David Bowie’s The Next Day is that sweater you wore a lot 2 decades ago. It was your absolute favorite, and when it became a bit threadbare you couldn’t bear to part with it, so it ended up in the least visited part of some closet, where you find it one Autumn day when it’s just getting a bit chilly. You are pleased to have found it and you smile as you put it on and it’s still your favorite. It becomes part of your around-the-house comfy clothes, and you wear it daily after work from October through February, but never out of the house because the style is perhaps somewhat less than current. Then one day you say ‘fug it’ and you wear it to work and everyone says ‘where did you find that sweater–it rocks!’ This record reminds me how much current Indy and Alternative bands owe Mr. Bowie.
I figure when I kick off I’ll likely be consigned to hell. They’ll say, however, that while I was certainly no saint, that I wasn’t quite worthy of total damnation. Consequently I’ll spend a millennium in some upper echelon of hell, where you can get mojitos during happy hour, and where Leningrad is the house band. Vtoroi Magadanskiy would make hell much more tolerable, and in a thousand years I could probably learn Russian and understand what the heck he’s singing.