| Scot On Sun 27 July 1997 Barrowland Damien Love Time to bring out the Scary Monsters Consider this: David Bowie gets an ovation at the Barrowland before he's even on stage. It comes toward the end of the warm-up set provided by DJ Pathaan, when he slips an unexpected 'Changes' into a decidedly drum-n-bassed-up playlist which had hitherto slipped by largely unnoticed. An ovation, already. A shower of respectful good time applause. For a record. Before he's even on stage. Bowie at the Barras though! Who'd have thought it? And who'd have thought that it could have felt so suddenly, strangely important, as it did, standing in the queue outside. We're 1972, we're 1977, we're 1981 and, good lord, we're 1997 all at once. A calm excitement, unexpected, slowly snakes through the line. Where does it come from? It shoudn't feel like this, not at all. When last he played in the vicinity, at the SECC, it didn't feel like this; there was anticipation, but of a muted sort, and a far-away show designed for the uncomfortable seats we've been trained to accept as our lot in life. But in having the Barrowland as home for the evening, Bowie scores in advance- and the venue does too. Let's face it, for a long time the Barras has traded lazily on it's reputation as Best Venue In the World, a title earned long ago; but tonight the place stirred itself; it was breathing again. An alchemy of sorts. And there he is: stepping out alone behind an acoustic guitar, strumming 'Quicksand', cooing supremely to the I-can't-believe-he's-doing-this delirium of the crowd. "And I ain't got the power anymore..." Don't believe it, everything is going to be alright. Hunky Dory, in fact. As the band emerge to pick up the tail of the song, Bowie switches to what appears to be a nodescript plastic blues, something about being in a boat with no-one to help, and things falter, a hum of talk descends, builds, until we discern the half recognised lyric he's begun sneaking in...what's that? It's...it's bloody hell, it's 'The Jean Genie'! The band falls into position. The roof of the venue strains visibly. The current junglist flirtation first appears with the revamped 'Man Who Sold The World'-the dubby, spacious, lovely, strange-beat overhaul fo the old song offered as a guiding hand, perhaps, a way into the newer material for those scattered tentative souls who have thus far been offering shouts of "Ye-es, that's the stuff! F*** yer dance shite!" And here's the rub. It's obvious that, if he chose to, David Bowie could still raze the Barrowland Ballroom to a glittering pile of magic-cold Euro-dust peopled by an audience of wide-eyed and drooling pop-dreamers simply by neglecting to play anything he's written since, say, 1984. This capability is, in itself remarkable; and somewhere deep inside us all, that's what we want him to do-or not so deep down, in many cases. The thing is, there are other feelings and desires swimming about in the hearts of the Bowie-people, too. The sheer respect he's due for being so bloody-minded and aggressiv in the pursuit of his shiny new metallic noise, still looking and heroically unafraid to look ridiculous in the search. The fervent hope that, against all the odds, he'll chance upon something wondrous again. It's missing the point, by a large margin, to accuse the Dame of opportunitically jumping on any passing train, of being a musical Nosferantu, sucking from the neck of every virgin young fad-at least, it is if you've ever liked anything the man has done. Moments of 'The Heart's Filthy Lesson', seconds from 'the Battle for Britain', 'Little Wonder' and 'Looking for Satellites', the drive of 'Hallo Spaceboy' and sundry other tiny glimpses offer the hope that he could be onto something here. Those times when the tinny clutter of the music opens up and there's room to move, these are the times when Bowie looks, however fleetingly, like the only Millennium crooner on the face of the planet, with 30 years of presence and a new thirst. It's not that he's trying jungle, it's that he's written some nasty new pop grooves and lashed them up with the technoloy, creating a fascinating monster. These are only moments, though, and the songs eventually collapse in on themselves, helped largely by the guitar histrionics of Reeves Gabrel. Bowie knows what he's doing; those disaffected by the likes of the recent 'I'm Afraid of Americans' are roundly brought to heel by a pneumatic 'Fame' or a pistol whipped 'Fashion', 'Stay' is dusted down and found to gleam. The apex of the night, though, comes with 'Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps)', grown titanic, headlong beautiful. There, the singer balanced on the monitors, the sound rushing down and sweeping you halfway to the stars, you become aware that sometimes there is indeed a God. And he looks great for his age.
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