July 8, 1989 - David Bowie Tin Machine NME Review

GARY NUMAN, FEAR NOT

PICTURE: KEVIN CUMMINS

TIN MACHINE

LONDON TOWN & COUNTRY CLUB

ROCK GOD PLAYS NON-STADIUM GIG! One minute David was an ex-mod mime artist protesting about Tibet and then he was a superstar chameleon with a bit of a rep for worshipping the devil and Benito Mussolini.

Like a giant he bestrode the early '70s and stood firm on his 400 feet tall spindly legs as the emetic of punk washed all around him. Not only did he survive, but the scum that thrived in the post-punk vacuum saw him as a role model.

Yes! David Bowie! Monster of Rock! Master of Disguise! Live! Yes, this is a working band. And so we don't forget it the stage is lit up with harsh white light. David Bowie, wrinkles and all.

The sight of extremely skillful musicians wringing the necks of guitars is exciting and quite interesting for about a minute. I wandered around the crowd. They were mildly excited. This was not an event. And then Tin Machine played their version of 'Working Class Hero'.

They didn't just kill it, they tortured it in front of its children, urinated on it and stuffed its dick in its mouth. Every hair was pulled out with teezers. The nose was slit and fed to the ants. The testicles were attached to a car battery with crocodile clips and studded rubber coshes were smashed across the kidneys.

The screams for mercy were ignored. The song suffered. It was battered black and blue and shat upon. Bowie postured and preened without any sense of self-irony. Lennon's greatest songwriting moment, a brilliantly bitter summation of working class existence, was rendered as if it was a postmodernist advert for a new bank account.

Bowie sang with that tedious, bland, empty white voice. It wasn't camp, it wasn't kitsch, it wasn't even particularly clever. Patronising 'Cor-blimey-guv-oi-grew-ap-in-Beckenham- don'tcha-blinkin'-know!' waffle doesn't cut it either.

Tin Machine are a lumbering rock nightmare. There is no tension, no catharsis, no purpose. They sound like the most leaden of leaden heavy metal bands. Bowie 'sings' like Rex Harrison in Dr Doolittle. God it was boring.

With his silly cockernee accent and ridiculous 'shape throwing' Mr Bowie and his session musician friends just ploughed through the album, song after bloody tedious song. Occasionally they'd let rip with a bit of a 'jam'. Shivers ran down my spine. It was so contrived, so deadening. So 1975.

He could have cheered me up by playing one

of his very few decent old songs like 'Laughing

Gnome', but he didn't. He has once again shed his ugly bug skin to emerge as another ugly bug. Gary Numan, you have nothing to fear. No fun. No encore. No f-ing good.

Steven Wells

"Does that say what I think it does?"