Often bootlegged through the years, this legendary 1972 performance by
David Bowie and his Ziggy-era band, the Spiders from Mars, brims with all the excitement Bowie must have felt as he watched stardom hurtling his way. Drawing mostly from his (then) four rock albums (RCA had just re-released
Space Oddity; The Man Who Sold the World would soon follow), Bowie and sidekick
Mick Ronson lead the band through a set remarkable for its instrumental economy, stylistic diversity, and freedom from the pretensions that would later mar Bowie's stage act.
Except for an overwrought working of Jacques Brel’s “My Death” and a superfluous cover of
Lou Reed’s “Waiting for the Man,” the show essentially takes Bowie’s melodic, minimalist songs and sets them ablaze with a white heat the Spiders never quite mustered in the studio. “Hang on to Yourself” and “Queen Bitch” explode out of the speakers like bottle rockets, thanks in large measure to Ronson's churning power chords and wah-laden leads. As streamlined as a bullet train, the band seems intent on espousing the glam-punk ethic that rock ’n’ roll is most exciting when stripped to its core.
Elsewhere, especially on “Changes” and “Life On Mars?,” the set shifts toward Bowie’s quirky cabaret leanings, as Mike Garson’s glissando-rich piano underscores Bowie’s stylized Anthony Newley-influenced vocals. But these are mere respites. Perhaps in their most exciting recorded versions, the metallic sci-fi extravaganza “The Width of a Circle” and “Moonage Daydream” give Ronson the opportunity to flex his solo guitar muscle to its fullest.
Thankfully, the murky sound that marred the bootlegs has been cleaned up, giving the performance a sonic wallop that surpasses even the
Bowie Live set that followed two years later. Handsome postcard-style photos, a reprint of
L.A. Times critic Robert Hilburn's hilariously fawning review of the show, and various other reproductions of memorabilia flesh out the package. The only quibble is that much of the between-song banter found on the bootlegs―including Bowie’s charming imitation of
Andy Warhol―has been stripped away. Still, for an early snapshot of glam-rock in its unvarnished ascendance, there's no better document than this one.
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