The Thin White Duke no more

It seems strange to me, almost uncanny, how the death of someone one has never met, and now, never will, (and of course, probably never would have encountered anyway!) can feel like such a personal loss. I felt this following the death of Terry Pratchett and now do so about that of David Bowie. And, as witnessed by the incredible amount of tributes and commentary, lots of other people do too.

The statement that an artist provided the “soundtrack to my years” is, of course, a cliché – but hey, David Bowie is right up there amongst my inventory of magical musical discovery….of lost summer mornings abandoned to song,  of sneaking a disc onto the radiogram (in the early days, prior to the Dansette) of the thrill of the new, crisp covered LP, of talking though the nuances of photos, lyrics, sleeve notes, with various friends. Of life, of love, of sadness and of the sheer, brutal thrill of new sounds, new visions. Rest Well Mr Bowie – you deserve no less, well at least, as far as my – inadequate – book is concerned. 

As suburban adolescence slid by

Our small town’s parks disturbed by smoke, cheap beer, chatter

Indiscretion and mild obsession

You, somehow, showed us what might matter

Sometimes snarled lyrics, harsh guitar

At others, a love letter, whispered

Hermione and the Starman in harmony.

Later, we rode from Station to Station

Having been a Lodger, Low, an occasional zero

Rock and Roll Suicide denied

Dogs, cats, diamonds amongst the genocide

And yet, you sang, the possibility that even we

Even I

Might become, reclaimed, refreshed, a Hero.

Last night, the moon split by dark cloud

(A favoured line, of mine)

I sang to you,  windswept and westward

though this is not America

skybound, space scattered, unfettered

Blackstar indeed

As the radio waves vibrated with your muse

So sad, so very personal, somehow

Dear David, wondering

Where are you now

Where are you now?