I'm not a child of the sixties, seventies, or
even the eighties. I've never been to Scarborough Fair, met
any self-proclaimed walruses, or
visited any celestially themed houses of ill repute.
Despite all this, I still love a lot of the
music made from before I was born. A lot of that love probably stemmed from the
fact that I was an outsider looking in on that music, a time traveler going
back to the origins of what I know and love from today. To a certain extent, I
created my own mythology around these artists. When I was younger, I wished I could
have written poetry with Jim Morrison (though honestly, I probably wouldn’t have understood a damn thing he said, and he probably wouldn’t have understood it himself either), or had a coffee chat with John Lennon (though maybe it wouldn’t have been as pleasant as I had imagined). And oh my gosh, would I have LOVED to meet with Freddie Mercury (and that will never change).
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| (Or maybe I just would've spent that time staring at Jim Morrison) |
More than any other artist, I, like countless
others, fell in love with the mystique of David Bowie. By sheer virtue of being
born when I was (Thanks a lot, universe!), I found out about him after his quote-unquote
‘sell-out’ days of Let’s Dance or Never Let Me Down, though I do remember
hearing “Dancing in the Street” all the time. (Thankfully I didn’t see the
video while growing up, or it would have ruined Bowie for me forever. Thanks a
lot, universe!)
As a kid who didn’t really fit in and didn’t
like most of the music that was popular as I was growing up, I clung to his
themes of alienation and rebellion like a Ziggy wannabe to a stick of eye kohl.
I went into his back catalogue and experienced it all for myself, without any
real context or explanation. When I first listened to Station to Station, for instance, I had no idea that he had
been strung out on blow and couldn’t even remember making that album. All I did
know is that “Wild is the Wind” made me want to weep at his feet like a One
Direction fan at a band autograph session. “Station to Station” made me feel
immensely cool, like I was in on a secret that only the in-crowd knew. It, like
the rest of his albums, epitomized what it was to be a rock star, and what real
music could sound like. It could transcend music, and take on the form of Art.
| Station to Station-era Bowie |
By the time I had found him, despite his
continual output of new albums until 2003, he had already passed into history.
People waxed poetic about his glory days, how he was The Rock Rebel, his Berlin
trilogy and groundbreaking experimentalism. He was always a “was”, never an
“is.” History became legend. Legend became myth. And for (two and a half
thousand) many years, David Bowie passed out of the public eye.
So when earlier this year, Bowie reemerged with
new material, I was thrilled, perhaps in some ways even more than most. Keep in
mind that in many ways I had created my own David Bowie. For me, David Bowie
had never really been a living, breathing artist. I mean, sure I’d seen him in
movies and TV shows. But in my mind he lived alongside Lennon and Morrison as a
legend of a bygone era. With “Where Are We Now?”, however, I saw him for the first time in Real time. And
it was at once grounding and uplifting. Here was the man I had long respected
and admired, but he was, gulp, human. His voice was aged and cracking, and as
many others have stated, the song sounded as much as a swansong as anything
else. But it was thrilling. Here was my hero, and he was glorious in his
fragility, his fallibility. I shivered as I heard him sing of “walking the
dead”. When the rolling drums of the bridge kicked in, I could feel my heart beat
faster with excitement. Though he wasn’t the Bowie in my head—the invincible
rock n’ roller from space—he was still Bowie, and he really was doing what Bowie
does best; that is, creating a soundscape, a story, and drawing the audience
into it.
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| Bowie, past and present |
The Next Day has been met with universal
acclaim, according to helpful web sources. Part of the reason that many music
critics have said they like it so much is because it’s ‘like old Bowie’. But
it’s not old Bowie; it’s old Bowie
(see what I did there?). Today’s Bowie is not the same man who pranced around
in a one-armed leotard singing of well-hung aliens. He’s a world-worn,
experienced man who has a lot to say and a hell of a way of saying it. The
chameleon of rock has changed again, only this time, it’s to reveal his own
face…or at the very least, the closest approximation of it we’ve ever been shown.
Why the obsession with ‘before’ and ‘after’
Bowie? Sure, it may be the case that now instead of Beatles mania, we
have Bieber fever ("Hide
your children!"), and instead of the twist we have the twerk (Need I
remind you of the need to protect your younglings?). Still, music, like the
people who make and enjoy it, is constantly evolving and changing. That doesn’t
make it better or worse, simply different. I mean, imagine how
mindbogglingly dull it would be if, despite advances in
technology and the ever-evolving, ever-diversifying world of listeners,
music were the same as "back in the good old days."
Albums like Funeral by Arcade Fire, for instance, though they hearken back
to acts that came before them, just wouldn't have been made earlier--and for
many reasons couldn't have been made earlier. And that's fine.
(And speaking of Arcade Fire, here's their newest single, feat. Bowie on backup vocals from around the 4 min mark)
Ultimately, the best music transcends time and
epoch. It may capture the zeitgeist of its own time--I would argue that the
best music does--but it does more than that. It reinvents, pushes the
boundaries of its day. It continues to challenge its changing audience even
beyond then and has them ascribe their own meanings to it. Why else would works
like The Catcher in the Rye or The Great Gatsby continue
to be so widely read today? (Other than the fact that they're forced
upon unwitting high school students)
I think this calls for an explanation from the master
of change himself.
