My Month of Bowie, day 9: 'Young Americans' (1975)

Uncle David wants you.

The album: Young Americans (RCA, 1975)

1975: The year David got soul.

My thoughts: Sure, I've questioned the wisdom of doing a monthlong series of articles about David Bowie, a highly-accomplished artist about whom I know almost nothing. Everything about this guy was so complicated: his personal life, his music, his career. At times, I've felt ridiculously unqualified to write even these simple little reviews of his records. David's eighth album, the dystopian nightmare opera Diamond Dogs (1974), was so opaque after two listens—apart from the gut punch of "Rebel Rebel"—that it nearly broke me. I mean, what am I actually supposed to say about this thing? It's... good? That hardly seems to cover it.

But today, I arrive at the soul-infused Young Americans, an album I found immensely enjoyable and inviting as soon as I heard it. No delayed gratification here. Does it help that the LP is bookended by two of Bowie's most famous songs, "Young Americans" and "Fame"? You bet it does. In 1970, Frank Zappa released a Mothers of Invention album called Burnt Weeny Sandwich, which begins and ends with accessible doo-wop cover songs ("WPLJ" and "Valarie") but has a lot of challenging, often-wordless weirdness in between. That album's title is a clue to its structure. But Young Americans is built more like a Chipwich: cookie on top, cookie on the bottom, ice cream in the middle. 

I felt that David was treading water just a bit on Diamond Dogs, but I was not prepared for how dramatically he would switch up his style for Young Americans a year later. I know he's famous for reinventing himself, but these two albums sound like they were recorded by two different guys with very different priorities. It's no secret that British rockers of Bowie's generation were obsessed with Black American music. See: The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Who, The Animals, Led Zeppelin, etc. But those groups took their cues from the raucous R&B of the '50s and the upbeat Motown sound of the '60s. Bowie might have been the first of his ilk to embrace the R&B of the 1970s.

Young Americans is united by its triumphant sax solos, which transported me to the fantasy version of New York City you sometimes glimpse in movies or in the opening credits of Saturday Night Live. But attention must also be paid to the album's sumptuous background vocals (some of which are by Luther Vandross) and its inventive drumming as well. The word I'd use to describe the sound of this album is tight. Stylistically, this was new ground for Bowie, but it sounds like he's been playing this kind of music for years, as if he was sent down to Earth specifically to make this album. 

I legitimately don't know what to expect from the next LP on the schedule. I'm torn between wanting a second helping of Young Americans and wanting to see what else Bowie can do. Either sounds appealing to me.

Next: Station to Station (1976)