On Avalon's title track he puts it plainly: "Now the party's over/ I'm so tired". He made enervation his own- a real, neglected feeling, if a hard one to sympathise with. Which might have been insufferable, except Ferry's performances could hit an emotional core nobody else in rock was getting near. Having worked his way into character over an album or two, he simply never left it, becoming more Bryan Ferry with every record and every year, whether performing or not. A flying Dutchman of the jet set, doomed to find love but never satisfaction. A sybarite with a plummy, awkward croon, gliding through his own songs like they were parties he'd forgotten arriving at. In classic 70s style, like Bowie or Bolan, Ferry invented a pop star. The answer is Bryan Ferry, one of rock's great, sustained acts of self-definition. This box set of remasters to celebrate the band's 40th anniversary- not lavish, but thorough and reasonably priced- is an opportunity to break free of narrative and see what sets every phase of Roxy Music apart. Whether you see their development between those points as progress or cautionary tale, it's easy to let this contrast define the band. Others went a decade further back, to the early, playfully experimental albums Roxy released when Brian Eno was in the band, playing androgyne peacock to Ferry's tailored lothario. For some, the great achievement was 1982's farewell, Avalon- impeccably designed pop for weary grown-ups. Almost everyone affirmed that the band were great, while disagreeing as to when, exactly. American critics snipped at leader Bryan Ferry's arch romanticism, while the Brit press considered the models Ferry squired and the suits he doffed and dubbed him "Byron Ferrari". In their 1970s heyday, Roxy Music enjoyed enormous critical and commercial success, but even so, they and their art-school rock were admired more than trusted.
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