Bowie 'n' me

"Don't bother with anything after Scary Monsters," said a friend of mine after the sudden death of David Bowie last year prompted me to finally undertake my long-planned mission to acquaint myself with his 25 albums.

It was advice from a man who knows far more about music than I, having once had a wall full of thousands of vinyl albums, like some extra cast member of High Fidelity, but what a tragedy it would have been to consider the Brixton-born genius – and in his case the word is used very much advisedly – to have peaked with that 37-year-old release.

To listen to the works of this mind-bogglingly creative master chronologically from his eponymous and downright odd debut half a century ago to last year's stunningly ambiguous ★ is an aural adventure without equal.
The run of five releases from Space Oddity in 1969 to Aladdin Sane four years later is a string of albums surely unparalleled for range and quality. This clutch of modern masterpieces that caught the attention of the world contain most of the monster hits and are usually cited as the high-point of this musical visionary's career but, for me, Bowie's masterpieces arrived more than 20 years later and, sorry Steve, that puts them after Scary Monsters.

I think Bowie was at his best when he immersed the listener in his post-apocalyptic concept pieces – and can only imagine how moving such experiences must have been for teens who tore into their bedroom sanctuaries clutching newly-released vinyl – rather than for a 40-something taking his first faltering steps into music with Spotify.

The deliciously, darkly grim world of Diamond Dogs was Bowie's first assured foray into such territory, although he had served notice of his ability to paint such ambitious musical canvasses on his debut album, dismissed as an unfocused, music-hall aberration at the start of his career but which contains the brilliantly dismal, Malthusian We Are Hungry Men and Please Mr Gravedigger as well as the jolly Kinks-esque Uncle Arthur.

The brilliant despair of 1974's Diamond Dogs reached it's apogee – and that of Bowie's entire career – in 1995's Outside, an album which interspersed stunning tracks like The Hearts Filthy Lesson, Hallo Spaceboy – Bowie's original hard-edged release rather than the Pet Shop Boys aberration – and I Have Not Been to London Town with narrative pieces introducing the story of an investigation into the horrendous fad of art crime – grisly murder as art. It is a thing of genius, and would have to be to better the drum 'n' bass masterpiece Earthling which Bowie brought out two years later in the most fecund phase of an astonishing career.

Earthling showcases Bowie's ability, time and again, to dip his toe into brash new forms of music, in this case jungle, and then show the revolutionaries how to do it properly. Little Wonder may be my favourite Bowie song, although there are so many other candidates, and that and I'm Afraid of Americans alone, put Earthling up there among the greatest albums of all time. These two releases also eloquently illustrate how rewarding locking yourself away to follow the great man's career can be, it was scarcely imaginable as I was carried on the John Carpenter sine wave brilliance of Heroes and, especially, Low that it would get any better. The first two albums of Bowie's Berlin trilogy are Bowie – and Brian Eno – mastering ambient to show Tangerine Dream, Karftwerk, The Orb et al how it's done.

Let's Dance, derided by many as Bowie selling out, is an upbeat pop delight that among its oh-too-brief eight offerings includes the brilliant title track, Modern Love and China Girl as well as Cat People (Putting Out Fire), another candidate for Bowie's best single as he's never as good as when he sings like someone doing an unconvincing impression of himself; surely only Bowie could ever be that meta.

There are few duds in a collection of 25 albums – 1973's Pin Ups and 1987's Never Let Me Down are the only two I could happily go without hearing again, although even the latter offers Time Will Crawl.

It's impossible to list all the numerous highlights along the way, whether it be Bowie's take on God Only Knows, his homage to Lovecraft's Ancient Ones in The Supermen, the wonderfully bizarre Chant of the Ever-Circling Skeletal Family ("bra, bra, bra, bra, bra, bra, bra, bra...") or his attempts to make up foreign languages in The Secret Life of Arabia and Warszawa.

Brilliantly, and reassuringly for fans of this musical prophet, there is no limp tailing off in his near half-century of output and far from being a late-flowering in his career, Bowie's final two albums, The Next Day and ★ stake credible claims to being his best, and come only a hair's breadth short in my opinion.
By turns uplifting, experimental and almost impossible to interpret, the self-reverential nature of both releases, their celebration of his work and musings on his imminent death are not just to be indulged but to be celebrated by his fans.

With Space Oddity, The Man Who Sold The World, Hunky Dory, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars and Aladdin Sane, Bowie had cemented his immortality 44 years ago. In the decades beyond that he went further again and again.

Treat yourself, have a listen and you know what? Tin Machine is a pretty good album too.

The apotheosis of Ollie Palmer

Leyton Orient 3 Portsmouth 2

There is a certain type of football supporter who turns up but once a year, attending the Boxing Day fixture sporting a Christmas jumper and spinning tales of the good old days and the legion of uncles in the crowd at Brisbane Road would surely have identified with Orient attacker Ollie Palmer, a striker for Christmas, not for life, if the Os fans are to be believed.

To the astonishment of home supporters in the South Stand, the former Grimsby Town player put in a vintage centre-forward display, working a harassed Portsmouth central defence, holding the ball up with Velcro-like ability, hurling his body in the way of goalbound shots and scoring two perfect headers to cap a barnstorming display of traditional English attributes – the Boxing Day contingent must have thought it was 1955.

Palmer is the sort of target man whose abilities are usually dismissed with euphemisms such as ‘honest professional’ and ‘hardworking’, more Carlton than Robert, you might say. “He puts the effort in but he can’t score,” smiled one bemused regular, seconds before Palmer hurled himself into a far post diving header Nat Lofthouse would have been proud of.

And the big man’s apotheosis was very much needed – along with a string of fine stops from Orient keeper Alex Cisak – in a game that turned on two red cards.

Far from dominating, Orient were chasing the game early on as Paul Cook’s slick-passing Portsmouth side had them chasing shadows. The Pompey manager graced the stage at Wolves and Coventry with a sumptuous left foot and has created a team in his own image, Portsmouth’s cultured play rewarded with a goal inside four minutes as Kyle Bennett whipped in a cross from the left and Gareth Evans glanced it home. The difference between the teams was summed up seconds later when Sean Clohessy’s centre at the opposite end was scooped over by Jay Simpson, and with Cisak providing a stunning double save to deny Caolan Lavery and Bennett in the seventh minute, the South Stand was already bellowing its disapproval.

But a rush of blood from Portsmouth centre-back Adam Webster – who intercepted a Danny Hollands back-pass intended for keeper Brian Murphy and then had no choice but to drag down Jobi McAnuff – turned the game on its head. Simpson sent Murphy the wrong way to score but it was the loss of the red-carded Webster that proved more costly.

Suddenly, Orient were in their element, pressing relentlessly with Palmer as the perfect outlet whilst the visitors’ admirable refusal to abandon their passing principles mired them in their own half. The forward was everywhere, his rising confidence seeing him attempt drag-backs and step-overs in the Portsmouth area and with the Pompey chimes silenced, the big man supplied the perfect glancing header to left-back Cole Kpekawa’s high, hanging ball from deep, on the stroke of half time.

That should have been game over only for Orient skipper Mathieu Baudry to lash out in ridiculous fashion, raising his fists after being on the end of a foul from Bennett and leaving referee Graham Horwood no option but to reach for his red again. There was little sympathy for the Frenchman as he trudged off but as Orient fans contemplated 40 minutes of watching red shirts chasing their opponents’ passing triangles, the free-kick Baudry had won was swung in from the right and Palmer ­– who else? – sent home another thumping header.

Predictably enough Portsmouth were soon back on top in a fashion which hints they will be a strong bet for automatic promotion but when overlapping right-back Ben Davies was offered a glimpse of goal, that man Palmer hurtled across to charge down his rising drive. The respite was short-lived with the visitors claiming a suitably impressive goal in the 66^th minute, Bennett’s slide-rule pass dissecting the gap between Orient central defenders Jean Yves Mvoto and Connor Essam to give Evans a clear run at the exposed Cisak, whom he beat with insouciant ease.

The prospects of Orient holding out for the remainder of a classic encounter appeared thin, especially when the magisterial Palmer was replaced nine minutes from time, but his like-for-like replacement John Marquis almost scrambled a fourth Os goal two minutes into injury time after pouncing on a suicidal back-pass, with Murphy scrambling the ball onto his left-hand post and Matt Clarke blocking a follow-up effort on the line.

With the officials finding seven minutes of stoppages, there was still time for the onrushing Evans to thump a rising effort goalwards but Cisak, once again, was equal to it. On any other day, the Orient keeper would have been man of the match but there was only ever going to be one recipient of that honour.

It was all too much for owner Francesco Becchetti, who charged onto the pitch at the final whistle and capered in front of the bemused Orient faithful, looking for all the world like a slightly portly middle aged pitch invader. If the colourful businessman is concerned about the ongoing attempts by the Albanian authorities to extradite him for alleged fraud and money laundering, his attempts to high-five every supporter in the North Stand gave little evidence of the fact.