Young Americans
(Bowie)
Drums: Dennis Davis, Andy Newmark
Bass: Emir Ksasan, Willy Weeks
Guitar: Carlos Alomar, Bowie, John Lennon, Earl Slick
Keyboards: Bowie, Michael Garson
Saxophones: David Sanborn
Percussion: Ralph McDonald, Pablo Rosario, Larry Washington
Vocal Backups: Bowie, Ava Cherry, Robin Clark, Jean Fineberg
Antony Hinton, John Lennon, Jean Millington, Warren Peace,
Diane Sumler, Luther Wandross
Produced and mixed by Bowie, Tony Visconti and Harry Maslin at:
Sigma Sound, Engineer Carl Parulow
Electric Lady, Engineer Eddie Kramer
Record Plant, Engineer Harry Maslin
They pulled in just behind the fridge
He lays her down, he frowns
"Gee my life's a funny thing, am I still too
young?"
He kissed her then and there
She took his ring, took his babies
It took him minutes, took her nowhere
Heaven knows, she'd have taken anything,
but
All night
She wants the Young American
Young American, Young American, she
wants the Young American
All right
She wants the young American
Scanning life through the picture window
She finds the slinky vagabond
He coughs as he passes her Ford
Mustang, but
Heaven forbid, she'll take anything
But the freak, and his type, all for nothing
He misses a step and cuts his hand, but
Showing nothing, he swoops like a song
She cries "Where have all Papa's heroes
gone?"
All night
She wants the Young American
Young American, Young American,
she wants the Young American
All right
She wants the young American
All the way from Washington
Her bread-winner begs off the bathroom
floor
"We live for just these twenty years
Do we have to die for the fifty more?"
All night
He wants the Young American
Young American, Young American, he
wants the Young American
All right
He wants the Young American
Do you remember, your President Nixon?
Do you remember, the bills you have to pay
Or even yesterday?
Have you been an un-American?
Just you and your idol singing falsetto 'bout
Leather, leather everywhere, and
Not a myth left from the ghetto
Well, well, well, would you carry a razor
In case, just in case of depression?
Sit on your hands on a bus of survivors
Blushing at all the afro-Sheilas
Ain't that close to love?
Well, ain't that poster love?
Well, it ain't that Barbie doll
Her heart's been broken just like you have
All night
You want the Young American
Young American, Young American, you
want the Young American
All right
You want the Young American
You ain't a pimp and you ain't a hustler
A pimp's got a Cadi and a lady got a
Chrysler
Black's got respect, and white's got his soul
train
Mama's got cramps, and look at your hands
ache
I got a suite and you got defeat
Ain't there a man you can say no more?
And, ain't there a woman I can sock on the
jaw?
And, ain't there a child I can hold without
judging?
Ain't there a pen that will write before they
die?
Ain't you proud that you've still got faces?
Ain't there one damn song that can make
me
break down and cry?
All night
I want the Young American
Young American, Young American, I want
the Young American
All right
I want the Young American.
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