Alcatraz, Milan Concert Review

David Bowie’s last but one concert of the century begins shortly after 9 p.m., when — still with the lights on — the great (under every point of view) Mike Garson appears on the Alcatraz stage cheered by the crowd. It all starts like it was supposed to: suddenly here’s the dark, broken through by two white lights illuminating the pianist while playing the first notes of "Life On Mars?". Listening to that immortal, heartbreaking melody and watching Garson alone, sincerely moved by his playing (head back and eyes closed) is already a big emotion in itself, but this becomes huge with the materialization of the Thin White Duke as well.

He crosses the stage in an almost subtle way, arms folded and inquiring look, to soon open in a full smile once reached his central position at the front of the stage, five meters away from your humble reviewer. After the first two lines, he lets the audience sing the whole first half of the song, turning the microphone toward us. All this happens while the whole world (thru NASA) is waiting for some life signals right from the red planet, where they’ve sent a probe; simple, historical, propitious junction?

However, the atmosphere is really intense and Bowie is visibly happy. I’m thrilled to death as well, but right after the end of "Life on Mars?" I probably go through the deepest moment of disappointment in the whole evening, as — once the rest of the group has appeared on stage — the second song played is "Thursday’s Child". This brings me to the conclusion that "Word On A Wing" (one of the tracks I was waiting for with more expectations) has been cancelled from the setlist in a last-minute decision (and, as a matter of fact, just before the concert began one technician went to make some corrections on David’s notebook); sadly, that’s what will happen. My suspect was based on the London, Astoria gig setlist, played two days before, where "Word On A Wing" was played at this very point. By the time "Thursday’s Child" is in the air, however, I don’t think about it anymore, hoping (uselessly) that this wonderful song will be played later in the evening, and I find the time to get back on Planet Earth after that first, overwhelming emotion, in order to "study" a little what have happened meanwhile on stage.

Watching from the crowd’s point of view, Garson is in the second line on the left, flanked at the center by Sterling Campbell’s drumkit. At the front of the stage, David has on his right side the guitars (Reeves Gabrels’ unsuccessful replacement Page Hamilton on lead and factotum Mark Plati on rhythm and acoustic) while at his left side stand the ladies of the group, the by-now-inevitable barefoot Gail Ann Dorsey on bass and the two chorus girls Holly Palmer and Emm Gryner who, apart from a few honey-filled backing vocals, won’t bring anything at all to the overall sound.

As I said before, Bowie is quite pleased, and he shows it through many small monologues between one song and the other. After "Thursday’s Child" has ended, while Plati and Dorsey exchange instruments and roles, the Duke hams about this turnover introducing "Mark Plati on rhythm guineighbours stand the tar and Gail Ann Dorsey on bass…no, wait a minute, that’s not true! It’s Gail Ann Dorsey on rhythm guitar and Mark Plati on bass!…". The change has effectively occurred, in order to supply with a more "slapped" bass "Ashes To Ashes", welcomed with a general ovation after a softly start, during which many members of the crowd (included me, I admit) found it hard to recognize the song. This is terrificly performed — finally turning into one of the highlights of the concert — with the audience once again involved in the final chorus "My mama said / To get things done / You’d better not mess with Major Tom…". It must be stated again, being the leitmotif of the evening: Bowie, band and public are extraordinarily in tune with each other tonight.

Then it’s time for "Survive" (which next month will be published as the new single from "Hours…"), and for the first time Bowie grabs his acoustic guitar. The performance is good, it would have been excellent if it wasn’t for Page Hamilton. Nothing personal, but Reeves Gabrels’ absence is particularly obvious in the songs from the new album. Personally, I’ve always felt that one of the best aspects of "Hours…" was to be found exactly in Gabrels’ guitar accompaniment, which in "Survive", for example, had showed off a lyricism and a musicality really involving. Hamilton, instead, revises on his own way those six-string passages, turning them into mere accompaniment fillers, lacking of the smallest amount of personality.

However, Hamilton’s work finds a partial redeeming with the following jewel, that "Can’t Help Thinking About Me" back from 1966, the first song written by David Robert Jones as David Bowie, here supplied with a quite rocking lifting. The semi-autobiographical narration about the 19-year old bad boy who has to pack his bags and leave the town because his mother "c talking" flows whirling like a classic 50s rock’n’roll without a single pause, with the band close and compact at the right point, to finish with the most classic of rock endings: final riff slowed down with closing, contemporaneous jump by Bowie and Helmet’s axemen. This song was previously introduced by a particularly demential monologue about height compared to age ("I wrote this one when I was this tall and 19… By that time I was told not to trust anybody older than 30… My God, I can’t believe it, I’m already 40!…"[that’s right, he said 40! — FC]), with the right wit for the mood of the song.

The climate gets — if possible — even hotter with the beginning of "China Girl", cheered by joyful shouts — mostly from the female part of the audience. Though this wasn’t the song I was mainly waiting for, I happily have to archive its execution among the best moments of the gig. The song flows loose and sensual, carried by the main guitar riff — growling and granitic — which gives to the song a peculiar funky vein, and by the Thin White Duke’s histrionism; during the "she said ssshhh…" lines he showers the audience of erotic sparks with his hip waggings and hands sliding above forbidden zones. This hot atmosphere, however, is quite suitable to the condition of us poor souls in the stalls, by now reduced to a mixed mass of flesh and sweat (two cousins of mine, who were one meter behind me during the gig, later told me that they could see me singing like a craze some lines that no one around me seemed to know while I was literally dripping with sweat from each of my pores).

Right after "China Girl" a technician gives DB once again his acoustic guitar for my delight, as I understand that it’s the turn of "Always Crashing In The Same Car", another jewel I’ve been waiting so long for. An outstanding song (but this was already well-known) and an outstanding interpretation, it it wasn’t for an ending I’d personally have avoided. During the final instrumental section — on the original of "Low" filled with a lyrical guitar solo — Bowie lays a "La-la-la-la-la-la La-la-la-la-la-la-la" chorus (accompanied with a rhythmical handclapping), half childish half self-ironic, like he’s willing to make fun (in the best of possibilities) of his glorious past. I mean, the song belongs to him and he’s free to do everything he wishes with it, but such an "arrangement" seemed to me almost out of place, especially if we think that it will be used in two more songs in the setlist.

Anyway, this does not mean that David is not giving his heart and soul, though beginning to look a little tired. He confirms this himself between each song, talking about the cold he caught on that "fucking airplane" for Milan. The same, pleasant adjective is reserved also for Adriano Celentano, referring of course to that regrettable interview (shall we call it this way?) a few weeks ago, when he was his (incautious) guest in the Rai TV show "Francamente Me Ne Infischio". Laughing, David melts that unhappy memory saying he’s happy to be back in Milan, this time "among his people".

It nearly moves to see him watching several times to the lyrics in front of him during these intense 100 minutes. Appereantly, years flow for Rock Gods too; however, Bowie doesn’t look ready for retirement at all, on the contrary: at his age, many other musicians are their own pale copy while he keeps on reinventing himself in an almost astonishing way.

But let’s get back to the concert.

It’s the turn of "Something In The Air" (introduced by David as one of the most desperate songs he’d ever written) which — together with "The Pretty Things Are Going To Hell" — will finally be the worst executed song of the concert. The atmosphere of the studio version is not able to find an adequate live dimension, and in the beginning of at least two verses voice and instruments seem out of time (it just may be my impression, but during the start of the second verse David stops singing for a while, waiting to catch again the band, particularly Sterling Campbell). Unlike the other "Hours…" tracks, this time is not Reeves’ absence to penalize the rendition; it’s the song itself which is unable to take off.

A little bit of everything happens with "Drive-In Saturday". The inner beauty of the song fills the Alcatraz with its brightness, and I can’t help being raptured during its performance. The same happens to the majority of the audience, shocked halfway the track with collective "pushing waves" which follows the rhythm of the piece throughout the stalls. I don’t appreciate (like many others near me), feeling sinister creakings coming from my already worn-out back. Bowie is instead quite enjoying this particular situation, proposing again that wicked chorus which had already ruined the ending of "Always Crashing In The Same Car". For a while, David leans out of the stage line almost to touch the hands in the first line stretched towards him, but immediately withdraw with a sneaky smile, catching one edge of a scarf flown on stage and throwing the other border back in the audience. This is of course immediately caught, and after a revealing quip about his fear of the public ("This is the only link we’ll have!…") David leads the dance through this ideal bridge between the stage and the stalls, following the waves that cross the crowd. I feel exactly like during "Always Crashing in The Same Car": a great performance of a great song slightly damaged by some closing avoidable banalities.

"Stay" receives another deserved, triumphant roar, but from the very start I feel that not everything’s working fine: the overall performance is great, but in a song like this an essential element was the right guitar — and tonight this element is sadly missing. Remembering the burning version played in Brescia during the Earthling tour back in 1997, this performance of "Stay" gets out annihilated from the comparison, as well as Hamilton’s guitar (restricted to a simple filling) if compared to Reeves’ six strings two years ago, shamelessly moaning and screaming, tortured and raped, the way these vibrating six minutes of music have always best sounded.

"Seven" is a fascinating anomaly if referred to what said till now; as much as I’m concerned and without hesitations it represents the only song from "Hours…" able to maintain an impeccable quality level performed live. The music still holds the nostalgic tone of the original version while that outstanding voice conveys a really touching feel of melancholy and resignation further reinforced by the performer’s extraordinary and well known mime abilities. I’ve got to confess that among so many classics featured in tonight’s setlist, I was particularly moved by this song; after all, how to resist in front of this musical myth held inside a thin body while — eyes and left arm to the sky — he accuses, with the voice broken by sadness: "The gods forget they made me / So I forget them too / I listen to their shadow / I play among their graves…"? A really deep emotion.

What else could happen by now? For example, that Bowie brings to its end the main part of the show with two more of the few universally-known classics ( together with "Life On Mars’" and "Ashes To Ashes") prepared for the occasion. And that’s what happen.

The first notes of "Changes" are literally submerged by the rejoicing of the crowd in the stalls, again shaked by earthquake shocks. By now a total rapture is prevailing over the physical pains and my brain doesn’t care anymore about what’s happening under my neck. The rendition of "Changes" is stratospheric to say the least. Everything concurs to this zenith-like achievement: the band, really "altogether", and one more deep moment of involvement between Bowie and the crowd, which establish inside the Alcatraz an almost magic atmosphere. As already happened during "Life On Mars?", the audience members become an integrated, active part of the performance, ideally breaking the barrier between stage and stalls. It really seems tonight’s the right night for the "Hunky Dory" songs…

There’s not even the time to breathe after this cascade of emotions: the band immediately starts "Rebel Rebel", concluding this hour of extraordinary music with a roaring, redeeming final. What strikes me more about this jewel is its intact freshness and its spontaneous rock’n’roll vein after a quarter of a century. Magic songs like "Life On Mars?", "Changes" and "Ashes To Ashes" appears today like masterpieces totally connected to a single, precise age while "Rebel Rebel" seems able to renew itself year after year, chameleonic and perpetually young like its author.

Thanks are reduced to the minimum; Bowie and band members disappear from stage for a pair of minutes, while the audience is still trembling for the bursting conclusion just witnessed.

Adrenalin at sky-high levels, heartbeats accelerated and disconnected from the brain: these are the conditions in which your humble writer (and I guess nearly everybody else in the public) welcomes the "Return of the Thin White Duke" on stage not exactly for an encore, as we’d better call it the second, shorter part of the gig itself.

This starts in the best possible way: when the band begins "Cracked Actor" it’s hooray time again. Together with "Word On A Wing", this was probably the song I was mostly expecting for, particularly after having read the enthusiastic reviews of the Kit Kat Club, New York (november 19^th) and the Astoria, London (two days ago) gigs, where the most used term was "fabulous". Nothing to say, "Cracked Actor" maintains unaltered its impudent charm. I’m pleasantly involved (of course) but not that impressed, maybe because I had built before "who-knows-which" expectation inside my brain after reading the afore mentioned reviews. Anyway the performance is really hot, and the public is once again unbridled in the choruses as well in the movements — more or less uncontrollable, while the electricity has by now saturated the Alcatraz air for the whole second set.

But the next step in this "electronic coda" turns in my opinion into the greatest disappointment of the evening (together with the exclusion of "Word On A Wing"); from paradise to hell (where "The Pretty Things Are Going") the step is short, apparently. The strenght of the "Hours…" version is undeniable: a solid and snarling guitar riff, some lyrics rightly ironic and an involving overall sound. Unfortunately, none of these elements seems to find its way in the live dimension. It just may be my impression, but during the verses behind David’s voice there are — every now and then — some moments of void, during which the musicians seem slightly disconnected from each other. The only unifying element — David’s voice — ain’t at its top form in this occasion as well: Bowie begins to look a little tired and maybe feeling the first symptoms of those stomach problems which will persecute him during the night at the hotel. Luckily, there’s still the afore-mentioned syntony between stage and stalls to maintain the right tension: my small, personal fond memory of this song, however, will remain the crossing of our glances during the immortal line: "I am the blood in the corner of your eye"…

The quality of the music takes off again right after "The Pretty things Are Going To Hell", with that underrated masterpiece with the title of "Repetition", year 1979. Here the actor within Bowie comes to the surface and becomes the master. David doesn’t sing the song, he acts it. Those two impossible eyes plunge into the glances down in the stalls like a knife in the butter, playing that bad and frustrated Johnny who "get home around seven / ‘Cause the chevy’s real old / And he culd have had a cadillac / If the school had tought him right / And he could have married Anne with the blue silk blouse". The surly glance really gives the shudders while reciting the lines: "Can’t you even cook? / What’s the good of me working when you can’t damn cook?" The rotten atmosphere of the song — background of Johnny’s ignominious acts of violence upon his wife — receives a hard rock drive in this live rendition, with the electricity of the instruments accompanying troughout the dramatic development of the narration, exponentially raising the vibrations in the air. As a matter of fact saturation point is by now reached and in the air is perceivable the arrival of the conclusion of this absolutely intense night with Bowie, band and audience physically at the end of their energies.

During his last monologue David sums up the evening: "Well, thanks again to all of you for being here tonight. We’ll keep on playing for the rest of the century, but as much as we’re concerned we’ve finished here. I hope to see you again next century…and remember, ‘I’m Afraid Of Americans’!"

"Ah-ah-ah ah-ah ah-ah ah-ah-ah"…the electronic vocal refrain accompanied by Garson’s introductory notes brings the concert to its very conclusion. The execution of the song — faithful to the two-year old original — is strong and explosive, under this point of view perfect to drag the audience in the last yearnings towards the communion with the artist.

Right after the sudden ending of "I’m Afraid Of Americans" Bowie thanks for the last time and in a few seconds time he’s already disappeared backstage with the band. The last one to leave — he was the further one from the back door — is Mike Garson (exactly the one who first appeared on stage at the beginning of the gig), who thanks as well before withdrawing. Though I was ready for this kind of conclusion, still I was sincerely hoping for a different final. Of course I’m not going to argue about the setlist (overflowing of real pieces of rock history), but personally I’d rather have not dropped the curtain in such an furtively way, choosing for a more "epic" way, possibly with "Rebel Rebel" itself (I don’t dare to talk about "Space Oddity" or "Rock’N’Roll Suicide" — the memories of the latter performed at the end of the Paltrussardi, Milan concert on April 14^th, 1990 still makes me shiver — in any case dropped from the setlists of these months…).

However, I’m absolutely not going to split hairs: each and every note performed tonight has been a godsend for an audience who has lived these intense 100 minutes one by one.

Summing it up, the last but one David Bowie gig of the century goes into the archives with a final positive outcome, where the lights overcome the shadows.

These last ones concern particularly the group; of the "historic" band from the "Outside" and "Earthling" tours are left only Gail Ann Dorsey and the great Mike Garson, and if Plati and Campbell are well geared into Bowie’s music on their own, the subject falls apart talking about Hamilton and the chorus girls. As already noticed — Reeves’ absence is manifest, particularly on the "Hours…" tracks, and it’s not easy to understand upon which logic an artist of Bowie’s calibre (who could have chosen whoever he wished) decided for Helmet’s guitarist, stylistically light years far from David’s musical vision. His collaboration within the overall sound was limited to pure fillers, heavily affecting the general atmosphere.

A similar remark can be done talking about Holly Palmer and Emm Gryner, this time with some mitigating circumstances, as the atmosphere of the new songs partially justified their presence. However, their contributions were restricted to a bunch of insipid backing vocals dripping with glucose accompanied by some hips wiggling not that much appropriate to the situation. The exchange of some silly pushes between Bowie and Gryner, then, gave way to a display of goliardic "on-the-road" comradeship which — together with those inappropriate "La-la-la" chorus in a pair of historical songs — could have been spared to the crowd.

The very last complaint I can think about is Mike Garson’s scarce say in the matter; if we exclude "Life On Mars?", the conclusion of "Changes" and some passages during "China Girl", Garson is almost restricted to the backgorund accompaniment. A wasted opportunity.

But all of this (and the lack of "Word On A Wing" in the setlist) has not so much importance once faced to the general performance of Bowie and band tonight. Mike Garson himself — so scarcely inside the overall sound — the day after declared himself enthusiastic about the gig, rating it among the best played recently.

Apart from some slight infirmity and a few wrinkles, Bowie confirms himself — a few days away from 2000 — as one of the best (if not THE best) performer of the century, showing from the start till the end such a passion and a will to communicate, convey emotions and interact with his audience really striking, almost puzzling. And this through a sequence of songs covering many generations over 33 years of a musical history unique, extraordinary and — let’s all hope so — still far from its end.

FRANCESCO CIPRESSO
5-8/12/1999