This came out in 1999 – or at least that’s when I got it. Here’s what I said about it back then (with some minor editing):
With the possible exception of Madonna — and she learned it from him — no contemporary rock performer has reinvented himself as frequently, consistently and completely as David Bowie.
Earnest folkie, bisexual glam-rocker, pop crooner, blue-eyed soul man — Bowie has worn and discarded all these masks over the decades of his ever-evolving career. And whether you like him or not, you’ve gotta admit that he remains one of the few artists on the scene who is still truly unpredictable. There’s really no way to know precisely what he’ll do — or who he’ll be — next.
Which makes it all the more surprising that on ‘hours … ’ his 23th album, Bowie’s latest incarnation turns out to be … David Bowie. Not Ziggy Stardust, not the Thin White Duke, not some futuristic private eye or alien invader; just plain ol’ Dave, attempting to shed all those layers of skin and take stock of the guy beneath them all.
Of course, after all these years, you could be forgiven for doubting that there actually is a real David Bowie. Or not just one, at any rate. Perhaps that’s the point of the multi-Bowie theme of the disc’s artworks — David sitting at a table with himself, three Bowies seated side by side, the new-look Bowie cradling his last version in his arms. Or whatever that’s supposed to be. Your guess is etc.
What is clearer is that ‘hours …’ is his most heartfelt, emotional outing in some time. On 10 tracks co-written with Tin Machine guitarist Reeves Gabrels, Bowie ruminates on romantic loss and emotional regrets, with rock’s first and foremost post-modernist sliding easily into the role of pre-millennial crooner. Starting with the downbeat soul ballad Thursday’s Child, Bowie meanders through a subtle musical landscape decorated with acoustic trip-folk, electro-rock and even touches of orchestral grandeur, slowly building steam until he hits the summery synth-rock of Baby What’s Happening? (which containes echoes Keep Me Hangin’ On) and the paranoid android-crunch of The Pretty Things Are Going To Hell, a perfect set-closer.
Too bad it isn’t — ‘hours … ’ continues for three more songs, frittering away its momentum with pointless New Romantic warbling, a needless instrumental and a plodding synth-rock finale called The Dreamers. It’s as if Bowie has lost his momentum — or his interest. Or maybe looking in the mirror just turned out to be tougher than he thought it would be.
