Only superlatives seem appropriate in mourning the unexpected loss of , an artist so widely loved and respected that we mark our lives with the phases of his career. Who else could elicit such an outpouring? McCartney? Prince? Madonna? Maybe. Probably not.
The cult of celebrity, wherein we adopt and worship people we’ll never meet or know, imbuing them with powers they may (but likely don’t) have, seems invented for Bowie. Except that he had those powers.
Other fallen titans of pop music — Sinatra, Elvis Presley, Michael Jackson — possessed otherworldly gifts, but their creative profiles were tainted with heartbreak and scandal, making them feel more terrestrial. Bowie always floated above us. A marvel of deliberate self-invention and constant reinvention, a singer, songwriter and producer with a staggering reach that extended to all genres of contemporary music, a patron saint of loners and marginalized voices and self-described weirdos, a fashion icon and social critic with a criminally underappreciated . These barely do the man justice.
My wife was crying when I woke up this morning to learn Bowie had died at the age of 69 after an 18-month battle with cancer. My friends, some of whom were already active on social media, embodied many of my thoughts on the bus ride to work. “He was too good for this world,” was a prevailing sentiment, and one that’s as efficient as any of us could hope.
I laughed and smiled when I read my colleague about one of Bowie’s Denver connections. “It’s the only place in town,” Bowie reportedly said of the , at his 2004 Fillmore Auditorium concert, “where you can have coffee while reading all of their newspapers — for free.” To which Sebastian added: “So thank you for the music, David Bowie. All of it. And you’re forgiven for not paying for your newspapers.”
I learned things — — I never knew. His stage-acting career ? He was a big fan of ? Last week’s “Lazarus” video ?! It’s all too much. This one hurts.
My life and my identity are described in Bowie’s terms. I was born in 1977, the year Bowie’s “Heroes” came out, although my father (a hippie, spiritualist and addict of adventurous music) played 1972’s “The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars” the most. I pored over that strange album cover as a child, excited and a little scared by Bowie’s androgynous gaze and the implications of the title and subject matter. Like millions, it was my first introduction to a form of fluid gender identity, apocalyptic social commentary and balls-out glam rock that glorified and deepened my relationship with music and the world around me.
I always felt camaraderie with other Bowie fans, who for years (as both listeners and artists in their own right) have made punk, post-punk, goth, indie rock, grunge, ambient, EDM and countless other genres what they are, whether they fully appreciate it or not. I was attracted to music that bore his stylistic influence, examples of which are too numerous and probably obvious to mention. I asked my friend Paul to play “Ziggy Stardust” on acoustic guitar at my wedding, and he did, beautifully. I played it on guitar and sang it for my son days after he was born. I played it in memory of my father when he died a month later.
There’s a comforting predictability in watching the Internet respond to Bowie’s loss. People sharing pictures of themselves dressed like Bowie (oh, the “Labyrinth” Halloween costumes and their attendant packages), their concert memories, life moments tied to his songs, album and track recommendations, insane facts about his work ethic and influence. It’s like drowning in silk.
I can’t get enough of other critics pointing out what a stunningly effective and genuinely experimental producer, songwriter and collaborator he was for Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, Brian Eno, Trent Reznor and so many others. You probably have your own meaningful way of appreciating him. The fact is that countless people worked with and through him, finding arguably the purest expressions of themselves by seeing through his eyes and hearing through his ears.
Today social media is a tolerable (if melancholy) place thanks to the outpouring of love — unless you have something against Bowie, in which case you haven’t made it this far in this article and won’t mind me calling you a horrible person.
For a man whose iconic persona was that of an alien and an outsider, Bowie had a knack for working his way into our souls at every stage of his career, even if his music didn’t always feel as essential as it did in the 1970s. He always stood apart, dignified and cool and artful, even as we identified mightily with him and proclaimed, “I’m an alien, too!” He was us, but better.
