Yesterday was David Bowie’s birthday. My friend Andrea alerted me to the fact on Facebook, making me so happy (for the millionth time) to have the friends that I have and, it has to be said, social networking. I might never have known if it wasn’t for her! Now, of course, I have his birthday as a repeating event on my Google calendar so I’ll never miss it again.
2010 was a year of nothing but Bowie for me. That’s not true, of course, I listened to a lot of Willie Nelson, Roxy Music, Lee Hazelwood, Mountain Goats and Levon Helm (to name a few), but I really and truly spent the year submerged in David Bowie. I read about this life, his rise to stardom. As we listened to his album Last Dance last night, I realized that it’s more than just a love for his music that makes me love him.
It’s the drama that he so beautifully imparts in every word he says. It’s the way he stopped at nothing to be the success that he became. It’s the way he threw his drink in the face of social norms and wore make up. Men should totally be allowed to wear make up, in my opinion. Encouraged even. And he does it so beautifully, sometimes donning almost a costume, sometimes just the perfect amount of silver eye shadow. An inspiration.
It’s the sincerity of each line of every song. It’s the way he so beautifully and succinctly captures the joy and terror of real life, and emerges optimistic. It’s the way that even if his lyrics make no sense to me, the feeling does. The feeling always does. Yes, David Bowie, I think, yes.
