Since David Bowie spent the '90s jumping from style to style, it comes as a shock that Hours, his final album of the decade, is a relatively straightforward affair. Not only that, but it feels unlike anything else in his catalog. Bowie's music has always been a product of artifice, intelligence, and synthesis. Hours... is a relaxed, natural departure from this method. Arriving after two labored albums, the shift in tone is quite refreshing. "Thursday's Child," the album's engaging mid-tempo opener, is a good indication of what lays ahead. It feels like classic Bowie, yet recalls no specific era of his career. For the first time, Bowie has absorbed all the disparate strands of his music, from Hunky Dory through Earthling. That doesn't mean Hours... is on par with his earlier masterworks; it never attempts to be that bold. What it does mean is that it's the first album where he has accepted his past and is willing to use it as a foundation for new music. That's the reason why Hours... feels open, even organic -- he's no longer self-conscious, either about living up to his past or creating a new future. It's a welcome change, and it produces some fine music, particularly on the first half of the record, which is filled with such subdued, subtly winning songs as "Something in the Air," "Survive," and "Seven." Toward the end of the album, Bowie branches into harder material, which isn't quite as successful as the first half of the album, yet shares a similar sensibility. And that's what's appealing about Hours... -- it may not be one of Bowie's classics, but it's the work of a masterful musician who has begun to enjoy his craft again and isn't afraid to let things develop naturally.

Heathen marks a new beginning for David Bowie in some ways -- it's his first record since leaving Virgin, his first for Columbia Records, his first for his new label, ISO -- yet it's hardly a new musical direction. Like Hours, this finds Bowie sifting through the sounds of his past, completely at ease with his legacy, crafting a colorful, satisfying album that feels like a classic Bowie album. That's not to say that Heathen recalls any particular album or any era in specific, yet there's a deliberate attempt to recapture the atmosphere, the tone of his '70s work -- there's a reason that Bowie decided to reteam with Tony Visconti, the co-producer of some of his best records, for this album -- even if direct comparisons are hard to come by. Which is exactly what's so impressive about this album. Bowie and Visconti never shy away from electronic instrumentations or modern production -- if anything, they embrace it -- but it's woven into Bowie's sound subtly, never drawing attention to the drum loops, guitar synths, and washes of electronica. For that matter, guest spots by Dave Grohl and Pete Townshend (both on guitar) don't stand out either; they're merely added texture to this an album that's intricately layered, but always plays smoothly and alluringly. And, make no mistake, this is an alluring, welcoming, friendly album -- there are some moody moments, but Bowie takes Neil Young's eerie "I've Been Waiting for You" and Pixies' elusively brutal, creepy "Cactus" and turns them sweet, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, either. In the end, that's the key to Heathen -- the undercurrent of happiness, not in the lyrics, but in the making of music, a realization by Bowie and Visconti alike that they are perfect collaborators. Unlike their previous albums together, this doesn't boldly break new ground, but that's because, 22 years after their last collaboration, Scary Monsters, both Bowie and Visconti don't need to try as hard, so they just focus on the craft. The result is an understated, utterly satisfying record, his best since Scary Monsters, simply because he'd never sounded as assured and consistent since.

Instead of being a one-off comeback, 2002's Heathen turned out to be where David Bowie settled into a nice groove for his latter-day career, if 2003's Reality is any indication. Working once again with producer Tony Visconti, Bowie again returns to a sound from the past, yet tweaks it enough to make it seem modern, not retro. Last time around, he concentrated on his early-'70s sound, creating an amalgam of Hunky Dory through Heroes. With Reality, he picks up where he left off, choosing to revise the sound of Heroes through Scary Monsters, with the latter functioning as a sonic blueprint for the album. Basically, Reality is a well-adjusted Scary Monsters, minus the paranoia and despair -- and if those two ingredients were key to the feeling and effect of that album, it's a credit to Bowie that he's found a way to retain the sound and approach of that record, but turn it bright and cheerful and keep it interesting. Since part of the appeal of Monsters is the creeping sense of unease and its icy detachment, it would seem that a warmer, mature variation on that would not be successful, but Bowie and Visconti are sharp record-makers, retaining what works -- layers of voices and guitars, sleek keyboards, coolly propulsive rhythms -- and tying them to another strong set of songs. Like Heathen, the songs deliberately recall classic Bowie by being both tuneful and adventurous, both hallmarks of his '70s work. If this isn't as indelible as anything he cut during that decade, that's merely the fate of mature work by veteran rockers. So, Reality doesn't have the shock of the new, but it does offer some surprises, chief among them the inventive, assured production and memorable songs. It's a little artier than Heathen, but similar in its feel and just as satisfying. Both records are testaments to the fact that veteran rockers can make satisfyingly classicist records without resulting in nostalgia or getting too comfortable. With any luck, Bowie will retain this level of quality for a long time to come.

I completely forgot to listen to Heathen yesterday. Dunno if I'll try to tackle both of these or save this one until later.

What do you have lined up next? I've kind of enjoyed this, but honestly, I think we could cut this one short before going through all the live records and stuff. Maybe we should only do the one or two that are widely considered his best?

Why don't we do the reviled David Live and then do that Santa Monica '72 set that was released last year and then we can move on to Jamaica?

If you can, include Bowie at the Beeb - has some great versions of the early stuff, and an interesting later period concert that can provide a nice juxtaposition of sounds. For the longest it was the only Bowie I owned.

Some collectors might complain that the double-disc Bowie at the Beeb, the first official collection of David Bowie's BBC Radio sessions, isn't complete, yet they likely have bootlegs of this material. All other fans are in for a real treat. Spanning from 1968 to 1972, these recordings find Bowie, if not in his prime, at least at a peak, as he developed from a swinging Carnaby Street pop crooner to swaggering glam rock star. Bowie at the Beeb makes this era come alive. Opening with the lovely, florid "In the Heat of the Morning," the sessions spend time with David the Dandy before he delves into his dramatic heavy rock of the early '70s. That's where guitarist Mick Ronson made his public debut with Bowie at the session that comprises the middle of disc one. This is lean, powerful, terrific music, not as pummeling as The Man Who Sold the World, but it's slightly overshadowed by the session that concludes the first disc. It contains the bulk of rarities here, including the never-released "Looking for a Friend," a rollicking cover of Chuck Berry's "Almost Grown," a version of "It Ain't Easy" where Bowie trades verses with Geoffrey Alexander and George Underwood, and a performance of the exquisite "Bombers." After a pair of songs by just Bowie and Ronson, the second disc finds the Spiders From Mars forming and quickly hitting their stride. Since this disc is largely devoted to recordings from 1972, it's a bit more consistent than the first, and it results in a live Spiders album better than any yet officially released. Bowie at the Beeb may not be revelatory, yet this set is filled with wonderful music that deepens appreciation of Bowie's first great blast of creativity. Any true fan needs it in his collection.

During the supporting tour for 1974's Diamond Dogs, David Bowie shifted away from the arch camp of glam rock and turned toward a highly stylized variation of Philly soul -- a transition captured on the 1974 double live album, David Live. It's an interesting idea for a record, and certainly one that's fascinating as a historical footnote, but David Live winds up as one of the true failures in Bowie's catalog, one of the few records in his catalog that's a genuine chore to sit through from beginning to end. Part of the problem is inherent to any live Bowie LP: his concerts are equal parts visual spectacle and musical concert, so having just the aural portion of the show misses a crucial part of the story. Another part of the problem is that the soul reworkings of Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, and Diamond Dogs material is intriguing conceptually, but the execution, at least on this record, is awkward and ham-fisted, nowhere near as sleek and sexy as the subsequent Young Americans and, especially, Station to Station albums. And that points out the real problem with David Live -- the performances are stilted, lacking energy, and often degenerating into bland groove-oriented vamps. It doesn't help that the recording is lousy and that no amount of aural tweaking -- whether on Rykodisc's 1991 CD reissue or Virgin's expanded 2005 reissue, which is heavily remixed by its original producer Tony Visconti -- can change the fact that this is a flat, colorless experience. [The 1991 Rykodisc edition tacks on a number of bonus tracks at the end of the disc rather than insert them into the running order, which the 2005 Virgin edition thankfully did.]

Why this album was never officially released until now remains one of the great mysteries of major-label decision making. Long bootlegged, Live Santa Monica '72 captures the glam-rock pioneer during his Ziggy Stardust prime,on his first U.S. tour, recording what is unequivocally his best concertalbum. With no needless production tricks to separate the music from thelive experience, everything, including the crowd, becomes part of thisintimate show taped at the Santa Monica Civic Center. Bowie is relaxed andchatty — he even introduces "Andy Warhol" with a goofy impersonation of thepop artist. His band, featuring the combustive guitar work of Mick Ronsonand tight rhythm section of bassist Trevor Bolder and drummer Mick "Woody"Woodmansey, was his strongest lineup ever, and here they run though nearlyall of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars,fleshing out the loose storyline about an alien rock star with appropriatecuts from earlier LPs, such as Hunky Dory's "Life on Mars" and Space Oddity's title song. Bowie also turns cover versions of the VelvetUnderground's junkie anthem "Waiting for the Man" and Jacques Bruel'sbeautiful and harrowing "My Death" into fitting rock & roll hymns for Ziggy.It's a near-flawless document of a character Bowie would soon leave behindfor good.