Pin-Ups is the underrated classic in David Bowie’s glam-era crown. A lot of Bowie’s own fans overlook and even disdain it, citing everything from the politics that led to its creation (of which, more shortly) to the absence of any fresh Ziggy classics on board.
Outside of the U.K., it must be said, a degree of cultural bias also plays a part in the album’s dismissal. For British listeners of the time (and even today), most — if not all — of the album’s contents were recognizable hit singles, the key exception being a Kinks B-side.
But that was not true for all territories — in the United States, for example, only four of the originals even made the Top 40. A few more may have been familiar from their parent LPs, but still… what Bowie designed as a seamless examination of a specific period of time and place was easily translated into a hopelessly random gathering of unknowns and obscurities.
And yet, of all the now-manifold albums that claim to pay tribute to the music that once made the artist dance — a role call that extends from Bryan Ferry to John Lennon; from Paul McCartney to Peter Gabriel — Pin-Ups alone can truly be said to capture the spirit of the days it evokes, as well as the music. Pin-Ups took an honest look at the songs’ impact on one generation, and effortlessly engineered them to have the same effect on another. And Pin-Ups alone made you want to hunt out the original records, just to hear what Bowie himself heard in them.
And what records they were — two apiece by The Yardbirds, The Who and the Pretty Things, individual cuts by The Kinks and Them, The Easybeats and The Mojos, The Merseys and what Bowie referred to as “Syd’s Pink Floyd.”
It seems incredible today,
