Black Tie White Noise was the beginning of David Bowie's return from the wilderness of post-Let's Dance, the first indication that he was regaining his creative spark. To say as much suggests that it's a bit of a lost classic, when it's rather a sporadically intriguing transitional album, finding Bowie balancing the commercial dance-rock of Let's Dance with artier inclinations from his Berlin period, all the while trying to draw on the past by working with former Spider from Mars guitarist Mick Ronson, collaborating with Let's Dance producer Nile Rodgers, and even covering inspiration Scott Walker's "Nite Flights."
Glen Campbell not only had an enormous number of hit singles, he was also a staple of pop culture, appearing in films and hosting a TV show during the late '60s and early '70s. Before that, he was a respected studio musician and performer in search of a hit in the early '60s, cutting great singles that nobody heard. All this makes his career difficult to compile, even on a double-disc set with 40 songs, so it shouldn't be a huge surprise that Razor & Tie's 1997 compilation The Glen Campbell Collection (1962-1989), for all its attributes, is heavily flawed. Its biggest problem is its scope; by extending its reach to the end of the '80s, when Campbell was still having hits out of sheer inertia and was far past his peak, the listenability of the second disc nosedives about halfway through.
Pedro Almodóvar’s colorful and controversial tribute to the pleasures and perils of Stockholm syndrome, Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down! is a rambunctious dark comedy starring Antonio Banderas as an unbalanced but alluring ex-mental-patient and Victoria Abril as the B-movie and former porn star he takes prisoner in the hopes of convincing her to marry him. A highly unconventional romance that came on the spike heels of Almodóvar’s international sensation Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown, this is a splashy, sexy central work in the career of one of the world’s most beloved and provocative auteurs, radiantly shot by the director’s great cinematographer, José Luis Alcaine.