David Bowie – Reality. Unlike last week’s LP, Silverhead, I remember exactly when I bought this record, Reality by David Bowie. It came after Heathen (2002), and Bowie was then going through a period of resurrection and a more down-to-earth phase. There may well be people out there who disagree with me, but to me this felt more like back to the roots, an art performance, and more like the period of 1976–77. A period which, in my opinion, is one of his very best, with Station to Station, Low and Heroes.
This long period in between, starting in 1993 and lasting until 2002, felt to me as if I had lost my great hero from my younger years. From my 80s teenage years, with my Kermit-green DIY speakers, a Lenco 75 turntable and a 35-watt Marantz 1040 amplifier.
When the spark was lit again for me, it was with Heathen. A little anecdote is that Bowie was actually in Gothenburg that year to promote Heathen. I still have the LP, but I never got it signed. The queue was long, stretching all the way down and past the Sjöfartsmuseum.
So, on 15 September 2003, when Reality was released in Europe, I had it marked in my calendar. I bought the CD at Bengans in Gothenburg, too, and it landed straight in the glove compartment of my Golf. It wasn’t available as an LP, you see.
About 20 days later, I became a father for the first time. My first daughter, eager and curious about the world, was born six weeks prematurely. She was due around Christmas Eve, but right then my life took a new turn. Bowie and I travelled back and forth to the neonatal unit. My entire focus was on my daughter, with Bowie soothing me into some kind of harmony.
Reality received its share of criticism. Bowie had stopped trying to be the man who changed music and had instead become very good at simply being David Bowie. Everyone agreed that the album was well made. Many thought it was intelligent; some found it vague, with strange lyrics, a little pretentious, leaving the listener with a whole lot of questions. And that, in my opinion, is the most interesting thing about it. Like Low, it makes you think as you listen. The album demands your attention. Something new appears each time. It doesn’t get “worn out” by being played on repeat. It can quietly and happily sit there in the CD player of my white Volkswagen Golf, back and forth from work to the hospital, home again, and round and round. Reality is Bowie as a more mature version of himself: guitar-driven, dark, melodic and down-to-earth, with electronic veils and a distinct sense of reflection.


