a bonobo humanity?

I’m now around the age that David Bowie was when he died. I heard it on the radio when I was in bed that January morning in 2016. I wept. He was a fundamental part of my life – certainly of my youth. I’m writing about him now because I’m re-reading Simon Critchley’s book about him, published in 2014. It was given (or loaned?!) to me by a friend a couple of years back, and I somehow read it rather cursorily, finding it a bit pretentious in places (Heidegger’s Dassein and other metaphysical stuff has never been interesting or particularly comprehensible to dumb me), but effective in Critchley’s love for and obsession with the artist, who certainly obsessed me, particularly from the early 70s into the 80s. He was uniquely indecipherable, catchy but unable to be caught. 

Take for example, ‘Changes’, from the (ironically titled?) Hunky Dory album. So easy to sing in the shower and such, but lyrically a torment of sorts ‘…so I turned myself to face me, but I’ve never caught a glimpse, of how the others must see the faker – I’m much too fast to take that test’. There is pride here, but also confusion, uncertainty, innocence, doubt – in short, a sort of vulnerable complexity in turning to face the strange. Listening to this sort of stuff as a teenager, this lyrical skirmishing, was somehow rewarding, or at least reassuring – ‘you’re not alone!’

My first encounter – in 1973 I was 16 and, for a time, had a ‘good job’ as an accounts clerk at a factory making plastic tubing. So I had the money to buy a record album – my first. I looked hard at this album cover of a blonde-haired, effeminate-looking male, dwarfed by a brown urban landscape. The title, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, sounded deliciously audacious to me. Surely this would be absolute shite or revelatory. Then again maybe neither. I was able to play it there in a little booth to myself. I played the whole album. And, of course, I bought it.

I’d already been introduced to musical wordsmiths – Dylan and Cohen in particular – and was experimenting with writing myself, exploring who I was and what I could be. The fact that I had no musical ability whatsoever made music unbridgeably, magically superior. 

So I played Ziggy to death and my next three purchases were Hunky Dory, Space Oddity and Lou Reed’s Bowie-produced Transformer album. I lost my job in the failing plastics factory and hung out at home alone, admiring my made-up face in the mirror, and my legs in my mother’s stockings. I felt, or tried to feel, a sense of transcendent, transexual superiority. I went out for walks in my sister’s floral jacket and was honked by passing cars – an edgy sort of thrill.

And so it went – Aladdin Sane, Diamond Dogs, Pin-ups, and I was ‘officially’ an adult, and various misadventures meant I lost all my records, together with home and family. I shared houses with students, wrote endlessly about my misadventures and my fascination with writers – Kafka, Dostoyevsky, Frisch – and, after a strange, perhaps perverse period of listening only to ‘classical music’, especially Schubert, I caught up, through others’ collections, with Bowie’s continuing oeuvre – Lodger, Scary Monsters, Station to Station, Low. All interesting stuff, but of course the intensity of my teenage attachment was gone. His likely drug-induced flirtations with fascism were disconcerting, and I’d frankly lost interest in what he was up to by the nineties. 

Now, in my seventieth year, it’s time for a catch-up, and a rethink, especially in light of my ‘no free will’ understanding, which has been something of a pre-occupation in recent times. For the fact that there’s no such thing as free will doesn’t simplify matters – au contraire. The complexity of what has made us who we are is pretty well unfathomable. But a recognition of that complexity should help us to treat even Hitler and Stalin and Putin and Trump as, if you like, ‘products’. In Bowie’s fascinating case, he was obviously a precocious musical talent, absolutely obsessed with expressing himself to the world, to explore its, and his, complexity – sexually, politically and existentially, and not necessarily in that order. I don’t really know much about his family background – he grew up in Brixton, which I believe isn’t the most fashionable suburb, and his mother was a sometime Oswald Mosley fan, and I’m imagining his flirtations with fascism might’ve been a hat-tip to a troublesome mother-son connection. My own background took me nowhere near right-wing politics, and that fact, and the realisation that it could’ve been quite different, helps me to sympathise with someone like him and his more existential concerns, which I do share – at least to some degree. I’m probably a bit more complacent, or perhaps resigned, than he was. And I’ve never been much tempted by drugs, other than the odd youthful booze overdose and some very minor flirting with dope.

One thing I’ve read about him, quite recently, was that he was an avid reader, as I most certainly am, though the what of the reading is of the essence. Much of Bowie’s reading might have had a desperation about it – who will love a lad insane? One might guess from some of his music that he wanted or needed to be a lad insane, but not too insane and not too much of a lad. My own reading, too, is about establishing, confirming, extending identity, and I suppose that’s what all reading, or information-gathering, is about.  

Anyway, my interest in Bowie has been renewed, and I’ll be enjoying, if that’s the word, his later work and its connection with what’s familiar to me, as well as seeing that old stuff in a new light – the crazy piano stuff on the title track of Aladdin Sane, for example…

Reference

Bowie, by Simon Critchley, 2014