It’s been a while now that Mr. (Jones) Bowie has passed and a lot has been said. Despite that, I feel I have to add to the flowers (that die as soon as they are cut) that are heaped upon his grave.
When people think of David Bowie’s death, their first memory is of the songs: “Let’s Dance,” “Moonage Daydream,” “Starman,” “Ziggy Stardust,” etc. The thing that flashes in my brain is his version of “My Death” on the Ziggy Stardust Farewell Tour of 1973. If you are fortunate enough to get to see this on a big screen with good sound system, I encourage you to do so.
Though David did not write the song, he made it his own. It sung in such a way that one could not believe that it was anything but personal. The lyrics are amazing but the part that gets you is last line and the ending.
It is just David and his guitar (and a little piano thrown in) throughout. The last lines are “But whatever lies behind that door/there is nothing much to do/angel or devil,/ I don’t care/ for in front of that door/there is . . .” The earlier parts of the song have it ending with “for in front of that door there is you” but at the end when he pauses, people in the crowd spontaneously shout “me . . . me . . .me” to which a humbled David replies, “Thank you.”
If there is a final remembrance of the man who called himself David Bowie it would be that. I would encourage you, dear reader, to look it up on YouTube if you are unfamiliar.
True to form, his last album Blackstar is a question mark. I’m still absorbing it. But it does seem fitting. Dramatic, obscure and chameleon-like as was the man. David was a man of many complexities. A load of paradoxes and contradictions, many stories and characters. He purposely obscured his personal life. David coveted his privacy and protected it as if he would completely erase any sense of self-identity were the public to get their hands on it. I used to think this was some arrogance on his part but I came to realize, however, that it really was essential. David was a master at keeping his private life under lock and key. Things would come out, but not too much. Fans felt a personal affinity to him. One such fan was a close friend of mine who took his death hard. The question comes up, “How do you feel so strongly about someone you never met?”
The answer is Art. Of course I don’t mean your neighbor who plays the bassoon at three in the morning (oh, you know him too?) but the mysterious thing that gets bought and sold but is priceless. The thing that is made by someone you don’t know that alters your mood by its very presence. While it is just the art that is present, you also feel the human behind its presence. Sometimes it is so personal it feels like an invasion or a conversation. This is because it unlocks something in the artist as well as you. It’s spiritual. Good art is all that. It also makes people lose a sense of reality. They think of the art and artist as one and that they either are the artist’s best friend or worse. The worse is the feeling of ownership. The feeling that they can walk in on the artist, be a part of their lives and intrude as they believe it is their right. David understood that since he was a fan himself and guarded himself.
There is nothing wrong with feeling personal toward an artist but there are boundaries. This is why it came as no surprise to me that he had been living with cancer for 18 months and few people knew it. If you want an insight about how it feels to suffer cancer and deal with the public, I suggest you read Christopher Hitchens’ Mortality. This entry is not written with readers of People Magazine in mind. I have little regard for celebrity chasers. My sympathy is for those care about art. It is for those that art is a part of their lives even more so than a limb. It is for those that feel as though they lost a friend. It is for those that felt they lost a torch carrier or fire bringer who has left the cave. Now someone else has to carry one of the many torches that are needed to light our way.
I will review Blackstar eventually but, for now, I say goodbye to the man, the artist who touched us with his art because it was his job, because he wanted to and because he couldn’t help himself. “Angel or devil, I don’t care. For in front of that door, there is you.”