jumping back into the lyrics, the verse’s first line of “So much has gone and so little is new” rings true not only for the verse, but the entire song. Although the hippie movement can claim to have fostered change, the invasion of capitalism’s corruption rendered any change meaningless in the long-term. Indeed, it’s this line which imbues a lamenting tone to “Cygnet Committee” as a song—as if it’s a damned shame that the Beckenham Arts Lab/hippie movement degenerated into what Bowie takes them to task over in the latter portions of the song.
The line following that one up (“And as the sparrow sings dawn chorus for someone else to hear”) also has quite a bit of material worth elaborating. Especially the image of a “sparrow,” which has symbolic associations towards death and/or destiny that date back (at least) to the time of William Shakespeare. That a sparrow “sings dawn chorus” amounts to a new age beginning via either the erasure of a prior one or the withering of the prior age’s values. Given the themes of the song in general, the latter’s more likely. As for the phrase “for someone else to hear,” it’s a testament to how smoothly the adherents to the Beckenham Arts Lab/hippie movement acquiesced to the temptations of capitalism. It’s also a signal that the sparrow’s song also had the Norse symbolism of a raven (prophecy) and that it provided a warning—albeit one which fell on deaf ears.
And then there’s the complex third line of this segment of the verse: “The Thinker sits alone growing older and so bitter.” For starters, “The Thinker” presents an image resonant on two separate levels. The first factors the context of Bowie’s position in the Beckenham Arts Lab (one of the leaders) to conclude that he’s a “Thinker” in one sense. As for the other perception of “The Thinker,” it pertains to Auguste Rodin’s famous bronze sculpture that’s often used to represent wisdom and philosophy. In this regard, Bowie—by virtue of not following a leader—appears wiser than the others in the movement. However, “sits alone” demonstrates that although Bowie’s the lone person the hippies have placed on such a pedestal, he’s also alone insofar as he—by virtue of feeling betrayed and used—can’t trust them anymore. The latter implication becomes reinforced by “and so bitter,” a phrase also pointing towards the revelations that become explicit once the Thinker opens his mouth.
Applying a strictly autobiographical reading hits a roadblock in the form of “growing older.” That phrase is deceptive since it leads one to assume that (if reading the song autobiographically) this disillusionment with the hippie movement was a gradual change for Bowie. However, within the span of a single year, Bowie went from embracing the mod lifestyle, to embracing hippie-dom, to shunning the hippie movement.
Once the second section of the first verse commences (at 1:40), a fat-sounding electric-guitar plays a rhythmic figure while bass remains identical to the previous section. Meanwhile, drums pound out a steady, repetitive rhythm that occasionally varies in the form of some dexterous fills. It’s this sonic backing where David Bowie’s lyrics fully converge with the persona of the Thinker:
“I gave Them life. I gave Them all.
They drained my very soul dry.
I crushed my heart to ease Their pains.
No thought for me remains there.
Nothing can They spare.”
These initial lines of the thinker—“I gave Them life. I gave Them all./They drained my very soul dry”—mark the beginning of a lengthy rant which comprises the remainder of the verse lyrics. Starting with the “gave Them life/all” construction, one notices that as a leader of the Beckenham Arts Lab, Bowie—by sparking their organization—essentially birthed their reason for living as well as provided them an easy person to follow. This segues into “drained my soul dry,” a set of words which paint the hippie movement as one that was fundamentally flawed from the beginning. Namely since they’re just as prone to the manipulative ‘winner take all’ philosophy of those raised in a capitalist culture. Furthermore, the severity of the wording is doubtless fueled by resentment.
Such a resentment left after-effects that are noticeable in the next triad of lines: “I crushed my heart to ease Their pains./No thought for me remains there./Nothing can They spare.” And that’s clear as early as the phrase “crushed my heart to ease Their pains”—a phrase entailing that the whole affair with the Arts Lab rendered Bowie’s views on how people interact with power and/or fame into a jaded one. In fact, the word choice of using visceral acts to describe what (on paper) seems like a selfless act points towards the failure of human decency and towards Bowie’s failure to assume that said decency would overcome a subservient public. Another dark side of fame emerges in “No thought for me remains there,” wherein it’s stated that the fans/subjects don’t care about the artist’s well-being—only that they pump out more content. Such a leech-esque set of behaviors have become (as seen in “Nothing can They spare”) so normalized that these followers are now incapable of acting to the contrary.
In these rant-like set of concerns, David Bowie’s next few lines are bolstered (at 2:04) by the electric guitar giving way to acoustic. All-the-while, bass plays pulse-lie patterns in-tandem with the initial chord progression as drums remain rock-steady as ever. Further adding shades of color to this melancholic song are the intermittent electric-guitar swells and the faint harpsichord (credited to Rick Wakeman) appearing as David sings the following:
“What of me? Who praised their efforts to be free?
Words of strength and care and sympathy.
I opened doors that would have blocked Their way.
I braved Their cause to guide for little pay.
I ravaged at my finance just for Those.
Those whose claims were steeped in peace, tranquility.
Those who said a new world, new ways ever free.
Those whose promises stretched in hope and grace for me.”
Striking details appear as early as the first line of this sequence: “What of me? Who praised Their efforts to be free?” For example, “What of me?,” conveys an inherent selfishness at the core of the hippie movement that—while seemingly-contradictory to the ostensible values of that movement—lines up with the tenants of capitalism. And from what’s known in hindsight, Bowie himself isn’t immune. As for the specific wording of “praised,” it conveys that Bowie/the Thinker deemed the hippie movement a good cause when it initially formed, but “efforts” implies that the movement ended up failing. Regarding that failure and the anti-war, anti-capitalist, and anti-injustice stances of the hippie movement, the only way that the movement can be “free” and attain victory was by following the credo of “Meet the new boss./Same as the old boss.”[2]
On the topic of the line reading “Words of strength and care and sympathy,” the “strength” mentioned echoes sentiments of rallying and/or encouraging the movement to proceed even when it seems impossible. Then, “care” evokes the image of Bowie/the Thinker acting like a father to his people. But most pointedly, “sympathy” is a concept that—by definition—demands a common connection, which the existence of the Beckenham Arts Lab dictates as artistic merit. Unfortunately, that common ground eroded as discussion devolved into blind idolatry.
Some consequences of blind idolatry are depicted over the course of the duet of lines: “I opened doors that would have blocked Their way./I braved Their cause to guide for little pay./I ravaged at my finance just for Those.” Beginning with the phrasing of “doors that would have blocked Their way,” it’s implied that—even at this stage of his career—David Bowie held some degree of clout which the rest of the Arts Lab saw fit to exploit. Furthermore, the word choice of “braved” suggests that Bowie was the only member of the Arts Lab willing to put any real effort into their goals. And then there’s “cause,” a word with then-contemporary political implications of a rather loaded nature—it parallels the language utilized by the Provisional IRA’s struggle for political independence (away from the British) in Ireland, a violent era of recent Irish history. Diverting away from the dicey political implications comes “to guide for little pay.” Whereas “guide” posits that Bowie (as leader) had to form the plans for the rest of the movement, “little pay” denotes two qualities. First, that the hippie movement—by means of stifling compensation to participants—already parallels one aspect of capitalistic worker-abuse. Second, it implies that Bowie already shows signs of the corporate sell-out of 1983. Lastly, “ravaged at my finance” illustrates a case where the alleged selfishness of Bowie/the Thinker leaves him worse off than if he simply followed his own drum.
Another aspect to consider derives from a specific wording found in the next line: “Those whose claims were steeped in peace, tranquility.” Namely that with “claims,” it’s denoted that the movement itself set goals that it couldn’t possibly accomplish. Funnily enough, that’s just like how any politician has to do the same in order to attract a public willing to elect him/her/them. In a way, that comparison allows for a subtle use of foreshadowing regarding the movement’s acquiescence into capitalism.
That intersection between the ideas of capitalism and the feasibility of promises made comes to a head during the line reading: “Those who said a new world, new ways ever free.” Especially since simply speaking of “a new world” is one thing, but making that world a reality is another beast entirely. In essence, that’s an extremely-cynical view entailing that the “new ways” amount to the hippie movement buying into capitalism. Not only that, but that some of the people of the hippie movement become “ever free” insofar as they achieve top positions and are rendered above the law—freedom through dominating others.
Even if one has that, the next line (“Those whose promises stretched in hope and grace for me”) points towards a bitter reality of living at the top and/or living in fame. That bitter truth amounts to the idea that one can have it all and still not be alleviated of all the woes in his/her/their life. In fact, the state of being at the top can make things worse insofar as it can enable one to indulge in an infinite amount of personal vices—effectively setting up one’s own decline.
After the burgeoning electric guitar’s allowed to meander about a little while after the last line of David’s first verse, the song soon (at 3:18) reverts back into the chorus. This one’s mainly identical to the first chorus, but there’s some rhythmic accents of ride-cymbal from the drums. Either way, it’s a good break before the second verse, which is much longer than the first. And much like the prior chorus, the transition from there to the next verse is marked by a drum fill. One that’s done, David launches (at 3:50) into the first part of the second verse:
So much has gone and so little is new.
And as the sunrise steam flickers on me,
My friends talk of glory, untold dream,
Where all is God and God is just a word.
First things first, the opening line of this verse (“So much has gone and so little is new”) remains identical to that of the first. While that similarity can seem like a lyrical cop-out, it also creates thematic continuity with the first verse.
So similar themes from before are at play whenever discussing the ensuing triad of lines: “And as the sunrise steam flickers on me,/My friends talk of glory, untold dream,/Where all is God and God is just a word.” But it starts with “as the sunrise steam flickers on me,” which reads as a mere scene-setting bit of poetic description. However, extraneous materials cease their irrelevance as soon as the phrase “friends talk of glory, untold dream” rears its head. First, given how Bowie/the Thinker lambasts them here, it’s questionable whether these were “friends” to begin with—or were just false friends for a time. On the topic of “talk,” it’s strongly implied that it’s synonymous with plotting. Regarding what they “talk” about, the qualities of “glory” and “untold dream” both convey delusions of grandeur—as if (even before the corruption) the hippie movement’s goals were too optimistic to ever reach fulfillment.
Things become further jumbled up in deciphering the triad’s last line (“Where all is God and God is just a word”). Here, the idealistic trappings from before reach an epitome in the form of “all is God,” a phrasing implying two ideas that are at play simultaneously. One, that every person, place or thing contains the multi-faceted implications of a deity—a concept with ties to chaos theory and alternate realities. Alternatively, it’s an assertion that—after corruption—those in charge have become the god-like leaders of their narrow-minded domain. However, that’s only slim pickings compared to the heady suggestions raised by “God is just a word” wherein dual ideas both support each other and act in opposition to each other. On one level, “God is just a word” registers as an assertion of free-will in a similar respect to the form of unrestrained pride displayed by Satan in John Milton’s Paradise Lost (1665) insofar as it reads as one stating their superiority to God. A second, more-complex method of reading “God is just a word” presents a Foucauldian implication towards the power of words. That is, that the power of words are utilized to classify and stigmatize in a manner uncontrollable by any one person, but rather a culture. Furthermore, the inability for a person to directly wield this power is comparable to how humanity cannot comprehend the power of a god (regardless of whether or not He exists). In regards to second reading, some support is founded upon the suggestion that—by buying into the capitalist system—the hippies become in-charge of the institutions which administer power via language (in the Foucaldtian sense).
Once these lines conclude, the song shifts back to the same rhythmic developments found earlier (at 1:40) for David’s second part of the second verse (at 4:27):
“We had a friend, a talking man
Who spoke of many powers that he had.
Not of the best of men, but Ours.
We used him, we let him use his powers.
We let him fill Our needs.”
Two lines (“We had a friend, a talking man/Who spoke of many powers that he had”) which start this segment of the verse place special emphasis on group-mentality and on the insincerity of said group. As for the first quality, that’s evident as early as the non-singular pronoun “We,” suggesting the group-like aspect of the Beckenham Arts Lab. Then there’s the past-tense of “had” that illustrates Bowie/the Thinker’s through with this hogwash. As to the nature of the hogwash, the word “friend” and how the “friends” from a previous line (“My friends talk of glory, untold dream”) were depicted denote a falseness to this that’s surely in-effect here. Furthermore, there’s the emphasis on “talking,” which factors towards the notion that this man speaks a big game without much to show for it—indicating that his “many powers” amount to snake oil.
The subject matter of the “talking man” extends into the subsequent line: “Not the best of men, but Ours.” Namely that the phrase “Not the best of men” registers—if one considers the man a facet of Bowie—as a bit of self-deprecation. As such, it conveys an awareness (even if only in hindsight) that the Beckenham Arts Lab won’t amount to much long-term—leaving open the detail that the corruption was a ‘writing on the wall.’ Additionally, one phrase (“but Ours”) reinforces the idea that the man described here is an aspect of Bowie—a leader which the Beckenham Arts Lab grew subservient and unthinking towards. With those previous two lines in mind, the next two lines (“We used him, we let him use his powers./We let him fill Our needs”) allow for the metaphorical restatement of the language used to implicate the ungrateful leeches found in the first verse.
After those lines cease, the next section of the song (beginning at 4:51) is founded upon an earlier portion (from 2:04). For the next three minutes (indeed the remainder of the verse), the song undergoes several undulations in volume as it gradually crescendos. Atop of this, David’s voice unleashes the most-searing lines of the song in several sections (that’ll be taken bit-by-bit):
“Now We are strong and the road is coming to its end.
Now the damned have no time to make amends.
No purse of token fortune stands in Our way.
The silent guns of love will blast the sky.
We broke the ruptured structure built of age.
Our weapons were the tongues of crying rage.
Where money stood, we planted seeds of rebirth
And stabbed the backs of our fathers, sons of dirt.
Infiltrated business cesspools.
Hating through Our sleeves.
“Yea, and We slit the Catholic throat.
Stoned the poor on slogans such as
Wish You Could Hear, Love Is All We Need, Kick Out the Jams,
Kick Out Your Mother, Cut Up Your Friend,
Screw Up Your Brother or He’ll Get You In the End,
And We Know the Flag of Love is from Above,
And We Can Force You to Be Free,
And We Can Force You to Believe. ”
This lengthy cluster commences in the form of “Now We are strong and the road is coming to its end,” a line that’s—in simplest terms—a call for rebellion. Simultaneously, this call marks the conclusion, the corruption, and the antithesis of everything the Beckenham Arts Lab/hippie movement stood for. Additionally, the group-like unity of the capitalized “We” emphasizes a total lack of dissent. So much so that the herd’s blind loyalty expects David Bowie to follow suit, but Bowie’s never been one to follow suit.
Even further attention is raised towards the corrupt herd in the line “Now the damned have no time to make amends.” In one respect, this line’s a biblical allusion—particularly to the Second Coming and of unrepentant sinners burning in Hell. Ironically, the sinners in this song (the Beckenham Arts Lab/hippie movement) don’t consider themselves as such, rendering their holier-than-thou attitude a display of hubris. Both reality and hindsight reveal that they’re just as prone to corruption as anyone else.
Another display of arrogance flying in the face of fact emerges within the following line: “No purse of token fortune stands in Our way.” That’s a pretty braggadocios shunning of money. However, money has—in the real-world—been proven to afford higher-grade materials. In order for the boastful repudiation of money to become a valid reality, then capitalism must be destroyed.
Unfortunately, capitalism isn’t going to die—for reasons rearing their ugly head in a train of thought commencing with the line “The silent guns of love will blast the sky.” Opening with the cynical phrasing of “silent guns of love,” it’s illustrated that the original values of the hippie movement/Beckenham Arts Lab were ineffective. Hence the decent into capitalism, a system that’s been proven to yield results—and decline several decades down the road. And that about-face into contradictory values is distinguished via the juxtaposition of “guns” and “love,” two ideas as antithetical to each other as the juxtapositions of peace/war and sex/chastity. That these “guns of love” are said to “blast the sky” conveys that the hippie movement/Beckenham Arts Lab had a misplaced target through a ‘pie-in-the-sky’ fantasy—in contrast to being grounded with practical application.
Despite the possibility of viewing practical applications in the next set of lines (“We broke the ruptured structure built of age./Our weapons were the tongues of crying rage”), the applications aren’t comforting in the least bit. There’s no way it could be with the implications raised by the forceful wording of “broke”—that when chasing an idealistic dream, one becomes willing to pursue violent means in order to get the real-world to bend to one’s whim. As to the nature of this violence, “ruptured structure built of age” carries twin connotations. The first of which dictates that the movement begins to assert itself by razing what can no longer sustain itself. However, the second connotation reverberates in a manner that’s both more disturbing and contemporaneous to Bowie’s writing of the song. That connotation is that the dismantling of the past parallels Mao Zedong’s Cultural Revolution, a process placed in-effect by Mao’s Chinese dictatorship from 1966 to 1976. In essence, the Cultural Revolution aimed to maintain Communism in China by obliterating every vestige of both capitalism and ancient traditions—regardless of the violence or cruelty of the methods employed. By paralleling such a brutal regime, the hippie movement/Beckenham Arts Lab has degenerated into a dictatorship with no one in particular ascribable as a Mao-esque figure—a detail akin to the Foucauldian implications of “God is just a word.” Overall, the irony of capitalism causing this dictatorship provides a frightening indicator of how unhinged power irrevocably warps.
All of that bears remembering whenever pondering over the next duo of lines: “Where money stood, we planted seeds of rebirth/And stabbed the backs of our fathers, sons of dirt.” For the first line (“Where money stood, we planted seeds of rebirth”), there’s a claim that the old system can be upended. Such a claim collapses upon realizing that the tools utilized in the upending are identical to that of the oppressive regime itself. That nugget of information imbues the following line (“And stabbed the backs of our fathers, sons of dirt”) with an air of dark irony. Namely that despite claiming superiority over their fathers, they use the same methods as their fathers. As such, both generations are effectively “sons of dirt” insofar as they both lack a moral high-ground and both aren’t immune to mortality.
Such a lack of moral standing resonates in the latter of the next two lines (“Infiltrated business cesspools./Hating through Our sleeves”) rather strongly. A notion of “Hating through Our sleeves” entails that a degree of transparency within the hatred of the now-corrupt movement. Furthermore, it implies that the movement’s hatred is more morally-just than that of a corporation because of that transparency. And an example of that transparency unveils itself in the line “Yea, and We slit the Catholic throat.” Here, the hatred being directed at religious institutions is a quality that needs to be situated in cultural context of mid-twentieth-century England. For instance, this is the same cultural setting that spawned noted evolutionary biologist Richard Dawkins, who first came to prominence in the mid-70’s and later (in 2006), published a controversial book titled The God Delusion, which contends that God almost certainly doesn’t exist and that belief is a delusion. Needless to say, this is a culture with a markedly more secular bent than that found in the United States at around the same time.
And a result of movement’s corruption emerges via the line “Stoned the poor on slogans such as Wish You Could Hear, Love Is All We Need, Kick Out The Jams.” In a perfect phrasing (“Stoned the poor on slogans”), the injection of capitalism into the hippie movement’s veins gets the public “stoned” insofar as it relays a perversion of the movement’s original values. For example, the Beatles paraphrase of “Love Is All We Need” provides (in this context) both an implied bashing on the impracticality of such a message and an ironic critique of how the polar opposite enabled this slogan to be manipulated. Another prime example of manipulation by means of mainstream palatability can be derived from the phrase “Kick Out The Jams,” referencing MC5’s 1969 proto-punk song of the same name. The song in question became popular by word-of-mouth (largely because no radio station would play a song whose opening line was “Kick out the jams, motherfuckers!”) and is (along with The Who and Iggy Pop) deemed a key musical antecedent to 1970’s punk-rock. However, the majority of listeners assumed the title (and song) carried anti-authoritarian connotations, a conceit directly countered by the band by claiming that the title amounted to ‘Boot that other awful band off-stage because it’s time for us to start playing.’ This countering was met with criticism and is in itself an example of someone ‘buying in’ to capitalism by diluting a message into something more palatable to the mainstream.
Ironic quotations of then-contemporary songs morph into something more sinister in the form of the next duo of lines: “Kick Out Your Mother, Cut Up Your Friend,/Screw Up Your Brother or He’ll Get You In The End.” All of the slogans in these lines encourage actions of brute force. Not only that, but they reinforce the Maoist implication of the dictatorship which arises in the song’s narrative. As such, they’re a repudiation of anything which grounds one to any time except the present—a fear-based sense of isolationism.
On the topic of the segment’s third-to-last line (“And We Know the Flag of Love is from Above”), both unknowability and brute force blend together in an aimless mess. For instance, that the information in the first line (“And We Know the Flag of Love is from Above”) can be known is ironic—it’s impossible to truly know what’s divinely-justified or not, but one can believe it so. Additionally, the image of a “Flag of Love” stands in contrast towards either reading (God or authoritarian figure) or “from Above.” In the case of God, the actions of violent rebellion would directly oppose Biblical teachings unless the people described in the song are rather ignorant of them (which is completely possible). As for “from Above” representing an authoritarian figure, this blind assumption that they embody “the Flag of Love” assumes two things. First, that the dictator’s equal to or superior to a deity. Second, that acts undertaken in the name of violent rebellion are synonymous with acts of love, which isn’t the case.
All that ties into the segment’s last two lines (“And we can force you to be free./And we can force you to believe”) insofar as it’s a monument to the movement’s ignorance. For starters, the lines present a contradiction since both freedom and belief—two qualities best achieved voluntarily—are incompatible with “force.” Furthermore, applying “force” over the people in a draconian fashion is highly characteristic of a dictatorship, indicating that the corruption of the movement is complete.
Although the music continues to undulate upon the same basic rhythm, the next few lines (at 6:35) of David’s long second verse warrant their own discussion:
And I close my eyes and tighten up my brain.
For I once read a book in which the lovers were slain,
For they knew not the words of the Free States’ refrain.
It said: “I believe in the Power of Good.
I believe in the State of Love.
I will fight for the Right to be Right.
I will Kill for the Good of the Fight for the Right to be Right.”
The actions exhibited in this segment’s first line (“And I close my eyes and tighten up my brain”) depict a key instance of character development for the Thinker. Namely that through “close my eyes,” a moment of revelation is derived from temporarily shutting oneself from the world—or removing oneself from the crowd. As such, “tighten up my brain” denotes the instant where the Thinker becomes an independent person.
And then—in the form of a jogged memory—the next pair of lines (“For I once read a book in which the lovers were slain/For they knew not the words of the Free States’ refrain”) uncovers the motive behind the Thinker’s revelation—and it’s not pretty. Make no mistake, the “book” in question is most-likely George Orwell’s 1949 novel 1984. Supporting evidence for this is found in the novel’s presentation of a dystopian government and that the novel’s themes left a lasting impact on David Bowie. That much is evident from its place on a list he made in 2013 of his 100 favorite books and in the detail that a later album of Bowie’s (1974’s Diamond Dogs) began life as an intended musical version of the book. As for the “lovers” in question, that’s a reference to Winston Smith and Julia, two characters from the novel. Although the state of being “slain” isn’t literal for them, any love Winston and Julia had for each other was swapped with that of the dictatorial Big Brother by the book’s end, ‘slaying’ the lovers in a figurative sense.
These direct Orwellian parallels ascribed to the hippie movement/Beckenham Arts Lab aren’t comforting, but imbuing the knowledge of how such forces work in reality renders matters bleaker insofar as an author (like Orwell) has more control over his setting than any common human would over their way of life in a dystopia. This lack of control allows one method of reading the line “For they knew not the words of the Free States’ refrain.” On one level, that line expresses a worry that any self-proclaimed good intentions are ineffective for anything besides a dystopia. On another, that impotence reflects a lack of control even amongst the leaders/hippies/Arts Lab devotees themselves since no human being can determine with certainty how another person interprets any spoken/written utterance. As such, any good intentions can pave the road to Hell because of misinterpretation and miscommunication. That all of this is assigned to a “Free State” suggests that the methodology of a dictatorship can be utilized within administrations that one wouldn’t ordinarily deem authoritarian. But the most-damning detail of all stems from the word “refrain,” which permits a musical/communal quality to the authoritarian regime. As such, the lifeblood of power is the stupidity of the common people who continue to buy into a message that—while easily-digestible—has all the nuances and rough edges filed out. It’s through this act of manipulation that a capitalist regime accomplishes their goals in a way not-far-removed from an Orwellian state.
Given all that information regarding refrains and Orwellian parallels, the full printing of the refrain (“I believe in the Power of Good./I believe in the State of Love./I will fight for the Right to be Right./I will Kill for the Good of the Fight for the Right to be Right”) has several striking elements. On a surface level, the refrain begins in a docile manner with phrases such as “Power of Good” and “State of Love,” only to escalate towards acts of violence and murder in order to prove one’s own righteousness. Everything about that escalation mirrors the movement’s progression: a corruption into violence and capitalism. Tellingly, the refrain posits the righteous actions as those of the individual, but the song’s narrative makes clear that conformity wrought the dystopian setting.
After that ‘cheery’ set of lyrics comes (at 7:04) a downright macabre cluster of lines from David which illustrate the depths of depravity in a densely-packed set of images:
And I open my eyes to look around
And I see a child laid slain on the ground.
As a love machine lumbers through desolation rows.
Ploughing down man, woman, listening to its command.
But not hearing anymore. Not hearing anymore.
Just the shrieks from the old rich
And I want to believe in the madness that calls ‘Now.’
And I want to believe that a light’s shining through somehow.
In a progression from how the previous section of lines begun, this segment commences with two lines (“And I open my eyes to look around/And I see a child laid slain on the ground”) which indicate that the Thinker’s period of revelation has ended. At some time, the action behind “close my eyes” must cease and the Thinker must return to reality. And just in-time to witness the brutal end-result of the movement’s delusions unravelling itself from the corruption. That end-result—of “a child laid slain on the ground”—isn’t far-removed from the image of Orwell’s “lovers were slain.”
But the final nail in the coffin comes from four of the most-pertinent lines in the song: “As a love machine lumbers through desolation rows/Ploughing down man, woman, listening to its command,/But not hearing anymore./Just the shrieks from the old rich.” To begin unpacking this, one should start at the reference to “desolation rows,” an allusion to a 1965 song of the same name (lasting over 11 minutes) by Bob Dylan. That specific song—through a tangled web of allusions (including the Bible, Shakespeare, Roman history, the Titanic, and TS Elliot), some of Dylan’s densest imagery, and some of his most-studied lines—used the image of three circus workers being lynched in 1920 (an incident witnessed by Bob’s father at age nine and passed down to young Bob) as a symbol of the failure of modernism. In a similar fashion, this “love machine” and its uncontrollable manner of operation symbolizes the hippie movement’s failure—a failure spawned from a warped variant of the same ideas which initially gave it life. As for the perversion itself, look no further than the joyful “shrieks from the old rich” that drown out any meaning the movement ever had. All that leaves is that for any movement to prosper in the long-term, capitalism must die.
Such a non-stop train of bleakness renders David Bowie’s next line (“And I want to believe in the madness that calls ‘Now’”) curious. Since “I want to believe” conveys that, in spite of all this, Bowie/the Thinker still holds out hope—albeit an extremely-faint one. However, it’s the phrase “in the madness that calls ‘Now’” which serves two functions: situates matters in the present-day and proves an apt description of the movement’s current behaviors. To an untrained eye, this looks like insanity. But it boils down to different generations doing the same thing as the previous one (only with greater powers and greater stakes) over-and-over again whilst expecting different results. As such, the constant stream of failures and corruptions simultaneously places the song’s themes as relevant to the past and to the present.
That stream of failures informs how the last major line of the verse (“And I want to believe that a light’s shining through somehow”) registers to a listener. This light “shining through somehow” proves a deceptive phrasing since “somehow” appears to undercut the meaning of the prior words. Therefore, the “madness” of modern times casts such a pervasive shroud that no one can see how things can feasibly improve in the long-term. Not with everyone acting according to their own selfish interests.
Once the last lines of David’s long second verse segue into some more of Rick’s harpsichord runs (from 2:04), the extended bridge section arrives (at 7:50) in order to serve as the song’s outro. Notably, this section undergoes changes in key and in rhythm—eventually morphing into a bombastic, snare-driven rhythm as Bowie belts out the ending lyrics:
And I want to believe.
And you want to believe.
And we want to believe.
And we want to live [x6].
I want to live [x6].
Regarding these ending lyrics, the first three lines of them (“And I want to believe./And you want to believe/And we want to believe”) contain a subtle shift with a significant impact. Namely, the progression from “I” to “you” to “we” and how it marks the jump from the self towards the public: effectively the antithesis of capitalism. This presents a conundrum insofar as even if one person has the right idea, it won’t come to fruition since (ideally) one needs the power of the general public to make those ideas reach fruition. Unfortunately, that democratic ideal fails whenever the general public blindly follows idiots. In such a society, “we want to live” registers strongly since whenever people are accustomed to the illusion of choice, it seems like a genuine choice to the uninformed. From the last line of “I want to live,” one can safely conclude from the Thinker’s act of severing himself from the movement that the Thinker/Bowie posits himself as the opposite of uninformed. Although one’s mileage may vary on how much that’s true.
“Janine” (3:25)
Opening side two of the vinyl version is “Janine,” a rather substance-less track after “Cygnet Committee” which blends acoustic guitar with a hook that’s played on electric guitar. Lyrically-speaking, it involves Bowie describing a girl (who was based on a friend’s girlfriend) who’s a little “too much”—make of that what you will. Apart from being mildly-catchy and the fact that Bowie sings the song in a faux-Elvis method of delivery, “Janine” doesn’t have much worth going over.
“An Occasional Dream” (3:01)
Another song covering the topic of Hermione Farthingale, but it’s the inverse of “Letter to Hermione” both musically and lyrically. In regards to the musical sound, the roots in folk music are—instead of the ethereal effect of “Letter to Hermione”—deployed to evoke a bright, nostalgic sound. Which factors into the general sentiment of the lyrics that draw upon fond memories of the relationship. Although it’s unknown as to how true or accurate these memories are.
“Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud” (4:52)
Despite remaining rooted in the folk music which dominates the Space Oddity album, “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud” harbors traces of a ‘wall-of-sound’ style of production reminiscent of Phil Spector (a figure who I’d love to go on a tirade about, but know I’d get too carried away/go off-topic) that’s absent from much of Space Oddity. This is especially true in regards to how “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud” prominently employs woodwinds, trumpets, and a string section. As such, the song’s far from conventional, but accessible and contains (arguably) some of David’s best singing on the entire album.
On the topic of what David Bowie himself had to say about “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud,” his response contains relevancy towards not just the song itself, but many lyrical themes which recur throughout Bowie’s oeuvre:
“It was about the disassociated, the ones who feel as though they’re left outside, which was how I felt about me. I always felt I was on the edge of events, the fringe of things, and left out. A lot of my characters in those early years seem to revolve around that feeling. It must have come from my own interior puzzlement at where I was.”
The vague quality of this quote allows it to apply towards lines from the song such as “it’s the madness in his eyes.” That one line alone points towards the connotations of mental illness running in Bowie’s family which informed the lyrics of “The Bewlay Brothers” (from Hunky Dory). On another level, this state of being an outsider applies to several of Bowie’s characters, including each of his personas: Ziggy Stardust (The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars), Halloween Jack (Diamond Dogs), and The Thin White Duke (Station to Station). That some of these personas (particularly Ziggy to the early-seventies public and The Thin White Duke to modern listeners) push the envelope of what warrants a listener’s empathy points towards another key theme of Bowie: empathy itself. In each of the aforementioned examples, there are varying degrees of empathy elicited—even in a character as deeply-problematic as that of The Thin White Duke. An early version of that empathetic leaning emerges in “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud” via David’s belting of “It’s so hard for us to really be” (backed by an orchestra). Regardless of whether one can make a lick of sense from the song’s dream-like lyrics, that one moment conveys so much about much of David’s lyrical themes in the decade to come.
“God Knows I’m Good” (3:21)
Fusing acoustic patterns found in folk with those found in blues (I know the ‘Bo Diddly beat’ when I hear it), “God Knows I’m Good” presents another example of stretching the limits of one’s empathy. On a surface-level, the song’s written about a poor woman who steals a can a stew from a supermarket to avoid starvation, but gets caught and reassures herself via the titular refrain. But there’s also a conceit raised by Bowie in a 1969 interview, where he elaborated upon an idea found in the song: “Communication has taken away so much from our lives that now it’s almost totally involved in machines rather than ordinary human beings.” Hence the deployment of imagery such as “the cash machines were shrieking on the counter.”
Apart from that, the song’s rather one-note. It’s enjoyable while it lasts, but not one to go back to.
“Memory of a Free Festival” (7:09)
“Memory of a Free Festival” runs complementary to “Cygnet Committee” since both songs are inspired by the Beckenham Arts Lab. In the case of “Memory of a Free Festival,” the titular festival was organized by the Beckenham Arts Lab. Lyrically, the song’s equal parts nostalgic look and savage takedown. Albeit, in a more restrained manner than “Cygnet Committee.” Furthermore, both songs conclude their respective sides of the vinyl version of the album.
Musically, “Memory of a Free Festival” has two distinct sections. First, there’s the opening section that sounds like a requiem tune—appropriately so since David Bowie wrote the song ten days after his dad died. However, the last section of the song pertains to when all the instruments return in full-force for the song’s outro, evoking an effect akin to that of “Hey Jude” by The Beatles—although not quite as long as that song’s ending.
David’s song commences (at 0:00) with the aforementioned requiem tune being played on a chord organ. Not long after, a voice (most likely Bowie’s) can be heard speaking “Maybe I should announce it: ‘Memory of a Free Festival.’” One can assume that this means the song’s recording session had a spontaneous quality. However, it’s been relayed by Tony Visconti (via his autobiography) that Bowie had troubles playing the chord organ and singing the first part of the song. So it’s probably more likely that the recording chatter was an indication that Bowie wasn’t leaving the song off of the album.
After the chord organ plays the requiem tune for a while, David’s opening verse commences (at 0:51):
The Children of the summer’s end gathered in the dampened grass.
We played Our songs and felt the London sky resting on our hands.
It was God’s land.
It was ragged and naïve.
It was Heaven.
Thick layers of imagery appear as early as the song’s first line (“The Children of the summer’s end gathered in the dampened grass”). But the context of the hippie movement/Beckenham Arts Lab) puts a meaning in place. For instance, the “summer” refers to the decade of the 1960’s while the hippies themselves are the “Children” in question. As for why they “gathered,” the song title’s mention of a Free Festival (held on August 16th, 1969) proves relevant since David himself did perform at said festival. However, without the autobiographical context, the song can just as easily refer to any number of festivals from 1969 (Woodstock springs to mind immediately). Finally, “dampened grass” serves two meanings relevant to hippies: the ground upon which they sat and a bunch of marijuana—the latter of which Bowie had no strong love for.
That display of scene setting extends into how one reads the next quartet of lines: “We played Our songs and felt the London sky resting on our hands./It was God’s land./It was ragged and naïve./It was Heaven.” One can be swept up in description such as calling this “God’s land” and “Heaven,” but miss that these lines are both a subtle nod of pity and a mild insult. In fairness, the loaded aspects are embedded within the description of “ragged and naïve” that applies to the festival, the movement, and the hippies themselves to varying degrees. Sure, the scenic descriptions appear paradisiacal, but “ragged” invokes a decrepit state that reflects both the physical description of the hippies and the corruption gnawing away the movement (as related in “Cygnet Committee”). As for the elements of pity, that factors into “naïve.” Especially since (in hindsight) it appears foolish that any result besides that of “Cygnet Committee” was ever possible while capitalism still breathes.
Since the next set of lines (at 1:18) directly extend from those prior, David Bowie’s musical approach remains relatively unchanged:
Touch, we touched the very soul of holding each and every life.
We claimed the very source of joy ran through.
It didn’t, but it seemed that way.
I kissed a lot of people that day.
David’s first line (“Touch, we touched the very soul of holding each and every life”) presents a lofty ambition for the hippie movement in order to attain peace and tranquility. Unfortunately, it ignores the limitations of person-to-person knowledge sans communication. It’s implied that the hippie movement—through the encouragement of a liberal view of human sexuality—sought a work-around to these limitations. Although I’m of the mind that private matters of consent are fair-play, the word “touch” also points towards some of the limitations that physical contact has. Namely that relying on it and only it merely scratches the surface of what’s possible between two people. As such, it’s a well-intended goal with a shortsighted aim.
Such a display of push-and-pull between the ideal and the actual becomes a thread throughout the song, but nowhere more so than in the next duet of lines: “We claimed the very source of joy ran through./It didn’t, but it seemed that way.” Not only does the second line discount the “claimed” of the first, but there’s some degree of autobiographical context behind these lines. On top of a sour mood brought on by the recent death of his father, David Bowie was a self-admitted control freak regarding any musical endeavor—making it little surprise that a chaotic free festival (even one he organized) didn’t suit his fancy. However, the connotation of perspective from “seemed” indicates that Bowie’s fully-aware that the Free Festival was a good day in the eyes of many. Therefore, the upbeat nature of some of the lines mark what Bowie wishes he could see that day as—a stark contrast to the way it actually felt to Bowie.
Perhaps part of those attempts at wish fulfillment shines through the following line: “I kissed a lot of people that day.” One method of reading this line involves viewing it as a passing of the torch between the ‘free love’ era and the brand of androgyny which Bowie would usher in during the next few years. Note that the lyric doesn’t specify the gender of those kissed. It doesn’t take a die-hard Bowie-phile to infer a possible reference to Bowie’s bisexuality in that phrasing. However, assuming David Bowie’s sexuality does have problems due to how Bowie enjoyed keeping interviewers/reporters guessing. At different points of his career, Bowie claimed he was straight, gay, and bisexual during three different interviews, leaving a definite answer up-in-the-air. Instead, it’s probably best to say that Bowie was most likely bisexual (albeit slightly more-inclined towards women).
Once the second verse ends, the chord organ lingers for a bit before playing what sounds like a new pattern. This constitutes the backbone for David’s third verse (at 1:48):
Oh, to capture just one drop of all the ecstasy that swept that afternoon.
To paint that love upon a white balloon
And fly it from the toppest top of all the tops
That man has pushed beyond his brain.
Satori must be something just the same.
We scanned the skies with rainbow eyes and saw machines of every shape and size.
We talked with tall Venusians passing through
And Peter tried to climb aboard, but the Captain shook his head.
And away they soared, climbing through the ivory vibrant cloud.
Someone passed some bliss among the crowd
And we walked back to the road, unchained.
There’s a joyful quality in the first word of the line “Oh, to capture just one drop of all the ecstasy that swept that afternoon” that serves several purposes. One of which is to reinforce the wish fulfilling desires of “We claimed the very source of joy ran through./It didn’t, but it seemed that way.” More importantly, the joyful quality of “Oh” factors into the double-meaning behind the word choice of “ecstasy.” Sure, the song’s setting of a hippie-inhabited festival inevitably leads some to assume that “ecstasy” harbors connotations of an acid-trip. However, the song likes to hold that meaning and the antiquated meaning (one of sudden joy) in balance with each other—leaving an indefinite answer.
A further example of how the song balances two meanings of the word “ecstasy” derives from the next pair of lines: “To paint that love upon a white balloon/And fly it from the toppest top of all the tops.” This imagery of “a white balloon” and painted “love” wouldn’t seem out-of-place for someone tripping on acid. But there’s metaphorical language of flight, ascension, ambition, and artifice embedded in those same words. Each of those qualities are applicable towards the hippie movement’s goals and of Bowie’s wish to remember a day that felt rotten to him as the joyful day felt by others. Achieving the latter involves lying to oneself until one believes their own lies.
Even still, that language of ambition and enlightenment is carried over in the next two lines (“That man has pushed beyond his brain./Satori must be something just the same”) and presented as indicative of enlightenment. That much becomes clear from Bowie’s esoteric usage of “Satori,” a term rooted in Japanese Buddhism and imbued with meanings of awakening and knowledge. In essence, this factors into the sensation of pushing “beyond his brain” and back towards the dual-meaning behind ecstasy. Namely that some sectors of drug culture in the hippie movement associated the experience of an acid-trip with that of enlightenment, a connection which allows for one reading of these two lines. On the topic of ecstasy meaning ‘sudden joy,’ the experience of pushing “beyond his brain” in such an abrupt manner implies that it’s the ‘emotion’ counterpart to the ‘reason’ entailed from the drug connotation of ecstasy. Therefore, both meanings are placed in opposition and in conjunction with each other.
Admittedly, this balance between the two meanings of “ecstasy” run into a small snag with a lone line: “We scanned the skies with rainbow eyes and saw machines of every shape and size.” But first, the phrase “with rainbow eyes” contains a possible reference to a Beatles song (particularly the “girl with kaleidoscope eyes” from “Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds”) that’s often been read as about LSD (not helped by how the responses of Paul McCartney contradict those of John Lennon). Regardless of whether or not Bowie’s song refers to a misreading of a Beatles song, the misreading itself contains thematic relevance given how thickly-linked LSD is to “Memory of a Free Festival.” The main event in this line stems from the phrase “machines of every shape and size.” At this juncture, the metaphorical meaning to the song’s imagery becomes more labyrinthine to discern. As such, the connotations of the song involving an acid-trip appear more plausible.
However, the single long line of “We talked with tall Venusians passing through and Peter tried to climb aboard, but the Captain shook his head” belies the notion of all remaining lines proving impenetrable since there are toeholds for the listener to latch upon. For instance, the reference to “Venusians” (as in someone who lives on planet Venus) indicates a recurring lyrical preoccupation that lasts throughout Bowie’s career, allowing for other parts of the Bowie catalog to influence the metaphorical significance. Another visual symbol derives from the allusions to Peter Pan and Captain Hook, but the way they behave towards each other is thematically-fitting to the song. Namely that the atmosphere of peace among the hippie movement seems as unrealistic as Peter Pan and Captain Hook not being at each other’s throats.
The imagery of Peter Pan from the previous lines bleed into the next (“And away they soared, climbing through the ivory vibrant cloud”) via the phrase “away they soared.” However, the “they” also proves applicable towards the hippie movement’s misguided sense of ambition. Ambition itself is a quality entailed through the phrase “the ivory vibrant cloud.” Such a phrase fosters parallels to the biblical Ivory Tower, a symbol of hubristic ambition collapsing spectacularly.
And that collapse already has signs cropping up during the final two lines of this verse: “Someone passed some bliss among the crowd/And we walked back to the road, unchained.” One such sign appears as early as “bliss,” which—despite also being a drug reference—implies an artificial and false sense of joy due to that emotion being “passed” about instead of occurring innately. As such, that euphoric state of mind will reflect the phrase “we walked back to the road” insofar as reality will dispel the fiction regardless of whether the hippies want it or not. As such, “unchained” registers ironically. While the word contains connotations of being unbound by restrictions (which the song posits as the ideal goal of the hippie movement), a cocktail of corruption, reality, and oppressive capitalism guaranteed that this ambition wouldn’t achieve fruition.
As soon as David’s last verse wraps up, there’s a brief section of an instrumental build-up (at 2:58). At this point, one can discern Woody Woodmansey (who—as of January 2016—is the last surviving member of Bowie’s Spiders of Mars backing band) tapping out the hi-hats of his drum kit while Toni Visconti (who ordinarily doesn’t play instruments) enters the fray with some bubbling bass guitar. During this time, the sounds of chatter are audible in the mix—likely meant to emulate the idle chatter of the hippies. Additionally, some out-there sounds of guitar (played by the late, great Mick Ronson in his first time playing for Bowie) are barely perceptible in the mix. All of that soon gives way to an outro (at 3:35) consisting of a massive build-up of David Bowie and an army of overdubbed voices (credited to “Benny Marshall and friends”) singing the following line ad nauseum while the instruments crescendo:
The Sun Machine is coming down and we’re gonna have a party.
Although a one-line chorus, the words “The Sun Machine is coming down, and we’re gonna have a party” provide plenty to unpack whilst remaining the perfect summation of the song’s themes in a succinct manner. To begin, although “Sun Machine” serves as an allusion to Jack Kerouac’s 1957 novel On The Road (another one of the 100 books found on Bowie’s list), the term has metaphorical resonance within the song’s context. Namely that it’s an instance of a manmade product (“machine”) imitating a natural element (the “Sun”) so effectively that society mistakes it for the real thing. Furthermore, this “Sun Machine” is product of both a different generation (the Beat generation) and a different class, so it’s the antithesis of the hippie movement. Regardless, the phrase “coming down” suggests that (in their own minds) the participants of the hippie movement believe that the old order’s on the verge of dying off, something that a listener (especially after “Cygnet Committee”) knows isn’t the case. So even though “gonna have a party” connotes that the corporate regime constructed the “Sun Machine,” that same phrase speaks volumes about the delusions of the hippie movement. Particularly that the happiness in hippie movement’s mannerisms constitutes a mixture of ignorance and apathy. Because with the tattered state of the movement, such a state of delusion marks the only way they can find anything worth celebrating.
·Final Thoughts:
As a whole, Space Oddity is a textbook case of a debut album. There is an iconic single (the title track), a few underrated gems (“Letter to Hermione,” “Cygnet Committee,” “Wild Eyed Boy from Freecloud,” “Memory of a Free Festival”), and a few tracks one can write off as ‘filler’ (“Janine”). More importantly than anything else, Space Oddity was the very first thing that put David Bowie’s name on the map—and that’s what the album is ultimately remembered for. However, David would have a decade-long streak of albums (at least one every year from 1970 to 1980 except for 1978) upon which the bulwark of his legacy is based. And every single one of them out-classes Space Oddity in terms of pound-for-pound quality. Which renders Space Oddity an album that—apart from the title track—is for the die-hard fans. Everyone else is best left with literally any studio album Bowie released between 1970 and 1980.
Endnotes:
Led Zeppelin have...plagiarism: During their twelve-year career (1968-1980), Led Zeppelin recorded several songs that outright nick (in part or in whole) melodies and/or lyrics from older blues and traditional songs—sometimes without bothering to credit the sources, which led to lawsuits and retroactive credits when certain albums were re-issued. It’s perhaps worth noting that Zeppelin’s music is heavily based in blues music, a genre of music with a legacy for musical theft—and the genre where Zeppelin plagiarized most-frequently. Examples of songs include “Babe I’m Gonna Leave You,” “Dazed and Confused,” “Whole Lotta Love,” “The Lemon Song,” the guitar riff bookending the “Moby Dick” drum solo, “Since I’ve Been Loving You,” “When The Levee Breaks,” “Trampled Under Foot,” and “Nobody’s Fault but Mine,” among others (including (potentially) the guitar intro to “Stairway to Heaven”).
“Meet the new boss./Same as the old boss”: The Who’s “Won’t Get Fooled Again” (1971); the last two lines of the song, often used to critique the changing of a political administration.
Update:
It's come to my attention that David Bowie's discography will be a harder task than anticipated. Unlike Steven Wilson, there's a wealth of outside material material to factor into the equation. And most of that stems from David prizing the limelight more than Steven ever has. There will likely also be a pre-review thing for each major character and for the context of Bowie's life at the time of a particular album. Because during the 1970's, David Bowie's life was a whirlwind--and not always in a positive manner.
Although Bowie doesn't have nearly as many skeletons in his closet as either Lou Reed or Iggy Pop, there is one case of evidence insinuating that Bowie slept with a 14-year-old groupie around 1973 whom was later kidnapped by Jimmy Page. For the purposes of extremely-close look, it will become imperative that I'm not endorsing Bowie's actions. Given the lack of commentary Bowie gave on the subject in his lifetime, we're going to have to pour over the words of woman in-question: Lori Mattix. Before doing so, one should consider that Mattix has (in various books on the subject of rock n roll groupies in the 70s) been known to exaggerate, stretch the truth, mix up important dates, twist peoples words around, and anything short of outright lying. As such, her words are taken with a grain of salt. The fact of Jimmy Page's relationship with her makes the claim about Bowie's transgressions plausible, but Mattix's words (as will be seen once the pre-review/context piece for the Aladdin Sane album is published) also have a large number of severe factual. Whenever I write the piece, there will be a disclaimer stating that this doesn't necessarily discount the notion of Bowie having raped people in the 70s and that what I'm doing is see if Mattix's claims withstand a fact-check.
Apart from that, the major questionable portions of the Bowie oeuvre stem from The Thin White Duke persona circa Station to Station, a minefield that would reflect just how low Bowie sunk by the mid-70's.