David Bowie, the chameleon of rock, the man who constantly reinvented himself, is an undisputed icon. From Ziggy Stardust to the Thin White Duke, his career was built on pushing boundaries and defying expectations. However, in 1983, Bowie took a sharp turn with the album Let’s Dance. This record, while commercially successful, remains a point of contention among fans and critics alike. Was Let’s Dance a brilliant reinvention or a calculated sell-out? Let’s delve into this pivotal moment in Bowie’s career.
David Bowie Let's Dance Album Cover
For many, including myself, there’s a sense of unease, a philosophical “existential nausea” as some might jokingly call it, when revisiting Let’s Dance. This isn’t to say the album is devoid of merit, but it undeniably marks a significant departure from Bowie’s previous work. While I, like many devoted fans, would readily admire Bowie’s innovative spirit across his discography, Let’s Dance feels different. It feels… calculated.
The collaboration with Nile Rodgers, while bringing a polished, danceable sheen to Bowie’s sound, also arguably sanded down some of his artistic edges. Rodgers, a brilliant producer known for his work with Chic and Sister Sledge, was undeniably skilled at crafting hits. And hits Let’s Dance delivered. Singles like “Let’s Dance” and “Modern Love” dominated airwaves and MTV, catapulting Bowie to a new level of mainstream fame. This commercial success is undeniable, and for some, it justifies the album’s direction. They argue Bowie was simply expanding his reach, aiming for a broader audience. And in a purely business sense, they are correct.
However, there’s a fine line between tailoring your craft and outright pandering. Let’s Dance, with its slick, MTV-ready sound and Bowie’s consciously updated image, often feels like the latter. It’s as if the man who gave us “Changes” was now chasing trends instead of setting them. Bowie himself seemed to acknowledge this shift, famously referring to his Let’s Dance era as his “Phil Collins years,” a somewhat self-deprecating comparison highlighting the album’s mainstream appeal.
My initial reaction to Let’s Dance in 1983 was visceral. It wasn’t existential nausea; it was pure, unadulterated musical revulsion. “Let’s Dance” and “Modern Love” felt like a betrayal of everything Bowie stood for. The lyrics, particularly lines like “Put on your red shoes and dance the blues,” felt cringeworthy, a far cry from the lyrical depth of his earlier work. While Bowie had penned questionable lines before – the infamous “Time took a cigarette/And put it in your mouth” from “Rock ‘N’ Roll Suicide” comes to mind – the context was different. “Rock ‘N’ Roll Suicide” was part of a groundbreaking album, Ziggy Stardust, while “Let’s Dance” felt like a step down.
The sound of the album was particularly jarring. Bowie had always been ahead of the curve, a sonic innovator. But Let’s Dance sounded like he was playing catch-up. He seemed to be mimicking the sounds of his contemporaries, bands like Duran Duran and Wham!, rather than forging his own path. Nile Rodgers, while a capable producer, lacked the visionary approach of someone like Brian Eno, who had previously collaborated with Bowie on his groundbreaking Berlin Trilogy. This difference in production philosophy proved crucial and, in my opinion, detrimental to Let’s Dance.
Confessing my bias, I had avoided a full listen to Let’s Dance for years, prejudiced by the singles. Finally confronting the album in its entirety confirmed my long-held suspicions. It does, indeed, “reek like a dead carp wearing a Limburger cheese suit and shoes made from dog shit,” to borrow a colorful analogy. Tracks like “Without You” sound like pale imitations of Roxy Music, “Ricochet” is forgettable, and “Criminal World” is a product of its time in the worst possible way. One can almost imagine Phil Collins himself singing “Criminal World,” a track only partially redeemed by Stevie Ray Vaughan’s guitar solo – though even Vaughan’s bluesy guitar, while technically proficient, feels out of place on a Bowie record, especially when one longs for the raw energy of Mick Ronson. “Shake It” is even worse, a cacophony of dated 80s production clichés, from the generic backing vocals to the relentless, thumping beat and the ubiquitous keyboard twitches.
However, amidst the sonic wasteland, Let’s Dance does offer glimmers of hope. “China Girl,” a song Bowie co-wrote with Iggy Pop, is presented in a crisper, more “soulful” rendition than Pop’s original. Bowie delivers the apocalyptic lyrics – “I stumble into town/Just like a sacred cow/Visions of swastikas in my head/Plans for everyone” – with a chilling intensity. While Iggy Pop’s version might sound more raw and emotionally tortured, Bowie’s version boasts a tighter arrangement and Vaughan’s sharp guitar work. Yet, personally, I still lean towards the grittier, more chaotic energy of Iggy’s original, complete with its sludgy horns and abrupt ending – perhaps my Ronson bias shining through again.
The true saving grace of Let’s Dance is undoubtedly “Cat People (Putting Out Fire).” This track stands apart, recalling the Bowie of earlier eras. With its evocative lyrics, a rhythm that defies the prevailing 80s trends, and more inspired guitar work from Vaughan, “Cat People” feels like a genuine Bowie song. It’s the only track on the album that doesn’t sound like it was designed for mass consumption, making it a worthy addition to any Bowie compilation.
Ultimately, Let’s Dance represents a pivotal, and perhaps problematic, moment in David Bowie’s career. The man who sold the world seemed to, in some ways, sell his artistic soul for a fleeting period of mainstream success. While Let’s Dance achieved its commercial goals, it arguably came at the cost of Bowie’s artistic integrity. As Bowie himself later reflected, Let’s Dance “fucked with my integrity” and became a “beast” he struggled to escape. The long-term impact on Bowie’s artistic reputation is still being debated, but for many long-time fans, Let’s Dance marked a turning point, a disillusionment that no previous “change” could have caused. Bowie had always embraced artifice, but Let’s Dance felt less like playful reinvention and more like a toxic compromise.
Final Verdict: While Let’s Dance undeniably contains commercially successful singles and even a few standout tracks like “Cat People,” the album as a whole remains a flawed and controversial entry in David Bowie’s otherwise stellar discography. It serves as a fascinating, if somewhat cautionary, tale of an artist navigating the treacherous waters of mainstream success in the 1980s.
