This review is a little late, but I just recently recovered my copy of the album. In my initial run-through of the album, I was impressed but unmoved. Months later, I refound it and decided to continue listening and then review it. As I give it a more comprehensive listen, I realize I like it so much more. But one thing should be clear: This is not David Bowie’s comeback record. His comeback was with The Next Day; it was not a true return to form. Neither is this, but rather, it is an entirely new form for Bowie. At 69, he has a solidified reputation and could care less about what people think about his new direction. Of course, he has a fanbase to please, but at the twilight of his life, Bowie will do whatever pleases him. Unsurprisingly, this art-rock and jazz combination may be a little inaccessible for your average rock listener. Bowie fans will be pleased, but it will be a bit of a stretch for the average Joe to sit through the 10-minute opening title track. As a passive Bowie fan, it was a bit of a chore for me as well, but I gradually began to enjoy certain aspects of its weirdness.

Art-rock is pretentious almost all of the time, but if you know David Bowie, then you’ll know that the glam-rock visionary legitimately had a knack for pushing the boundaries of popular music. So as experimental as it can be, from its ambiguous lyrics to its unsettling dissonance, it’s still a wonder how pleasant it can be. Despite Bowie’s waning baritone voice, I also came to enjoy how much energy there was in it. Although he struggles to hit the higher notes (understandable), his timbre is not much different than it was in his heyday, and no less pleasant. There’s so much going on that it brinks on the edge of overloading the listener, but that never happens. The title track may be the epic that everyone will (claim to) like, but I applaud “’Tis a Pity She Was a Whore” for its humor and somewhat poppy 80’s vibe. As far as best tracks go, it’s hard to tell, but I’m heavily leaning towards “Lazarus,” if only for its saxophone riff. “Girl Loves Me” is also worth noting for Bowie’s odd yet surprisingly catchy hook. But perhaps the greatest triumph of the record are its saxophone solos that may not be improvisational, but enjoyable as much as any modern jazz record.

After 1980’s Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps), Bowie never recaptured the genius of his untouchable 70’s discography. Even then, there’re few artists who could make such a consistent discography, with the exception of Pin Ups. Reappraisal usually waits until years later, but now that Bowie’s death is far in the rearview mirror, it’s only appropriate to see whether the initial assessments were right or wrong. What worried me at first was whether or not critics would feel obligated to approve of his final effort, seeing as how his death occurred days after its release. Regardless of whether these glowing reviews were genuine in their praise, what matters now is that the record still holds up now that it’s not in the shadow of his passing. For a 70’s/80’s star, it’s amazing how fresh and new the record sounds. Despite his age, it’s also astonishing how far ahead he was compared to today’s best. Not only is it a minor success that can comfortably sit next to his 70’s discography, but it acts as a fitting swan song for such a visionary. It’s also not often legends have one more great one in them before they die. A-