Since he may no longer be able to win that game, Bowie refuses to play it at all on 'hours...', which offers no personal or musical facades, but is instead simply a fine album of disconnected songs, in a sense returning him to his early days as a singer-songwriter who could take off down different paths without necessarily sticking to any one of them.

So how does it sound? Well, just Hunky Dory, of course. But nostalgia has never been Bowie's strong suit. The opening cut, "Thursday's Child," offers a wistful glance over his shoulder, a sort of end-of-the-millennium version of "My Way." It's a tip-off that 'hours...' offers more reflection on the past than new directions for the future, and that proves to be the case: "The Pretty Things Are Going to Hell" revisits his Glam-rock heyday, while the acoustic-based "Seven" recalls his Space Oddity era, and "New Angels of Promise" and "What's Really Happening" sound like they'd have comfortably fit on Diamond Dogs. While lacking the experimental fire of his last two efforts, the more subdued 'hours...' is certainly no Bowie dud.

Put it this way: if he'd released this around 1985, fans would have been "dancing in the streets". Kudos must go out here to Gabrels, who has finally reined in his more excessive tendencies and become a truly fine guitar player. As for confessional autobiography, I can't say I know David Bowie any better after listening to this album, but that's fine: where would a rock dandy be without the element of mystery anyway? If you want unfiltered psychic pain, check out Henry Rollins.