BOWIE Diamond Dogs (RCA)

D-d-d-cfecadence, that’s what this album’s all about, thematically and conceptually. You’ve all heard of that stuff, and now you can buy it red hot and regurgitated from the poor stiffs who actually have to live it and your local platter vendor. Only trouble is we gotta question whether Bowie of all people actually does live it. Aw hell, he’s a goddam family man, he doesn’t hardly take drugs, and perhaps the most perverted thing about Bowie’s music is that in troweling on the most studious sort of retching emotionalism he always comes out precisely as cold as we know him to be. Lou Reed’s always talking about atrophied sensations, but Lou really can feel (that’s his problem); I don’t think Bowie can feel, and the irony is that in making albums about future brats’ hysterical detachment from feeling he really does them feelinglessly. All the hysteria is contrived.