By The Landlord
“I don't know where I'm going from here, but I promise it won't be boring.”
“Tomorrow belongs to those who can hear it coming.”
“And I don't care what anybody says; I like doing it, and it's what I shall continue to do.”
“What I like my music to do to me is awaken the ghosts inside of me. Not the demons, you understand, but the ghosts.”
“The truth is of course is that there is no journey. We are arriving and departing all at the same time.”
“I'm a born librarian with a sex drive.”
― David Bowie
Paradise Lost by John Milton, the Bowie Remix
Of Jones’ First Disobedience, and The Fruit of that Forbidden Tree,
‘Lectric odd-eyed, skinny, toothy, pretty; fall’n then ris’n, of Brixton via Bromley,
Shap’d of Terry Burns, Mingus, Little Richard, Lennon, Kemp, and Anthony
O’ Newley, came this rebel Satan’s cry: “Hah-hah-hah, hee-hee-hee!”
“I’m an alligator! I’m a mama-papa coming for you can’t catch me!”
Tumbling, as if from Heaven’s Gates, a world of sound did pour.
“We live for just these twenty years! Do we have to die for fifty more?”
Studied hard of Art, of Chordes, of Notes, from Death a knell he did compel:
“Don't let me hear you say life takes you nowhere, (Arch) angel!”
He got his mother in a whirl, not sure if he was boy or a girl,
As Heav’ns and Earth rose out of Chaos, as a leaf he did unfurl,
Felt ch-changes, but immune to all consultations too,
Was also quite aware of what he was going through.
He heard telephones, an opera house, and favourite melodies
He saw boys, toys, electric irons and TVs
His brain hurt like a warehouse, he had no room to spare,
Dost cram so many things, must store everything in there,
Had at first five years, thought that’s all we’ve got. Five years? Brain smarted a lot,
Flow’d fast by an Oracle, of Dog, Diamond one. But was thus the plot?
Written in pain, written in awe, a puzzled man who questioned what we were for,
It was stalking time for the moonboys, with their backs on the arch,
And the Devil may be there, but they couldn't sing about that.
He knew when to go out, knew when to stay in; how to have fun, and get things done,
And rightly afraid of Americans and their ‘side’: “This ain't rock and roll! This is genocide!”
Between cracked actor to Lawrence, tin, or Goblin king
He crossed boundaries of music, of fashion, and of Berlin.
Yet woven on the edging of his pillow, his brother laid upon the many rocks:
Of Tom, Aladdin, Zig, Duke, Soul and all, then at Blind Prophet’s final locks,
He could have been dead, he could be not, he could be you, at Heaven’s Door.
Chameleon, Comedian, Corinthian, and Caricature.
Something happened on the day he died; Spirit rose a metre and stepped aside.
“Look up here, I'm in Heaven. I've got scars that can't be seen.”
So then, raise eyes and ears to David, look on high, or Low, in which to dream,
Yet things still unattempted yet in Prose or Rhime, if right, or to be wrong.
His Works in others will yet invoke an aid to all adventurous Song.
And what in you or me is dark, his Star did illumine, what is low raise and support;
That to the highth of this great Argument I may assert
Eternal Providence, all shall be heroes, just for one day, to be seen,
And justifie the wayes of song to men and women, and all found in between.
Well, why not? His range and influence is well known, but in what way and just how much? This week, then, we go on a Bowie celebration, not so much seeking out covers of his songs, but where he’s been referenced in the work of others, with mention of his various personas, his song titles, his lyrics and also his musical styles. It will hopefully uncover a wealth of surprises and genres.
Soon after the shock news of his death in 2016, something that started a torrent of disasters many of us couldn’t conceive of – he was not really human, but an otherworldy being of the cosmos – I had a weird dream that I went to a psychedelic, drug-filled party in some colourful, smoke-hazy flat, and it it was back 1967 when I was barely a twinkle in universe’s eye. There I got talking to a stylish young dude with one eye that with a permanently dilated pupil. Both of mine were already fully dilated so we joked about it. We started talking about songwriting, and then, in a time-travelling wooziness, realising who this person was, his head so mind-mendingly full of literature and music and theatre and more, I was felt compelled to impress him, so pulled out of pocket a copy of the Little Black Songbook of David Bowie songs I purchased at the V&A exhibition in 2013. He thumbed through it, nodding with a mischievous interest. Perhaps it helped bring some inspiration…
So then, please summon up your Bowie-referencing songs in comments below, from your dreams, or record shelves or any other source, ideally quoting lyrics and where their source. From the rise and fall of Ziggy to everything else before or since, perhaps we can find a Bowie paradise. As the great man put it:
“Smiling and waving and looking so fine. Don’t think you knew you were in this song?
“You're too old to lose it, too young to choose it … And the clock waits so patiently on your song.”
Waiting patiently, or otherwise for your nominations, this week’s brilliant Bowie brain, and Lady Grinning Soul is the wondeful Vikingchild! Please place nominations below for deadline at 11pm on Monday, for playlists published next week. She will be your living end.
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