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David Bowie
‘Hours…’ [Limited Edition]

David Bowie — ‘Hours…’ [Limited Edition] (June 15th, 2015)

 David Bowie — ‘Hours…’ [Limited Edition] (June 15th, 2015)
♦¬  Rolling Stone srovnal do latě všechna alba Davida Bowieho od nejhoršího k nejlepšímu. Výsledek? Nejlepší je The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust (1972), toto má 22. místo z 27.
♦¬  Pro srovnání (že s tímto lze souhlasit) hodnocení By Ryan Schreiber; October 5, 1999 na Pitchfork: 4.7.
♦¬  'Hours...' is the 21st studio album by British musician David Bowie, released in 1999. 'Hours...' is a much mellower album than its predecessor, and features numerous references to earlier parts of Bowie's musical career (particularly the early 1970s).
♦¬  180 gram audiophile vinyl
♦¬  20–page booklet
♦¬  Available on vinyl for the first time!
♦¬  First pressing available in 2 colours:
♦¬  2.500 numbered copies on mint green vinyl
♦¬  2.500 numbered copies on blue / purple mixed vinyl
♦¬  Also available on black vinylBorn: David Robert Jones, 8 January 1947, Brixton, London, England
Location: London, UK
Album released: 21 September 1999 (digital), 4 October 1999 (compact disc)
Recorded: 1998 — 1999
Studio: Seaview Studio, Bermuda, Looking Glass Studios, New York City, Chung King Studios, New York City
Record Label: Virgin
Duration:
Tracks:
A1 Thursday’s Child      5:22
A2 Something In The Air      5:46
A3 Survive      4:11
A4 If I’m Dreaming My Life      7:04
B1 Seven      4:04
B2 What’s Really Happening?      4:10
B3 The Pretty Things Are Going To Hell      4:41
B4 New Angels Of Promise      4:37
B5 Brilliant Adventure      1:52
B6 The Dreamers      5:13
℗ 1999, 2004 ISO Records under license to Sony Music Entertainment Inc.
Producer: David Bowie, Reeves Gabrels
♦¬  All songs written and composed by David Bowie and Reeves Gabrels, except "What's Really Happening?" lyrics by Alex Grant. Musicians:
♦¬  David Bowie: vocals, keyboards, 12–string acoustic guitar, Roland 707 drum programming
♦¬  Reeves Gabrels: electric guitar and acoustic 6– and 12–string guitars, drum loops and programming, synth
♦¬  Mark Plati: bass guitar, acoustic & electric 12–string guitar, synth and drum programming, mellotron on "Survive"
♦¬  Mike Levesque: drums
♦¬  Sterling Campbell: drums on "Seven", "New Angels of Promise" and "The Dreamers"
♦¬  Chris Haskett: rhythm guitar on "If I'm Dreaming My Life"
♦¬  Everett Bradley: percussion on "Seven"
♦¬  Holly Palmer: backing vocals on "Thursday's Child"
Credits:
♦¬  Producers: David Bowie, Reeves Gabrels
♦¬  Mixed by: Mark Plati
♦¬  Mastered by: Andy VanDette
♦¬  Additional Recording by: Kevin PaulCharts (1999) / Peak positions:
♦¬  Australian ARIA Albums Chart     #33
♦¬  Austrian Albums Chart     #2
♦¬  Belgian Albums Chart (Flanders)     #12
♦¬  Belgian Albums Chart (Wallonia)     #12
♦¬  Canadian RPM Albums Chart     #21
♦¬  Dutch Mega Albums Chart     #31
♦¬  Finnish Albums Chart     #39
♦¬  French SNEP Albums Chart     #7
♦¬  German Media Control Albums Chart     #4
♦¬  Italian Albums Chart     #9
♦¬  Japanese Oricon Albums Chart     #14
♦¬  New Zealand Albums Chart     #21
♦¬  Norwegian Albums Chart     #4
♦¬  Swedish Albums Chart     #2
♦¬  Swiss Albums Chart     #18
♦¬  UK Albums Chart     #5
♦¬  United States Billboard 200     #47
REVIEW
GREG TATE (Posted: Oct 28, 1999) ♦¬ SCORE: ♦♦♦♦
♦¬  Never mind the premillennium panic, David Bowie seems to be saying on Hours . . ., let's try plaintive instead. Bowie's twenty–third album is as nakedly emotive a collection as anything in his iconic catalog; it's a summary statement from the man who invented postmodern rock & roll, so school is in session. But teacher is more concerned with baring wounds than with making big statements: "The pretty things are going to hell/They wore it out, but they wore it well" is as big as it gets. ♦¬  The sentiment sounds chucked from Johnny Rotten's diary, almost a kiss–off to the rock era. Bowie is probably the only cat around with the history, irony and distance to deliver that lyric as self–critique, death sentence, fond reminiscence and party favor all at the same time.
♦¬  Cranking the guitars up some would have made the Sex Pistols analogy more palpable, but it would have taken away from the album's general air of effervescent melancholy. Hours . . . contains that quite bearable lightness of being that comes with Bowie's position as a relevant older rock star. Having done his bit for future primitivism on his previous two conceptually frenzied outings, Outside and Earthling, Bowie brings the curtain down on the century with a collection of songs that are just, well, Hunky–Dory. Members of the fan base will also hear echoes of Ziggy, Aladdin Sane, Heroes, Low and even Tin Machine. First and foremost, though, the introspection of Hours . . . is a testament to the serenity that comes with legend status, maturity and endurance.
♦¬  As was the case with Miles Davis in jazz, Bowie has come not just to represent his innovations but to symbolize modern rock as an idiom in which literacy, art, fashion, style, sexual exploration and social commentary can be rolled into one. While this isn't an idea without its heirs apparent — the names Corgan, Reznor and Manson come to mind — Bowie makes it all seem so damn easy.
♦¬  Hours . . . wafts into the room, breezily delivers its angsty arabesques and afterlife lullabies, and then luminously bows out in a succinct 45:42. Confessional highlights include "Survive," with its fragile failed paramour, and "Thursday's Child," about a life of despair saved by true love. On these songs, Bowie's voice, darker and woodier in timbre than usual and on the verge of tears, strains over music gently suggestive of elevator Philly soul and the ghost of Phillipe Wynn: "Shuffling days and lonesome nights/Sometimes my courage fell to my feet/Lucky old sun is in my sky/Nothing prepared me for your smile."
♦¬  As always, Bowie's eccentric sense of melody twists around the ear like a space oddity, getting under the skin, plucking the heartstrings and stirring up feelings of alienation we never knew we had. Bowie's longtime partner in crime, guitarist Reeves Gabrels, takes a co–writer credit on everything here. Their fertile collaboration yields settings full of atmosphere, spunk, grit and nuance; Hours . . . is an album that improves with each new hearing. Just when all the pretty young things might have thought their world was safe from Jurassic intrusion, here comes Bowie, staking an unshakable claim on rock's brave next world. Hours . . . is further confirmation of Richard Pryor's observation that they call them old wise men because all them young wise men are dead. ♦¬  http://web.archive.org/web/20080622103520/http://www.rollingstone.com/REVIEW
♦¬  The bulk of Bowie's later material has seen him in a holding pattern in terms of relative quality. Some albums are incrementally better (Reality), some are worse (this one), but they're basically comparable: well–executed, thoughtful but not especially memorable records that are unlikely to blow the minds of anyone besides the most devoted. For shits and giggles I took a look through a pile of Amazon reviews to test my unnamed theory of forgettable consistency: sure enough, virtually every album from Black Tie White Noise onward has exactly 4 stars. (Outside and The Next Day break the mold with 4.5 stars each). In the vaguest sense I suppose this confirms my theory (hooray, validation), but the real takeaway is that Bowie superfans are serious apologists. Not to put too much weight on an arbitrary aggregated review system from an online retailer, but c'mon. Hours… is not a 4–star record. No way, no how. Abandoning the electro–fetishism of Outside and Earthling in favor of organic, straightforward pop–rock circa 1999, the results range from decent to dull, maybe occasionally irritating. Like everything he's done, it has its moments: the drop–tempo crooning that closes "If I'm Dreaming My Life" has a certain something, but it's not enough to erase the first 4 minutes of the song. Meanwhile we get non–gems like "The Pretty Things Are Going to Hell," whose title channels the classic Stooges song with a similar name while seemingly copping cybertronic guitar tones from Orgy — it ain't pretty. According to Wikipedia (blessed Wikipedia), Hours… marks the beginning of Bowie's "Neoclassicist" stage, which may or may not be a real thing, but it sounds right. In the words of one of the 4–star–granting Amazon reviewers, Hours… is "a mature album by a mature man."
By Ryan Schreiber; October 5, 1999, Score: 4.7
♦¬   http://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/881-hours/
Website: http://davidbowie.com/fiveyears/
Twitter: https://twitter.com/DavidBowieReal
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/davidbowie
YouTube: https://www.youtube.com/davidbowie
LYRICS “SEVEN”
1) I forgot what my father said
I forgot what he said
I forgot what my mother said
As we laid on your bed
2) A city full of flowers
A city full of rain
I got seven days to live my life
Or seven ways to die
3) I forgot what my brother said
I forgot what he said
I don't regret anything at all
I remember how he wept
4) On a bridge of violent people
I was small enough to cry
I got seven days to live my life
Or seven ways to die
5) Hold my face before you
Still my trembling heart
Seven days to live my life
Or seven ways to die
6) The Gods forgot they made me
So I forgot them too
I listen to their shadows
I play among their graves
7) My heart is never broken
My patience never tried
I got seven days to live my life
Or seven ways to die
8) Seven days to live my life
Or seven ways to die
Seven
Seven
Seven♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦¬♦

David Bowie
‘Hours…’ [Limited Edition]

 

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