David Bowie is the most inconsistently appealing genius in rock. With his chameleon ability to change from disco to space-rock to romantic ballads to astringent mechanomusic, Bowie has demonstrated that he can master and present music any way he cares to. Add that to his interest in salvaging/controlling careers of aimless visionaries like Iggy the Stooge and Mott the Hoople, his film interests and his penchant for working/writing/recording with various like-minded talents and you come up with a major musical force of the '70s. Regardless of the fact that very little of his recent musical output has been as enjoyable as it has been admirable, Bowie is a fascinating figure of limitless imagination.

Ever since the Diamond Dogs album and tour, Bowie has experimented in many areas; exploring, assimilating, and creating. First it was American R&B with the Young Americans, then hard-edged arcana via Station to Station, and disposable song fragments melded with soundtrack snippets aided by Eno (Low). Now, Bowie is doing a bit of a recap on Heroes…. Bowie forges a blend of melody, lyrical insanity, and Berlin-tinged pallor that recalls the finer moments of the last two studio trips as well as a few welcome flashes from the Aladdin Sane era. As ever, the results are mystifying and challenging, though more rewarding than the dadaist simplicity of Low. (p. 70)

The five tracks on the first side contain more accessible Bowie than any other recent album. Despite painfully convoluted themes and obscure references, Bowie manages to string together cohesive musical moments that recall a much earlier era—Ziggy Stardust, almost….

The title track is easily the best thing Bowie has put on plastic in three years…. The lyrics are double entendre confusion, and the German influence (result of his residence in Berlin) is clear. Bowie's control and sensitivity are the determining factors, but Eno's contribution, harking back to his first (and best) solo album cannot be overlooked….

The side ends with "Blackout." Manic panic and Bowie shrieking Hiroshima poetry over a steady surge of rhythm. "Too high a price to drink rotting wine/From your hands/Get me to a doctor's/I've been told someone's back in town/The chips are down/I just cut and blackout/I'm under Japanese influence/And my honour's at stake." Bowie's dreams must be bizarre, but I'm glad that he can translate nightmares to music so well.

Write on, David. Whatever it is you have to say. (p. 71)