In 2002, David Bowie found himself in a curious position - one, in fact, that he hadn't enjoyed for decades. Following the release of his 25th album, 'Heathen', people were suddenly taking his music seriously again.
Not his old music - not that magisterial run of albums from the '70s - but the new stuff. 'Heathen' was Bowie's best effort since 'Scary Monsters And Super Creeps', a respite from all those dreadful trend-chasing, embarrassing records like 'Earthling', 'Outside' and 'Tin Machine'. How on earth would he cope?
By going straight back to the studio and making a better one, it seems. If 'Heathen' was a little overpraised by relieved critics, then 'Reality' is a more deserving case. Now we can all relax a little and get used to Bowie being back in the zone. Not one to miss an opportunity, he doesn't stray far from the template he set up on 'Heathen'. Tony Visconti stays on as producer, as do most of the musicians. The sound, too, is broadly similar: elegaic, meticulous, dignified; referencing classic Bowie without slavishly trying to recreate it; never too self-consciously contemporary.
But the songs are better, from the jittery but ecstatic opener 'New Killer Star' onwards. And Bowie sounds uncharacteristically comfortable inside his own skin. For once, he hasn't felt obliged to write off a persona after a single album. So on the epic strum of 'Never Get Old', we find a man perilously similar to the one who cropped up on 'Slip Away' (from 'Heathen'). This is millennial Bowie, just about reconciled to his age, concerned about the future for his children, able to contemplate his past with a certain wry amusement. You could even believe that this is what he's really like.
'Reality' benefits, though, from the lack of an overarching concept. Vague allusions in 'New Killer Star', 'Looking For Water' and 'She'll Drive The Big Car' suggest a New York resident coming to terms with living in the city after September 11. But Bowie doesn't bother bludgeoning home the big ideas this time, content instead to just rock, more or less. There's a pace and intensity here sustained until the last track, a wiry and tense jazz shuffle called 'Bring Me The Disco King'. More remarkable still, Bowie survives the whole album without making a fool of himself. Even the two cover versions (Jonathan Richman's 'Pablo Picasso' and George Harrison and Ronnie Spector's 'Try Some Buy Some') are pretty good, notably superior to the Pixies and Neil Young desecrations on 'Heathen'.
Of course, 'Reality' deserves a reality check. This isn't an album destined to be legendary or life-changing, and it's hard to envisage many Bowie fans often choosing to play this when they could listen to 'Low' or 'Hunky Dory' or 'Ziggy Stardust' instead. Rather, it's the sound of a man who's worked out how to be good again, who finally understands his own strengths and limitations. Who's content to be his own thing, rather than the new thing.
Bowie's best since 'Scary Monsters', yet again.
