On 'Low' by David Bowie

Before David Bowie moved to Berlin, he was a mess. He’d shrunk into paranoid seclusion, and was famously reported to have for a time subsisted only on milk, red peppers, and cocaine. Lots and lots of cocaine. The Thin White Duke, who openly threw darts in lovers’ eyes, was a dark persona which Bowie ran with during the time of his album Station to Station, getting in hot water for interviews in which he made uncomfortable remarks about Adolf Hitler and the degradation of society. It was ‘performance art’, sure; Bowie was playing the role of this sinister, drug-addled character, but it was also true that at this point in his life, Bowie was himself consumed by druglust while seeming to hold an unhealthily loose grip on the real world. He would later admit to hardly remembering entire years during which his cocaine abuse was particularly extreme.

Moving to Berlin, Bowie wanted a fresh start. He needed to get away from the coke-crusted web in which he was ensnared in Los Angeles, but he also needed to find a way to deal with possessing an alienated soul. Bowie considered one of the perks of living in West Berlin to be a newfound sense of anonymity – the locals didn’t bother him as much as he was used to, and he found he could retreat from the psychedelic excess that his superstardom had brought him, and have a chance to recuperate, and to come to terms with himself. The work that eventually arose from this fresh, undoubtedly life-saving, new chapter in his life was the 1977 album Low, and it’s my favourite of all his many, many, many masterpieces. Rather than speaking from fantastical detachment, as with his time living as the Thin White Duke, this feels more like an album where Bowie expresses himself personally about the miseries he was facing, both with glamorous veneer, and from vulnerable depths of emotion.

You could, if you wanted to, see this album as a bridge of sorts between the smokey guitar-rock of the 70s and the dawning electronic adventure of the 80s and beyond. With the inclusion of Brian Eno to the creative roster, and with Bowie drawing influence from the characteristically chic Berlin underground, the album’s sound is datedly futuristic. Its synth leads sound individually perfect in complementing whichever track they’re on, such as the scally horn-blasts on ‘Breaking Glass’, adding disruption to a song about destruction, or the warm rainbow-falls of ‘Sound and Vision’, or the popcorn texture brought to ‘What in the World’. They give these tracks a flair so as to distinguish these naturally excellent compositions as belonging entirely to Low. On the latter half of the album, of course, the synth moves from a strong supporting role to the dominant ideology, and Eno’s luscious sounds build worlds outside the expected Bowie brand of verse-chorus-verse art-rock.

Indeed, this is an album of two very distinct halves, so let’s talk about the first half, the accessible one with all the hits, the one that sounds like a David Bowie album. Roaring in like a stereophonic train, we open with ‘Speed of Life’, an instrumental, swaggering figment of the sound of the 1970s, acting as the album’s overture, something drunken and braggish, still flagrantly hedonistic, but every now and then pausing in a lull of hesitation, symptomatic of the album’s nervous mentality. This duality of more conventional rock assertiveness with a gaping vulnerability carries on throughout the rest of the first half. ‘Breaking Glass’, again a song with a brusque confidence in its stomping central rhythm, gives way to a faltering moment where the confidence evaporates and the song sounds suddenly unsure of itself, Bowie’s singing turning from brash to simpering. The lyrics are a mix of admissions of failure and begging for affection, with Bowie sounding maybe a little pathetic, or at the very least, desperate.

And this desperation continues, with ‘What in the World’ talking of a downtrodden girl, a depressed creature trapped in hermitage, with Bowie on the sidelines feeling powerless, ‘talking through the gloom’ of his maybe not-entirely-selfless desire. The brevity of these songs magnifies how well-carved they sound, begging for repeat listens, feeling ever-complete but still somehow much too short. I guess there was plenty of space for ponderousness on the other side of the record. But that’s for later. Let’s talk about ‘Sound and Vision’, one of the album’s especially beloved pieces, sporting doo-dooing backing singers, sax, synth, jovial bass work and bright, sighing guitar strums. One of my favourite things in the world is happy-sounding music with miserable subject matter, and I think it’d be tough to find a better example than ‘Sound and Vision’, gorgeously spirited in its instrumental as meanwhile Bowie switches between theatrical vibrato and a monotonous, drab apathy, as he sings of being sunk in a mire of sadness, titularly Low, hoping for sudden inspiration to pull him back into the world of the living.

‘Always Crashing in the Same Car’ is a spooky one, dreamy and flange-laden, a song about I think a repeating dream Bowie had of crashing his car, the lyrics describing him literally driving round in circles, comically still checking for oncoming cars and being in the middle of what sounds like a complete mental breakdown. Bowie’s voice is weak with lamentation, and he sounds in no better mood on ‘Be My Wife’, the ragtime-soul screamer that’s a personal favourite of mine. ‘I’ve lived all over the world. I’ve left every place.’ This is Bowie at his most disillusioned-sounding, at least thus far in his career, about the towering spectacle of fame, knowing how he lives a life of luxury and yet is lost with his romantic relationships. It’s got that end-credits dramatic energy that I adore completely, loud and soaring and retrospective. But the real closer of Side A is ‘New Career in a New Town’, another instrumental, with a foggy nostalgic harmonica sailing over a gleeful skip of synth and piano, blowing with the wind and sounding out with a woolly exhaustion, off into the distance in some optimistic direction.

And then – there’s a shift, firm and sudden as the pull of a handbrake. At the break of the ominous hum, we enter Low’s strange, polarising second phase. Until now, Bowie’s expressions of personal alienation have come garbed in catchy, accessible verve. Sad lyrics, fun music. With the Side B opener, ‘Warszawa’, all irony is jettisoned and a sincere, sometimes otherworldly composition emerges from black clouds. Mournful, spiralling, soaring synthesisers tell a tale of woe, completely instrumental unless you count Bowie’s meaningless hums and cries, eerily religious. The entire song sounds like a red sun rising over a dejected landscape. This is the moment the album often loses people, those who came for earthly pleasures of ‘Sound and Vision’, and reading a few contemporary reviews I saw that critics of the time were befuddled by this extreme change of pace, but when considering the album’s spinal conceit, the feelings Bowie wishes to explore on this album, it makes a lot of creative sense, and this sorrowful opener, along with its three successors, bring something wordless and primal to the experience, lending something beyond the rock parameters Bowie is more than comfortable in.

‘Art Decade’ is pensive, atmospheric, a little space-age, signalling maybe a sense of alienation, certainly a feeling of weightlessness, being anchorless, floating above weird, milky sounds and organic calls beyond comprehension. Inherently, it’s hard to get a handle on, and it’s a slow-burner of sorts, with what I’d call a planetarium aesthetic. Marimba clunks and stylophonic synths begin ‘Weeping Wall’, a dreamy blend of wood and steel that gets especially trippy when phrases of ‘Scarborough Fair’ creep into the equation, and the weightlessness started in ‘Art Decade’ rises further from any recognisable surface. If my read of these songs as a continuation of the first half’s concept is valid, this might instil images of a Bowie completely adrift from the world, maybe still beneath the covers as his disappointed mind flutters elsewhere.

Finally it’s ‘Subterraneans’, a dejected elegy of sorts, hissing synths acting as string sections before Bowie’s monastic hums enter the frame and the sound becomes a kind of hymn, spacious and grand, but with that essential humility which accompanies prayer. A little midnight saxophone arrives, along with more unintelligible but purposeful chanting, rising and falling, sounding as if directed towards the sky. And then it ends, rather abruptly, and I turn back to the beginning and listen to the whole thing again. To me, Low has it all – maudlin bangers, strong wailers, surreal loomers – and its cohesive theme, history and attitude are all striking. It’s always such a pleasure to hear a sorrowful album that’s so instantly gripping, in the way that only Bowie (plus Visconti, plus Eno) could make possible. And though Side A’s all-night party might suck you in, it’s the elusive magic comedown of Side B that returns me, as if every time I hear it I’m a different person than forty minutes ago.

On Getting Depressed

Depression and anxiety are the two wheels of the cart that carries me through life. They can both be unspeakably awful, but for most of the time they’re simply the emotional basis of my average day. Anxiety is the most conspicuous of the demons, taking hold of everything I do, from the minute to the massive, and while it ebbs and flows, it is forever constant. Depression is a different animal, crueller-sounding, the very word is like an immovable tombstone. While unquestionably ever-present, I used to think that depression just came and went – some days I’d be ‘normal’, and every now and then depression would creep up on me like inclement weather, and I’d switch from one mode of being into another. As time has gone by and I at least entertain the idea that I’ve gotten to know myself better, I realise that depression does indeed come and go, but that I don’t have to be cutting myself, starving myself and actively seeking my own destruction for depression to still be with me, watching from a distance.

In the same way that I doubt myself on everything – that I doubt I’m a drug addict, or doubt that people like me, even doubt if I’m feeling happy or doubt that I’m really sad – I doubt whether or not I really have depression. That sounds kind of strange considering the very first sentence of this post, but it’s true. After all, I’ve never tried to kill myself. It might be arrogance which causes me to believe that killing myself will not involve a ‘try’, and barring the classic change of heart or the auspices of fate, if I decide to end it, it will be the end. That probably sounds redundant to people who haven’t considered ending it all that often in their life, but the desire to ‘call for help’ is a powerful drive, and one I’ve fallen to the allure of before, cutting my wrists at school and such. But I haven’t ended it. Despite everything, and despite fantasising about it regularly – the method, the sensation, the aftermath that I shan’t be present for – I clearly haven’t considered things to have been bad enough that my loving family, who are wonderful, and my many adoring friends, who are amazing, deserve to attend my premature funeral. That sounds like a relief and a positive, which it is, but to me it’s also the fact that keeps me wondering: if I’m carrying on living, who’s to say my bellyaching and wallowing isn’t the product of my own self-centred narcissism? Essentially, is my misery valid?

I don’t expect anyone to understand this, but it’s how things are. Of course I’m not totally convinced by these doubts, and seem to accept that something in me finds the very fundament of being alive to be quite a struggle. And that’s not even to speak of my overwhelming privilege, where I am practically the definition of someone who has enjoyed a staggering amount of leniency for a human on Planet Earth. But happiness is more arcane than that. Things are certainly better than when I was younger, before drugs solved a number of problems while immediately presenting new ones, but I still spend most of my time thinking an array of complicated follies that all end in the same phrase: ‘Why bother?’ Having been on (and occasionally off) antidepressants for a long, long, long time, as long as I can literally remember, I do feel that the savagest of wolves are being kept from the door. But in keeping with the universe’s theme, antidepressants bring with them their own saddening drawbacks, as I feel that for all the misery that they temper, many true, sober joys are also diluted into something tepid and numb. But I should write about that some other time.

Depression has come to me in several forms. The weirdest, maybe the most alarming, are the few intense instances where depression has crossed the threshold of deep but understandable misery and into something panicked, as if the world has abandoned me and I feel assaulted by something huge, awful and invisible, to the point of acting out in some way, whether through a drug binge or bizarre moments of self-harm accompanied with aimless, tearful wanderings. One instance involving my flatmate finding me at the end of our road, arms scratched and bleeding, hysterical, and with no memory exactly of how I got there. Those have been the extreme moments, where the misery took complete control of me, to the point that my own memory refuses to be there for me. They’re quite bad, pretty bad, but they’re mercifully infrequent.

The more common depressive spells are ones that should be familiar to everyone – painfully low mood, complete apathy towards being alive, self-neglect, long periods between fits of crying spent staring at the walls. These are also pretty bad, in a sense worse because of how much more accustomed I am to them. In these states, no positive emotion I ever felt in the past is seen as valid, sometimes even turning to delusions that I have never been happy, ever, and all I’ve felt is the misery I’m with in those moments. This is the part where I believe that this could be an ‘illness’, not so much a disposition, as during these moments I believe, one hundred percent, in easily disprovable delusions that keep me miserable. Even when I know that my depressions come and go, and I’ve had too many of these downward plummets to even count, and they’ve always dissolved, eventually, when I’m in that particularly sad moment, I know that this time, this time, everything I feel is completely justified, and nothing on Earth can convince me otherwise.

Aside from all the self-sabotage and the fact that very little gets done during these instances, age (and, importantly, fantastic support from the people around me) has taught me better ways of, to put it bluntly, dealing with it. But there’s another form of depression that’s maybe the most insidious. It has a quieter personality, not making of me any urgent demands, but rather keeping me in a persistent state of anhedonia and pessimism, which I inhabit in the same way a fish has no concept of the water in which it swims. Things seem fine, functional, even. But the vapid boredom of the world around me makes sinister means of escape, through drugs, or sex, or old-fashioned life-wasting, all the more tempting. Even on my best days, I walk suspiciously through the world, wondering what goodness actually exists around me, if any. And despite the luxury of my many friends and neighbours, there’s rarely a moment when I don’t feel, in some way, alone. This is the way in which it seems depression isn’t just a frequent bastardisation of my otherwise carefree life, it’s as necessary as the blood in my veins and the air I breathe. This might sound ghastly, which it is, but as I said before, I’m still alive, and anything before the completeness of death means that the possibilities are endless, joy is still to be had, horizons are still there to be explored, and people are still around for me to enjoy their weird variety. I’m sure lots of people feel bad, all the time. I’m not so special. But I did feel compelled to put this absurdity into writing. So I did. I also intend to carry on living way beyond the foreseeable future in case you were wondering. Life is too weird and fascinating a cosmic phenomenon to miss out on.

On True Detective Series One

I picked the opening series of True Detective back up again this week, for the first time since it aired back in 2014. It shouldn’t be a surprise how much I enjoyed it, as a modern walk through the Southern Gothic genre. I feel I haven’t immersed myself enough in the brooding landscape of Southern Gothic – I think the last cultural artefact I swallowed that bore any resemblance was the fairly dumb but fairly brilliant True Blood from years ago, a show about Louisiana vampires that was a truckload of spooky Halloween fun. True Detective isn’t that. It draws its Gothic magic from its quintessential location, in the chillingly flat, spacious swampland of Louisiana. There’s a lot to praise about it – the directing, the acting, the ‘themes’, unsubtle as they are – but as with all the best pieces of art, the show’s power is in its palpable atmosphere, which True Detective gets exactly right.

No new ground is broken in the show’s plot, of a chalk-and-cheese cop duo hunting a serial killer. Like the resemblance of a child to its parents, you can recognise here the features of Silence of the Lambs and Se7en, mixed with a little Texas Chain Saw Massacre, but its more obvious, or perhaps open, influences are strangely literary. I didn’t know about The King in Yellow before this show aired, like most people, it seems, as the book had a resurgence in its wake, and if nothing else I can thank this series for bringing that book back to the world’s attention. The relation the show has to the 1895 collection of weird stories is arguably superficial, taking namesakes and elements; the ‘Yellow King’, a mysterious place called Carcosa, the appearance of the Yellow Sign. But by giving this series a heavily-telegraphed relation to the book, it can be understood that the show’s priority isn’t character, themes, or mystery, strong as they may well be, but in its embrace of the sensation of weird.

There’s nothing to suggest that any of what happens in True Detective’s story has any supernatural influence, but nonetheless the show seems to exist in some disquieting unreality, talking of devil worship, symbols, totems, the afterlife. The character Rust even hallucinates regularly, supposedly due to a history of drug use, though he refers to them at least once as ‘visions’, and this allows for a few moments of surrealism, when nature falls apart. The crimes themselves are baroque and ceremonial, with certain atrocities wearing the bizarre paganism of The Wicker Man. All these nods or allusions to something metaphysical, these unseen forces and hidden layers, are what give the show its unsettling personality. Though the subject, miserable as it may be, is a grounded one, it still feels throughout as though the rational world might abandon the viewer completely, and so there is always a sense that something beyond the comprehensible evils of criminality lurks beneath the soil or at the bottom of the bayous.

The show’s philosophical wanderings also caught much attention, being lacquered with a pessimistic attitude where very little respect is given to any perspective that isn’t aimed squarely towards the abyss. I can see why Rust Cohle can be a hero to many, openly shitting in the proverbial breakfasts of Jesus worshippers, and I can also see how he could be irritating to many others, espousing well-rehearsed dialogue about the nature of existence at a moment’s notice, acting as the show’s thematic mouthpiece. Nietzsche is predictably mentioned by name, redrawn once again as a proponent of nihilistic fatalism. I actually haven’t any hostility towards these famous ‘time is a flat circle’ moments, but I do feel as if they’re better digested when they’re taken less as thought-provoking standards to march under, and more as additional support to the aforementioned queasy atmosphere. At the heart of True Detective is a lightless and frightening world. As well as being a world of local sex offenders, or of an organised establishments of sex offenders, or of possible folkloric demon-monsters, Rust’s diatribes expand this terror to the entirety of the universe. They add to the show’s nature in much the same ethos of philosophical horror, with creator Pizzolatto citing Thomas Ligotti’s The Conspiracy Against the Human Race as another of his influences. Just as Ligotti’s ultra-negative philosophy is the centrepiece, not just the inspiration, of his horror writing, I believe that True Detective weaponises an openly atheistic, pessimistic, antinatal worldview to add to its menacing flavour, one that is given a glimmer of Hollywood optimism as the series bows out.

Watching it again, I got the sense of Rust Cohle as a bit of a Mary Sue. Not only outstandingly talented at basically everything, he also sees the world with total clarity, penetrating through all of mankind’s deceits with total, accurate certainty. I picked up a Holmes-and-Watson vibe to him and Marty’s relationship – Rust as the brilliant mastermind and Marty, with his flaws and his family, as the vessel of humanity to be the audience’s ambassador. It could be argued that Marty’s warm heart counteracts Rust’s cold one (Hart and Cohl, I’ve literally just got it), but in actuality there’s certainly a one-sidedness to their partnership, even if Woody Harrelson, showing as fine an acting spirit as McConaughey or Monaghan, keeps his character magnetic throughout his innumerable bad decisions. I thought about this as a problem as I watched it again, with Rust’s gravelly voice stealing the show as he took the lead in practically every plot point. By the end, at least, I did come to appreciate that what bound these differing characters together was their fealty to justice, and that Marty does, eventually, put aside everything to join Rust in the pursuit of something he knows is right. So despite Rust being written as superior to Marty in a myriad of ways, it is in this, their moral sense, that the two of them are equals.

True Detective couldn’t keep up its momentum, which was probably an inevitability. I didn’t care for the second series and as of yet have not seen the third, which swam under my radar with minimal fanfare, seeming to speak of the trauma that the response to the second series left on its creators. The decision to make the series an anthology, swapping setting and characters every season, made sense to me, but the problem I found with the second series is that they lost the first series’s two shining assets: its haunting mood and its dynamic central characters. The characters in series two were empty and dull, and the setting was completely dry of atmosphere. It’s a bit of a shame, as like I said the real draw of the show for me was its ominous weirdness, palpitating beneath its removable parts. Then again, the first series is so tightly constructed, with its excellent back-and-forth structure that couldn’t simply be reused, that any continuation might always have been doomed to fail. I might get to watching the third series, as one of the positives of an anthology series is it can always change for better or worse, but either way this opening series has proven itself as a short, strong and supremely effective work of television.