It was cold, and it rained, so I felt like an actor — on David Bowie
I had to wake my wife up this morning and tell her that
David Bowie had died, a claim she didn’t believe at first.
“Where did you hear this,” she asked, still half asleep.
“I saw it on Facebook at first, but didn’t believe it. Then
I read the headline on Pitchfork,” I told her.
My earliest memory of Bowie is the 1990 remix to the song
“Fame,” which was featured on the soundtrack to the movie Pretty Woman; then, a few years later, his titular track on the
soundtrack to Cool World.
My wife claims her first crush was David Bowie, thanks to
his work as the Goblin King in the movie Labyrinth.
In looking back on my life, my wife and I, in our young
lives, were always aware of David Bowie. I was aware of his weird industrial
phase in 1995 and 1997, and his work with Nine Inch Nails. I remember when he
toured with Nine Inch Nails; he jokingly said audiences thought it was cool
that he was doing a Nirvana cover whenever he played “The Man Who Sold The
World.”
But if I can pinpoint how my wife and I both got really into
David Bowie, it probably started in late 2007, and it was all thanks to,
believe it or not, an episode of that show “Flight of The Conchords.” There’s
an entire episode where Bowie visits one of the characters in his dreams, and
then, near the end, the duo perform a Bowie-esq number.
For a while before that, we had a “Best Of” compilation that
we often listened to on long car trips, just because it was such a long CD and
my wife wouldn’t have to change it something else for a while.
I wish I could remember why we felt it was time to just
start buying every one of Bowie’s albums—but beginning with Hunky Dory and The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust, that’s exactly what we did
over the course of the next 9 months—stopping at Scary Monsters, and picking back up again with his 90s
revitalization on Black Tie, White Noise
and most recently ending it with the just released Blackstar.
But in getting into his music together, the way we did, we
make it “our” thing—and that’s one of the things that make his passing so
heartbreaking.
His canon has become music that we know by heart, and
references from certain songs have worked their way into our daily lexicon—like
the way he says “It’s Monday,” in a
weird, newscaster deadpan on “Joe The Lion,” or the term “peoploids,” from the
terrifying intro track to Diamond Dogs.
That was one of the admirable and impressive things about
David Bowie: he could move you, he could make you believe in something great, he
was charming and self-aware, and he could scare the shit out of you—sometimes
all at once.
Some people discovered Bowie at a time when they needed
someone like him the most—someone weird to tell them it was okay to be weird.
They needed someone to get them through the rough times.
That was never Bowie for me.
Who was David Bowie to me?
The tricky thing about a celebrity death is how you let it
impact you, and why you let it impact you. I didn’t personally know him, and it
wasn’t like I knew him because of his
music, but I allowed a large portion of my adult life to be influenced by him.
It’s naïve of me to think that Bowie was going to live
forever, but I also never thought I would wake up and read the headline that he
had struggled through an 18-month battle with cancer. For a guy that, at one
time, lived on a diet of cocaine and milk, it doesn’t seem like the way he
should have gone.
But he is gone. And what he leaves behind are his words and
music—the obscure songs from this 1990s run of albums, like the overlooked Hours, which is what I am listening to
right now as I sit on the floor of my living room, attempting to put my
thoughts into words, as well as the classic, well-loved songs like “Heroes.” He
left it all behind for us to continue to discover and rediscover on our own
terms, and at the right time—at a time when we either need it the most, or it
will resonate the most with us for the rest of our lives.
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