The passing of a man lost in time has left the world in mourning. Adam Lawler examines why the space between earthling and outsider defines why we love David Bowie.
It has been two weeks since it happened, and it hangs over the world like a fog still. On the streets of Brixton walk figures with their heads hung. David Bowie is gone. People who grew up loving his music for five decades are distraught; people who never considered themselves fans still find themselves oddly affected. The outpouring of grief has been both heartening and heartbreaking, but what is it about this larger than life figure that has commanded the devotion of so many?
Bowie had endless reach, and his influence permeates almost every aspect of popular music. His contributions are wildly varied. He played with perceptions of gender, shifting between forms with fluid grace, making androgyny cool. There was the spectacle of his live shows: mime, make-up, and drama, never content just to play the songs. The Berlin trilogy was arguably the most innovative period in his career. Along with Tony Visconti and Brian Eno he cooked up what had become known as the Berlin Sound, a blend of pop, rock, funk, and European electronica that made albums like Heroes, Low, and Lodger so futuristic. In 2002 Bowie even predicted the impending dominance of file-sharing, saying that “music itself will become like running water or electricity”.
For the younger generation, we cannot know what it must have been like to see Bowie’s career unwinding. It would have seemed like a gimmick had it not been for the undeniable connecting power of the songs. Songs like “Starman” will last forever for the thousands of people who gathered in Brixton, Bowie’s hometown, for a mass singalong in emotional homage. With every gimmick stripped back – the experiments, make-up, costumes, personas and metanarratives – what remained was an incredible songwriter. Looking back at a period in his career is akin to walking into a history book about the era. He was so inextricably linked to every scene that he inhabited that it creates a vivid picture of a time and place.
Most recently, he jettisoned his regular band from “The Next Day” in favour of the jazz quartet who he invited to feature on Blackstar, his latest, after catching one of their shows at a New York jazz club. He loved music unconditionally. This is why he returned after a decade of silence with the feeling that he just couldn’t keep himself from creating.
Come the 80s he could have called it a day. The spectacular run of records between The Man Who Sold The World and Scary Monsters would be enough to sustain any artist for the rest of their lives and ensure an almost mythical status. If he had ceased along with the 70s he would have been firmly remembered as part of an era, a fond memory coated in dust and crackling through the speakers. “He was that weird, wonderful alien man,” people would say, and ‘Rebel Rebel’ would still be heavily rotated on daytime radio. But this was never going to happen; Bowie has always been of his time and ahead of the curve at once.
“He taught us how to be every version of ourselves at once.”
“It’s just really hard to compare yourself to someone like Bowie,“ says Duy Nguyen, co-creator of the website supbowie.com, which tells you what the star was doing at your age. “Not only because he was a musical genius and a talent, because many people are. What really sets him apart is how he used all that. By not stopping when he could have, he always kept going. Kept experimenting and tried new things. Which is the real inspiration we can take from him beside his legendary music career.”
None of this explains the stream of tweets lamenting his passing, from people who weren’t even born when ‘Let’s Dance’ was released. His music is timeless, but it’s more than that which captivates our imaginations. To us, he represented something sexy, silly, and challenging. He showed us how to strip ourselves back and build ourselves up again – he showed us how to recreate and reimagine. He flamboyantly illustrated the fruitlessness of settling. He taught us how to be every version of ourselves at once.
He showed the outsiders an alternative way to live, defying genres and giving lost souls a gentle push in the right direction, invigorating and inspiring us. The feeling of listening to Bowie for the first time is a sense of belonging. “Oh no love, you’re not alone,” he called to us. And so, adults will cry over their ticket stubs and lyric booklets, and millenials will sit in a dark room and stare through misty eyes at the Top Of The Pops performance of “Starman“, knowing they will never see an equivalent spectacle in their lifetimes.
“Look up here, I’m in heaven. I’ve got scars that can’t be seen,” comes the tortured croon. “This way or no way, you know I’ll be free; just like that bluebird.” These were the lyrics of his last single, Lazarus, from his last album, Blackstar, released two days before his death. The clues, although cryptic, were there.
For some the lines between his public persona and his private self have always been blurred; the media report his “secret” battle with cancer and his “secret” cremation as if the right word for his personal affairs isn’t “private” – but he never once sold himself or the people in his life as part of the façade. He gave so much to the world yet kept himself to himself. All that the papers and the gossip-mongers can do is assume, like they always did with Bowie. You get the feeling he would be pleased.
In the end he was a man, a husband, a father, and that’s all we get to know. He is a permanent lodger in our hearts and consciousness, an earthling, a spaceboy, and a hero, and he will be sorely missed.
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