David Bowie
– Young Americans
David Bowie never stayed in one place for long. One minute he’s an androgynous alien, the next he’s crooning in a smoky nightclub, swaying under dim lights and thick clouds of cigarette smoke. Young Americans wasn’t just a reinvention—it was a full-bodied dive into American soul, draped in saxophones and sweat, chasing a sound that felt both nostalgic and brand new. Gone were the glam-rock theatrics of Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane. In their place, a sharp suit, a slick groove, and a voice dripping with heartache and desire.
This was Bowie’s “plastic soul” phase, as he called it, but there’s nothing artificial about it. The album bleeds rhythm and desperation, from the breathless rush of the title track to the lush harmonies that swirl around him like ghosts of Motown past. Luther Vandross lurks in the background, his influence seeping into every note, while Carlos Alomar’s guitar work keeps everything tight and restless. Even John Lennon shows up, adding grit to the mix and reminding everyone that even the Thin White Duke had heroes of his own.
What makes Young Americans great isn’t just the shift in style—it’s the way Bowie makes it all feel so natural. He isn’t imitating soul music; he’s absorbing it, twisting it through his own filter of paranoia, longing, and existential dread. Every track oozes with the anxieties of the mid-‘70s, a period where Bowie was living on the edge of excess and transformation. It’s funk for the disillusioned, R&B for the alienated, a love letter to American music from an artist who never stayed in love with anything for too long.
Choice Tracks
Young Americans
The title track doesn’t ease you in—it shoves you straight into the party. The drums shuffle, the sax blares, and Bowie starts breathlessly spitting out lyrics like he’s barely keeping up with his own thoughts. It’s equal parts euphoria and exhaustion, a frenzied look at the American dream unraveling in real time.
Fame
This is where John Lennon steps in, and suddenly everything turns sharp and cynical. “Fame” slinks along with a funk groove so tight it could cut glass, Bowie’s voice twisting and bending as he spits out the word like it tastes bitter on his tongue. It’s danceable, venomous, and still one of the coolest things he ever recorded.
Win
If “Fame” is a sneer, “Win” is a sigh. The smoothest, most languid track on the album, it drips with resignation and late-night melancholy. Bowie’s voice is pure silk, wrapping around a melody that feels like it should be comforting but somehow isn’t. It’s the sound of a man convincing himself everything’s fine when he knows it’s falling apart.
Right
Funk stripped down to its bare essentials. “Right” moves with a hypnotic ease, a song that doesn’t demand attention but locks you in with its steady, intoxicating pulse. It’s all groove, all atmosphere, with Bowie riding the beat like he’s got nowhere else to be.
Somebody Up There Likes Me
Half gospel, half fever dream, this one stretches out over six minutes of swelling horns and Bowie at his most grandiose. It’s a warning and a celebration at the same time, the kind of song that makes you feel like you’re being watched—even if you’re the only one in the room.
Young Americans isn’t just a soul album—it’s Bowie’s version of soul, which means it’s both seductive and unsettling. It doesn’t just make you want to dance; it makes you want to dance while questioning everything. And that’s why, decades later, it still works.