January 8th. Having awoken only moments before, I groggily heard an announcement on my parents’ TV about the death of a celebrity. Asking them who’d died, still blinking the sleep from my eyes, a wave of shock, sorrow and disbelief woke me up when my dad announced just one word – “Bowie.” Not so much a name, I’ve come to realise, but a word. A word which symbolised a pioneer of Glam Rock, an inspiration to an entire generation, an influence in the worlds of art, music and fashion alike. David Bowie’s track record is one which I always pictured to be full of vibrancy, dynamism and colour. He was an incredible musician, developing the art of self-development, creating and recreating time and time again, and rarely going wrong – how could he? Music has no rules; it has no boundaries, much as artists nowadays fail to realise as they steadily become carbon copies of one another – he played this to his advantage, shocking many and inspiring many more. I can’t possibly go into the entirety of his musical catalogue, and definitely can’t do it justice, but I’ve picked a few of my favourite Bowie songs to try and illustrate my point.
Space Oddity gives off an odd sense of foreboding to me, combined with a theme of space travel that I happen to equate with ELO, although the latter certainly runs with this theme in a slightly less abstract manner. The music is very intricate, gradually dissolving into some form of disarray towards the end. It’s not an altogether unpleasant sound – merely strange. If I were my age back in 1969 and I heard that song for the first time, it would certainly give me the sense that this was only the beginning; that something big was to be expected from Bowie; something that hadn’t been seen or heard before.
My appreciation and love for Bowie’s work is not diminished by my saying this, but if I was ever asked to describe his music in one word, I guess the one consistent thought I’ve always had regarding his work is that it’s weird. Very, very weird. Good Weird though, not Bad Weird. The closest I came when I was younger to thinking some of his work was Bad Weird was when I heard Life on Mars? Life on Mars? is probably the weirdest of all Bowie’s songs to me. Probably a combination of watching the music video and not being old enough to understand why he had florescent orange hair and bright blue eye shadow, and what on earth was he saying? I never understood the song, but I always remembered that hook. The song always came across as slightly intimidating to me. Perhaps because whenever I hear it, I know that it’s that song, that song which never made sense but gave off an eerie feeling of otherness, a surreal quality which I found slightly unnerving. Combined with the sheer fame of the track, I dare say it’s one of the most prominent songs in musical history; it carries a weight, a status, a demand to be listened to whenever it appears on TV or radio. It’s a combination of melancholy and nostalgia, the rude realisation that life isn’t how you expect it to be as a child, but the sorrow that you can’t experience the life that you think could exist somewhere out there, the life you’re desperate to find but somehow you just can’t. The weight of life’s realities birth a cynicism that this life doesn’t actually exist at all.
Starman is one of my two favourite Bowie songs. It’s the song I remember hearing most, the one I knew the most before any other. It’s also the song I listened to on repeat the day that he died, when a good friend sat next to me as I cried, the meaning of the song suddenly taking a whole new identity. The gentle acoustic introduction to the song is calming, comforting – it’s ok, I’m here, but I’m warning you, this is a sad song. It’s always been a sad song for me, even before Bowie died. The idea of an afterlife, someone literally waiting for you to join them in death. It’s not supposed to be a sad song, but the lyrics have always struck a chord with me that echoed a somewhat heaven-like vibe. Then again, the idea of a messenger speaking the words of the Starman doesn’t give off an entirely dissimilar impression. The song itself is very well arranged, due to the extreme musical talent of Mick Ronson, but it’s always been difficult for me to escape the sadness I feel whenever I hear it, something which has only become more prominent after his death.
I realise this has been a bit soul-destroying so far, so the next song I picked was Fashion, purely because I love it and it’s so catchy. The snappy guitar riff was an appropriate introduction for Bowie’s next phase, one reflecting the animation and pizazz of the 80s. It’s also an accurate social commentary at the beginning of a decade which did pay such close attention to appearances. It’s not particularly deep or meaningful, but it’s difficult not to get the guitar riff stuck in your head.
Let’s Dance is probably the most-played Bowie song in my house. Having learnt the art of literary criticism at school, there was one particular line which always stood out for me in Let’s Dance – “if you should fall into my arms/and tremble like a flower” – I’ve always thought that this particular line is very emotive, vivid in it’s imagery. The fact that it was conceived as a folk song before Nile Rogers got his hands on it makes me laugh – its success is really down to the life injected into the song by that guitar riff.
Absolute Beginners is my other favourite Bowie track. I love it because it appears as less abstract, and more of an Actual Song. The melody is my favourite element, and has always reminded me somewhat of the lines of Under Pressure – “This is our last dance…” versus “If our love could fly over mountains…” Combined with the haunting saxophone part, the song is nothing short of mesmerising and quietly wistful. The lyrics are cautious, meaningful – it begins as a vulnerable declaration of love – what other kind is there? – “I’ve nothing much to offer, there’s nothing much to take…the rest can go to hell, I absolutely love you…with eyes completely open, but nervous all the same”. However, the lyrics quickly replace caution with courage, emboldened by the idea that you can do anything because of the support and love of that other person. This emotion is reflected beautifully in the subsequent verses, and combined with an exquisite melody, it demonstrates a more emotional side of his writing, it’s more realistic in terms of its’ sentiments. The song shows us a more human Bowie – not the superstar, not the alien, not the Starman, but the human.
The last song I chose to look at is Dancing in the Street, just because it’s a really feelgood song, and I love the partnership of Bowie and Mick Jagger. It’s not the most amazing cover vocally, but I find a certain charm in the track’s messiness. The song conjures images of summer evenings, festivals, fun, general relaxation and an all-round longing to literally do what the song tells you. With the blatant stage presence of Jagger, Bowie provides the cool to the former’s flamboyance. That sultry tone to his voice can once again be heard, a strange yet incredibly subtle, smooth sexuality which weaved its way into so much of his later work. It’s a quality that I’ll always admire as it added so much to the atmosphere of his songs, no matter what the meaning was behind the lyrics.
I’m merely scratching the surface with Bowie’s work. Plus, in a way, I feel like I’m not entitled to say any of this, to attempt to analyse his work, to pass judgement as I have done. I wasn’t alive at the height of his fame, I didn’t stand pressed against the edge of the stage at the final performance of Ziggy Stardust and I didn’t witness the rise of each and every new persona. However, as is the case with all music worth its salt, it’s never forgotten and acquires new fans as it continues along the road of musical history. I can only try and articulate my own thoughts and emotions of Bowie’s music from my own limited experience. But let me say this: I may not have been around at the time, but there is no mistaking the sheer impact I feel he had on the world, and my age does not, and will never diminish the personal sense of loss I felt at his death. Bowie may have been weird, the weirdest artist I’ve ever come across, but it was definitely, definitely Good Weird.