Only Bowie
A personal obituary for the Major and the minor:
If you are reading what I put here, as opposed to all those who are not, then you belong to a group I shall for the moment define as we. I think today 99% of us are mourning David Bowie. Does it feel like the end of the Seventies, or the beginning of how those who share a particular feeling of Seventies, and then Eighties, and then Nineties, shall now see all this begin to pass from living memory, as even 1929 and the one-and-only World War II have almost done? Do you remember your President Nixon? Time, he flexes like a whore, falls wanking to the floor, his trick is you and me boy.
If I'm not crying today, then because out of the firmament of rock and pop and living artists and authors who have played regular gigs in my emotional sky and read themselves into my nerves, Bowie's was the only one whose necessary death I'd begun to mourn already years ago. Couldn't help it. I also thought selfish reasons why he should live; he is but 19 years older than I; his launch injects the first atom into my own clock remaining as a mobile thinking piece of zig-zagging stardust mixed into meat. That is how it is on orbiting rock number three, where humans give their imaginary space to odd beings they have never met and cannot know, but persistently love in their dreams.
Now he's a star man waiting in the sky, he'd like to come and meet us but he thinks he'd blow our minds. Here now as my offering among the millions is a link to one of his products of a certain two years that, according to the legend, Bowie forgot in West Berlin, only to have it found again on the cassette that for years my brother and I would start playing as we took to bed. As eine kleine Nachtmusik, "Low" delivered what he had presaged in the lines to Starman a couple of years earlier:
Then the loud sound did seem to fade
Came back like a slow voice on a wave of phase
That weren't no D.J. that was hazy cosmic jive
click this
now share your Bowie
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