I can’t yet wrap it around my head that David Bowie has really left us. The unbelievable news of his death on January 10, 2016 stunned my rock ‘n’ roll soul with 10000 volts. David Bowie was a huge part of the forces that pushed and pulled me through earlier ages. It’s amazing for an artist, who came to the spotlight in 1969 was still making music, all the way to his dying day. For me and others I’ve spoken with, it’s still difficult to listen to and watch videos from his parting gift, Blackstar. An article from the NY Times, “Thank you, Mr Bowie. You Changed Our Lives” gave rise to my own reflections on how this extraterrestrial-man provided a soundtrack for a good portion of my life.
Ziggy Stardust. The character Ziggy Stardust was a “human manifestation of an alien,” which so aptly describes the portrait of a teenager. In 1972, I borrowed the album from a friend, and brought it home to introduce it to my younger brother and sister. I asked them to give it a listen, but they turned a deaf ear. When the grooves were almost disappearing off the vinyl, it wasn’t long after that they were drawn to this weirdly strange but exciting concept of rock ‘n’ roll. Odd as it may sound, my mother loved Bowie. She never said why, and I don’t know if she understood his lyrics in all of their double entendre glory, but she didn’t mind us repeatedly playing the album. I recently discovered that Mom made my brother sell his copy of Space Oddity, because, “she didn’t like the way he looked on the back cover.” Sometimes you just can’t explain Mom’s logic, but she didn’t live long enough to see David grow into his dashingly-handsome good looks in the 2000s.
Diamond Dogs. During my junior year in college, I was enrolled in a literature course. One of the titles assigned to us was 1984 by George Orwell. That sci-fi classic near bout blew my socks off and lobotomized my brain. Orwell’s predictions were scarily hinting at fruition, with the suspicion of Big Brother and The Eye In The Sky becoming a reality. Was our future going to be as bleak as Orwell saw it?
“You’v
e read it in the tea leaves and the tracks are on TV
Beware, the savage jaw of 1984…”
In November 1974, my brother bought tickets to Radio City Music Hall for one of the shows of the Diamond Dogs tour following the release of album. I’ll never know the dollar amount of our passes, but we landed in orchestra level seats. This was one concert where the main stage wasn’t light-years away (pre Diamond vision screens). Back then, David himself had announced to the press, “I’m gay, “ which probably seduced a large congregation of beautiful male homo sapiens to fill up the venue. Being surrounded with all of his frenzied fans added to the passion of Bowie’s deliverance and performance. And we got to hear him sing one of the featured songs off of his album, “1984.” Talk about reaching the clouds.
One summer-y August day, T-man and I traveled by train into NYC and purposely ate lunch at Max’s Kansas City, hoping by chance Bowie himself would join us for a cheeseburger. We left with a matchbook and mucho disappointment. (The cheeseburger was nothing to write home about, either). We made up for our (and David’s) loss and wandered the city as tourists. We rode the elevator up to the 102 floor of the Empire State Building, riffled through the record bins of a frequently visited music store in the Village, and sunned ourselves on the rocks in Central Park. Life was cool, man.
Station to Station. The song was released in 1976 and followed me into my 24th year. I left a three-year stint in Marion, Massachusetts (a sleepy harbor town), moved back into my parents’ house in Fairfield, CT and found a job in NYC at a small college’s nursing school. Every morning and evening, I joined the gray suits, the high heels and blue collars on the Metro North RR, chugging along from suburban Fairfield to spectacular Grand Central Station. In time, I became a much-dreamed about NEW YORK CITY GIRL and learned how to hail a taxi, not get lost on the subway, and took a professional adult beginner ballet course on the Upper West Side. I witnessed first hand how strange and strong New Yorkers were during transit and garbage strikes. The eastern-bound train ride on Friday nights was a traveling club scene–drinks, smokes, and lots of drunk guys trying to pick me up. My floundering self-esteem and naiveté provided an invisible shield from their advances, but I did take up the offer of a few lunch dates. I became the office scandal, since I was already dating my future husband. Maybe I should have listened to my gut, but let’s refer back to the self-esteem comment for clarification on the matter.
In decades to come, David Bowie’s music had its roller coaster ride on the album charts. Around the turn of the 
century, David was working on more avant-garde pieces that did not satisfy the American hunger for pop music. His being has faded to black, in my life and in his. After his death, January 20 was officially declared David Bowie Day in New York City, his beloved adopted hometown.
If the stars look very different today, it’s because our Star Man has found his ultimate place in space. Thank you, David Robert Jones. I am forever grateful for you and your enduring gift of sound and vision.
