I doubt there’s anyone who considers Tin Machine to be first tier David Bowie. That includes myself. Even still, I hold a great deal of affection for the digression into clattering rock that Bowie made in the late nineteen-eighties. If Bowie dominated the seventies, the eighties proved to be a touch more complicated. For one thing, his remarkably prolific creativity ebbed somewhat. Bowie issued eleven solo studio albums during the seventies, and only four during the eighties. While he still had hits — he never had as strong of a showing with a trio of consecutive tracks on the U.K. charts as he did with the first three singles from 1983’s Let’s Dance — there was an unmistakable sense that his mighty influence was waning, signaled by the generally unimpressed reviews that greeted Tonight, released in 1984, and Never Let Me Down, released in 1987. The latter album at least triggered the Glass Spider Tour, a notable commercial success that led straight into Bowie’s next major shift in a career defined by them.

Guitarist Reeves Gabrels met Bowie during that tour, leading to some casual collaborations that then turned into the band Tin Machine. By all accounts, Bowie intended it to be a true band, with shared creative responsibilities and the whole group weighing in on all decisions. It also seemed to be a way for Bowie to avoid being bogged down by his own history, as he was beginning to chafe at the notion that the indifference that greeted his newer music meant he’d be stuck recycling his classic hits endlessly (as further evidenced by the announced plan of his 1990 tour, Sound + Vision, to retire the bulk of his back catalog from live performances). There was likely no other rock musician, certainly none of his stature, as fearless as Bowie when it came to discarded the safety of the past to try something new. Tin Machine may have been a flawed enterprise, but it fulfilled Bowie’s mission of constant reinvention.

For me, Tin Machine’s self-titled debut album stirs up nostalgia for a beloved time in my life. Tin Machine arrived at my college radio station in 1989, just as spring was edging towards summer. I’d just finished my freshman year of college and was about to embark on a summer as the Program Director of WWSP-FM, the student-run station at the University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point. It felt a world away from anything I’d done before, as just as far a distance from any expectations I had about how my time would be allotted when I headed off to college. I felt lucky and excited, and every album that contributed to the soundtrack of that summer has a cherished place for me, including Tin Machine. Like a lot of people, I consider myself lucky that Bowie was there when I was clamoring for new music to help shape a significant time. Sure, when I really want to hear him at his best, I look to one of the albums from a decade or more earlier. When I want to be reminded of one of the time when I was at my best, any track from Tin Machine will do.

Listen or download –> Tin Machine, “Baby Can Dance”

(Disclaimer: While I believe Tin Machine to be out of print as a physical entity that can procured from your favorite local, independently-owned record store in a manner that compensates both the proprietor of said store and the original artist, whether the surviving band members or Bowie’s estate, the truth is there could be some posh rerelease or hefty compilation out there that eludes my admittedly feeble detective work. So let’s not get too hung up on the availability piece and instead note that this should be taken as a sample of one of the most obscure passages of Bowie’s career, an enticement to keep exploring the legend’s catalog beyond the handful of releases towards which everyone gravitates, admittedly with good cause. Regardless, I will gladly and promptly remove this track from my little corner of the digital world if asked to do so by any individual or entity with due authority to make such a request.)