Ground Control to Major Tom

Nearly seven years after his death on January 10, 2016, I still have trouble accepting that David Bowie, like the protagonist of his first hit, is no longer tethered to this earth. He was a rock and roll hero to so many of us. 

Bowie fans will be quick to note the irony of my terrestrial longing for the self-styled space invader. He took on other-worldly personae and found self-expression in outer space. But still. 

Shortly after Bowie died, I made a pilgrimage to his earthly home, a swank apartment building on Lafayette Street in New York. There, mourning fans had created an impromptu memorial on the sidewalk. Like the “Imagine” mosaic honoring John Lennon uptown in Central Park – or, for that matter, the misguided Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in my hometown -- the tribute somehow fell short and left me unfulfilled. My memories would have to sustain me. 

 

They go back to the ‘70s. In high school, I cruised around one Saturday night in a classmate’s elongated sedan after scoring convenience store beer. We blared “Rebel Rebel” on the car stereo. It was a rare taste of freedom and teenage rebellion for a bookish boy like me.

Later, my college roommate, habitually stoned, blared David Live over and again on our communal stereo. Through repetition, Bowie’s greatest hits became seared into my brain. 

Later still, the one time I saw Bowie in concert, I was admittedly in an altered state for the Glass Spider tour.

But you did not have to live through chemistry to savor Bowie. His work was trippy enough. He was a restless, mind-expanding artist, evoking singularly stirring vistas and vignettes. He gave us other worlds, characters, and cosmos, and sang of them with passion and soul in that billowing baritone: snarky, seductive, indelible. A mere cover like “Wild is the Wind” was mesmerizing when sung by that voice.

Then there were the lyrics. “Swishy in her satin and tat.” “I'm an alligator/I'm a mama-papa coming for you.” “Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth.” 

The early albums Hunky Dory and Ziggy Stardust are my favorites. But all of Bowie’s musical phases and incarnations captivate me, right up to his last. Blackstar is a haunting final artistic statement I can hardly bear listening to, with its premonitions of oblivion. 

I emailed my friend Colleen, a passionate Bowie fan and local deejay, for additional perspective. The name of her weekly radio show, Lonely Little Kitsch, alludes to another fantastic Bowie lyric. I challenged Colleen to come up with 100 words on the loss of our mutual hero.

 

The day we learned of David Bowie's death, I got a tattoo. In the artist's handwriting, I carry the lyric "Oh no love you're not alone" on my forearm. It illustrates perhaps the greatest gift he left me: the fellowship I have found, connected with others through a shared obsession. Identifying as a David Bowie superfan is a beacon for discovering beautiful weirdos. Through my years in this community, I’ve found understanding, comfort, and lifelong friends. 

 

When he penned "Rock ‘N’ Roll Suicide," I doubt this is the legacy David Bowie had in mind, but I hope he’d be pleased.

Bowie's art still resonates fully on this earth and beyond. And beautiful weirdos like Colleen and me still find a vibrant community in his legacy.

The Makeshift Bowie Memorial
Outside His Apartment Building 
New York, 2016

 

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I would love to hear your thoughts on Bowie in the comments below.