Same goes here, with George Harrison-via-Ronnie Spector ("Try Some, Buy Some") and Jonathan Richman ("Pablo Picasso") standing tall among the sit-down rockers, which do the middle-aged shuffle without really breaking a sweat -- save the title track, at least till he starts singing about how "tragic youth was looking young and sexy," and then you just want to turn away from the man singing into the mirror. Once more he's working with Tony Visconti, and once more he's singing about living in NYC -- which means, no duh, thinly veiled songs about living, dying and dancing till sunup in Terrorist Town. Problem is, all you've really got here are a batch of well-done come-and-go-and-gone songs and not singles, which, despite the concepts and costumes of decades past, was where Bowie thrived -- ya know, the anthemic arena sing-along, the dance-floor chant, the space-age boogie. Hate to say it, but Bowie thrived before he figured out how to sing, much less dance; now he's just showing off without much to show for it.
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