Bugs me to hell, this. Is it cosmic release or comic relief, I simply don't see where he's going with this last album, at all. I think it utterly stinks. I hope it's not some sort of joke on his own death hype. In that case I fail to see the funny side, and I've always regarded him as way too serious for that sort of nonsense. He was a non-egomaniacal perfectionist, who always put art before self. These critics who are by definition auto-enraptured by all his stuff, regardless of substance, they got him all wrong, his defiance of taste wasn't an attempt to appease the Art Fags of this world. He always tried to renew the lease on rock music, and in this sterile age, the old Bowiesque theme of modern disillusion ought to be in there, at least insidiously, but it's fucking gone, and so is the old magic. It's been so for quite a while, hasn't it. You could argue that he died artistically, 30 years ago. Saved the worst for last, too. But he had more colours on his palette than anyone else. Maybe he's the most broadly influential solo performer in the entire history of rock. Universal. Created his own niche in music.
"I'd rather stay here, with all the madmen, than perish with the sad men, roaming free.".
Prophetic. Exactly how modern existence turned out, isn't it. Probably why he "sold the world", it was of no use to him, anymore, really. Pointless progress, science and technology for its own sake, only leads to emotional and spiritual estrangement. The more things being explained, the fewer wonders, the less romance, the World really holds. People will be queueing up for lobotomies, next. Bowie was a huge fan of Syd Barrett, perhaps you can guess why. Lemmy said, if you ever lose your sense of humour, you're done for. You're over. In Bowie's case, it could be the imagination that is indeed the most terrible thing to lose. Possibly, your only means of escape from aimless, pointless reality, at the end of the day.
I'd say, humbly, hang on to both, for dear, dear life.
Bowie is one of those geezers who helped kick in those doors, for us. I'm remembering him for that. A godlike ability. How many people could look like a sickly transvestite AIDS-patient, and still be cool. And still make sense.
The Master Escapist finally escaped. Evidence of his unique existence is everywhere.
From the whole Ziggy thing, live only, not on album. Blackstar must not be his coda, or indeed epitaph, just as Edwin Drood ought not spell out to posterity the end of the hypocritical Victorian era. The artist cannot, must not, have the final say. Art, especially when great, however stands eternal. A child of the post-modern era, Bowie died oblivious to the void of the post-post-modern, and failed to protest against it. Ironic, then, that he performed the above song at the time in his life when his star shined most brightly.