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In Memoriam: 2016 words about David Bowie
I had already been thinking about David Bowie a lot before the news of his death came on Monday. I'd been compelled to dig out some of my old writing. I've got two lever arch files full of (mostly) handwritten stuff. It's missing some things, but most of my writerly identity is in those two folders. Including a thing that I wrote when I was fourteen, in the early part of 1996 (I stopped writing it before my fifteenth birthday in February of that year). So that was exactly twenty years ago.
How's it relevant?
Well, because it was about Mr Bowie. I'd started writing it on what was, unbeknownst to me at the time, his forty-ninth birthday. I'd called it "Secret Journal of a Teenage..." because I was fourteen and couldn't think of an appropriate title. And I wanted to maintain some air of mystery because I was quite a dramatic teenager.
How or why did I write that?
I don't know. I mostly remember hearing Strangers When We Meet on the radio, and falling head over heels in love with it. Wikipedia informs me that it was released in November 1995, which is accurate per my remembrances of the track/time of year I heard it.
I remember hating Hallo Spaceboy when I heard it. I suppose the two tracks are radically different, in spite of appearing on the same album. I now have three different versions of it on my phone. What do you know. That was February 1996. I'd stopped writing the secret journal by then, and most of my friends knew I had a crush on Bowie.
Well, how could you not?
(Looks aside, dude had charisma, and that's attractive all by itself).
My woodwork teacher did me a copy of Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) at around the same time. But after that, there's a gap. Of sorts.
I had a friend whose name was Gareth. He was the biggest Bowie fan I knew. At the time I met him, he may have even had his hair dyed red, a la Ziggy Stardust. I can't remember. I know he did it once, though. He also had an Earthling t-shirt, when that album came out. I remember that because a) the album cover's pretty distinctive, and b) I wanted that frock coat.
I also had a crush on Gareth. One of the single most embarrassing moments in my life concerns him. As I'd said, there's a gap in to a certain point in my memory. I didn't hear much Bowie on the radio, apart from the already released things, and certainly nothing after, say 1987. And, really, I didn't know much about him. The internet wasn't available to me when I was fourteen, so I'd never looked him up. I saw a documentary which featured Ashes to Ashes, and happened to mention how it was written.
Aha! I thought, I'll remember this so I can talk to Gaz about it!
Some time later, I'm in Gareth's presence one time, when Ashes to Ashes happens to come on the radio.
"So," I say, trying to sound cool (imagine me leaning awkwardly against something, because I bet I was). "I believe this was written during his 'cut and paste' era," like I was discussing an artist.
There was what felt like an eternal silence. Someone might have coughed. Then Gareth said, "I think you'll find that's the case with most of his songs."
I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me because I was mortified.
So, if you're ever sad, imagine nineteen, maybe twenty year old me trying to impress my crush like that.
In 2002, I got The Best of Bowie off my brother for Xmas. I know this, because I'd asked for it. My life cannot have been bereft of Bowie because of Gaz and yet, between 1996 and then, I don't recall hearing any new tracks on the radio (and I listened to the radio religiously at that point, as I had done since teenagerdom). I'd also wiped my copy of Scary Monsters, because I must have somehow thought I didn't want it any more, or that I would replace it at some point in the near future. I've spent a lot of the last twenty years kicking myself for that, believe me.
(I'm a rubbish fan, I know).
In 2004, I decided that I needed to listen to more Bowie. I'd also, off and on, been searching for Strangers When We Meet. The first time I heard it after all that time, I fucking cried.
That beautiful song existed in my life again, and I was so happy.
There's a lot of Bowie songs I like, but it would not be a stretch to say that's my favourite by far.
Then I had a nervous breakdown. It was brought on by being stressed at university, and subsequently leaving, then receiving more stress at the job I'd taken some time later.
I found myself unable to draw. I listened to nothing but Bowie. Watched the Best of DVDs on repeat. Rolled around in pain, but with a good soundtrack to listen to. Rediscovered songs I'd always liked.
I will not say that he saved my life, because he didn't.
I was not suicidal at that time. If I had been, I doubt good music would have stopped me from feeling that way, or taking my own life. But he did help me in what felt like one of the bleakest periods of my life.
I like to think that, had he known, he would've been happy that he could do that for me.
And so I've listened to his stuff pretty regularly since. Once, a friend asked me to recommend an album that could potentially be used as the soundtrack to a story. She eventually chose Hunky Dory, which secretly pleased me. She credited me as her Bowie expert on the story, and I went all sorts of funny colours, and refuted the epithet, if only to myself.
(I'm not an expert. There's fans far more qualified than me to hold that title).
Some other friends bought me a badge with him on, because "we saw this and thought of you". That touched me.
That brings us up to the present day, more or less.
As I said, I found the secret journal thing in my writing, and that got me thinking that I hadn't listened to any full albums of his in a while, and I should probably do that.
I was working on it.
The eighth of January arrived.
"Hey," I said to my mum, "now David Bowie is the same age as you." (My mum is but twenty or so days older than he).
"Happy birthday, David Bowie," my mum said, because it was a thing we'd been doing every year for about a decade by then.
I didn't always point out the age similarity, but I always mentioned his birthday. I'd always remember to do things if they'd been planned for that day "because it's David Bowie's birthday". And when I did mention it, my mum would always wish him happy birthday.
It's dumb, I know. I don't care. I'll probably carry on doing it for the rest of my life.
And so that was that.
I heard on the news that day about Blackstar being released, and commented about how I thought that The Next Day was supposed to have been his last album (I don't know why I thought that; things just seemed a bit final back in 2013). But I was pleased, because more Bowie is never a bad thing.
And then something got me thinking about my dad.
He died in 2008 from bowel cancer, a month shy of his 71st birthday.
I talked about him a lot that weekend, and it weirded me out, because I wasn't ever on the best of terms with him, even at his death. The oncologist who gave him his diagnosis said he could've had the cancer for as long as seven years. I think my dad had just thought it was his body giving up on him because of his age.
Of course, my dad was ten years older than Mr Bowie, so they weren't really the same generation, but I still find it odd that they both died from the same disease.
Anyway.
I found out on twitter. A friend had retweeted the official Bowie news account. I was lying in bed at the time, it was about seven thirty in the morning, and I continued to lie there in stupefied shock for a while.
I thought it couldn't be real.
My reaction was one word: no.
Which is not to say I thought that he was immortal, because no-one is. I just thought that maybe he'd keep on trucking a little bit longer. He'd always been in my life, whether I'd known it or not. How could he suddenly not be?
I hadn't even known he was ill.
But neither had anyone who wasn't close friends or his family.
I scrolled up my timeline. No, it must be true, because here are more tweets saying the same thing.
I don't know when I started crying. I was suddenly conscious of tears rolling down my face. They got worse the more tweets I read.
I'm crying now.
My mum found out from the lunch time news, because I couldn't even think about it without crying. She asked me if I knew, and I burst into tears again.
Later in the day, though I didn't see it for myself, there was a lot of shit flung about whether us plebs were "allowed" to grieve for him. One woman said we weren't because we weren't family. We'd never known him personally. She implied most of us were faking it for attention.
OK, so no. We didn't know him. But he helped me through a hard time without even knowing he'd done it, and I'll always be thankful for that. I suspect this may be the case for a lot of people.
That kind of makes it personal, don't you think? You don't forget about help, no matter the source.
Besides which, I like his music, and I am sad that he is no longer around to make any more.
(I don't selfishly wish that he were still here. I'm glad that he isn't suffering any more. Cancer is a shitty disease).
He must've been an amazing person to know. From what I've seen, he had a wicked sense of humour (and I don't mean cruel). He was well-read. He embraced new technology (compare: my mother, who is eternally frustrated by her tablet). And he knew all sorts of shit about music. I'd love to know what his record collection looked like.
He was an icon.
People knew who you were talking about when you said his name.
One of the best things I saw on twitter (because I didn't want to look anywhere else) was people wholeheartedly agreeing that, even if they weren't that into his music, they were sorry he was gone.
I don't have much else to say.
I think it's appropriate that twenty years ago, I started off writing about him and here I am now, writing again. Maybe in another twenty years, I'll write again.
(ha ha "it's about to be writ again" oh god)
This isn't the end.
On the 12th of January, I was doing German practice on Duolingo. The sentences it gives me to translate are entirely random, but among that randomness, I was asked to translate this:
ich werde euch nie vergessen.
I will never forget you.
Because I won't.
I went outside last night. It was bitterly cold, but the sky was clear. I looked up at the stars, scanned the constellations, then said, "You'd better take care of him, or you and I are gonna have words."
Thank you for all you've done, sir. For all you've given us. I'm sorry you're no longer here, but I'm glad you're no longer suffering. Be at peace.
How's it relevant?
Well, because it was about Mr Bowie. I'd started writing it on what was, unbeknownst to me at the time, his forty-ninth birthday. I'd called it "Secret Journal of a Teenage..." because I was fourteen and couldn't think of an appropriate title. And I wanted to maintain some air of mystery because I was quite a dramatic teenager.
How or why did I write that?
I don't know. I mostly remember hearing Strangers When We Meet on the radio, and falling head over heels in love with it. Wikipedia informs me that it was released in November 1995, which is accurate per my remembrances of the track/time of year I heard it.
I remember hating Hallo Spaceboy when I heard it. I suppose the two tracks are radically different, in spite of appearing on the same album. I now have three different versions of it on my phone. What do you know. That was February 1996. I'd stopped writing the secret journal by then, and most of my friends knew I had a crush on Bowie.
Well, how could you not?
(Looks aside, dude had charisma, and that's attractive all by itself).
My woodwork teacher did me a copy of Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps) at around the same time. But after that, there's a gap. Of sorts.
I had a friend whose name was Gareth. He was the biggest Bowie fan I knew. At the time I met him, he may have even had his hair dyed red, a la Ziggy Stardust. I can't remember. I know he did it once, though. He also had an Earthling t-shirt, when that album came out. I remember that because a) the album cover's pretty distinctive, and b) I wanted that frock coat.
I also had a crush on Gareth. One of the single most embarrassing moments in my life concerns him. As I'd said, there's a gap in to a certain point in my memory. I didn't hear much Bowie on the radio, apart from the already released things, and certainly nothing after, say 1987. And, really, I didn't know much about him. The internet wasn't available to me when I was fourteen, so I'd never looked him up. I saw a documentary which featured Ashes to Ashes, and happened to mention how it was written.
Aha! I thought, I'll remember this so I can talk to Gaz about it!
Some time later, I'm in Gareth's presence one time, when Ashes to Ashes happens to come on the radio.
"So," I say, trying to sound cool (imagine me leaning awkwardly against something, because I bet I was). "I believe this was written during his 'cut and paste' era," like I was discussing an artist.
There was what felt like an eternal silence. Someone might have coughed. Then Gareth said, "I think you'll find that's the case with most of his songs."
I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me because I was mortified.
So, if you're ever sad, imagine nineteen, maybe twenty year old me trying to impress my crush like that.
In 2002, I got The Best of Bowie off my brother for Xmas. I know this, because I'd asked for it. My life cannot have been bereft of Bowie because of Gaz and yet, between 1996 and then, I don't recall hearing any new tracks on the radio (and I listened to the radio religiously at that point, as I had done since teenagerdom). I'd also wiped my copy of Scary Monsters, because I must have somehow thought I didn't want it any more, or that I would replace it at some point in the near future. I've spent a lot of the last twenty years kicking myself for that, believe me.
(I'm a rubbish fan, I know).
In 2004, I decided that I needed to listen to more Bowie. I'd also, off and on, been searching for Strangers When We Meet. The first time I heard it after all that time, I fucking cried.
That beautiful song existed in my life again, and I was so happy.
There's a lot of Bowie songs I like, but it would not be a stretch to say that's my favourite by far.
Then I had a nervous breakdown. It was brought on by being stressed at university, and subsequently leaving, then receiving more stress at the job I'd taken some time later.
I found myself unable to draw. I listened to nothing but Bowie. Watched the Best of DVDs on repeat. Rolled around in pain, but with a good soundtrack to listen to. Rediscovered songs I'd always liked.
I will not say that he saved my life, because he didn't.
I was not suicidal at that time. If I had been, I doubt good music would have stopped me from feeling that way, or taking my own life. But he did help me in what felt like one of the bleakest periods of my life.
I like to think that, had he known, he would've been happy that he could do that for me.
And so I've listened to his stuff pretty regularly since. Once, a friend asked me to recommend an album that could potentially be used as the soundtrack to a story. She eventually chose Hunky Dory, which secretly pleased me. She credited me as her Bowie expert on the story, and I went all sorts of funny colours, and refuted the epithet, if only to myself.
(I'm not an expert. There's fans far more qualified than me to hold that title).
Some other friends bought me a badge with him on, because "we saw this and thought of you". That touched me.
That brings us up to the present day, more or less.
As I said, I found the secret journal thing in my writing, and that got me thinking that I hadn't listened to any full albums of his in a while, and I should probably do that.
I was working on it.
The eighth of January arrived.
"Hey," I said to my mum, "now David Bowie is the same age as you." (My mum is but twenty or so days older than he).
"Happy birthday, David Bowie," my mum said, because it was a thing we'd been doing every year for about a decade by then.
I didn't always point out the age similarity, but I always mentioned his birthday. I'd always remember to do things if they'd been planned for that day "because it's David Bowie's birthday". And when I did mention it, my mum would always wish him happy birthday.
It's dumb, I know. I don't care. I'll probably carry on doing it for the rest of my life.
And so that was that.
I heard on the news that day about Blackstar being released, and commented about how I thought that The Next Day was supposed to have been his last album (I don't know why I thought that; things just seemed a bit final back in 2013). But I was pleased, because more Bowie is never a bad thing.
And then something got me thinking about my dad.
He died in 2008 from bowel cancer, a month shy of his 71st birthday.
I talked about him a lot that weekend, and it weirded me out, because I wasn't ever on the best of terms with him, even at his death. The oncologist who gave him his diagnosis said he could've had the cancer for as long as seven years. I think my dad had just thought it was his body giving up on him because of his age.
Of course, my dad was ten years older than Mr Bowie, so they weren't really the same generation, but I still find it odd that they both died from the same disease.
Anyway.
I found out on twitter. A friend had retweeted the official Bowie news account. I was lying in bed at the time, it was about seven thirty in the morning, and I continued to lie there in stupefied shock for a while.
I thought it couldn't be real.
My reaction was one word: no.
Which is not to say I thought that he was immortal, because no-one is. I just thought that maybe he'd keep on trucking a little bit longer. He'd always been in my life, whether I'd known it or not. How could he suddenly not be?
I hadn't even known he was ill.
But neither had anyone who wasn't close friends or his family.
I scrolled up my timeline. No, it must be true, because here are more tweets saying the same thing.
I don't know when I started crying. I was suddenly conscious of tears rolling down my face. They got worse the more tweets I read.
I'm crying now.
My mum found out from the lunch time news, because I couldn't even think about it without crying. She asked me if I knew, and I burst into tears again.
Later in the day, though I didn't see it for myself, there was a lot of shit flung about whether us plebs were "allowed" to grieve for him. One woman said we weren't because we weren't family. We'd never known him personally. She implied most of us were faking it for attention.
OK, so no. We didn't know him. But he helped me through a hard time without even knowing he'd done it, and I'll always be thankful for that. I suspect this may be the case for a lot of people.
That kind of makes it personal, don't you think? You don't forget about help, no matter the source.
Besides which, I like his music, and I am sad that he is no longer around to make any more.
(I don't selfishly wish that he were still here. I'm glad that he isn't suffering any more. Cancer is a shitty disease).
He must've been an amazing person to know. From what I've seen, he had a wicked sense of humour (and I don't mean cruel). He was well-read. He embraced new technology (compare: my mother, who is eternally frustrated by her tablet). And he knew all sorts of shit about music. I'd love to know what his record collection looked like.
He was an icon.
People knew who you were talking about when you said his name.
One of the best things I saw on twitter (because I didn't want to look anywhere else) was people wholeheartedly agreeing that, even if they weren't that into his music, they were sorry he was gone.
I don't have much else to say.
I think it's appropriate that twenty years ago, I started off writing about him and here I am now, writing again. Maybe in another twenty years, I'll write again.
(ha ha "it's about to be writ again" oh god)
This isn't the end.
On the 12th of January, I was doing German practice on Duolingo. The sentences it gives me to translate are entirely random, but among that randomness, I was asked to translate this:
ich werde euch nie vergessen.
I will never forget you.
Because I won't.
I went outside last night. It was bitterly cold, but the sky was clear. I looked up at the stars, scanned the constellations, then said, "You'd better take care of him, or you and I are gonna have words."
Thank you for all you've done, sir. For all you've given us. I'm sorry you're no longer here, but I'm glad you're no longer suffering. Be at peace.