On Friday January
8th I read a review of Black Star by David Bowie. On Monday January
11th, he was dead. Incredible
timing. The review written by Alex Petridis in The Guardian Film & Music section
was very enthusiastic in its praise of the album and the direction Bowie had
taken. It sounded original, different, intriguing and strange – just like a
good Bowie album should. I was keen to get hold of it. On the Monday, when I
turned on 6Music to hear the news of Bowie’s passing, the need to buy a copy of
Black Star suddenly became urgent. I was in Soho at the end of that week but
Sister Ray had sold out of the vinyl. I attempted to buy a copy on several
occasions from a variety of shops and each time there were none in stock.
Demand was outstripping supply. It wasn’t until early February, a month after
release that I managed to buy a copy from Sister Ray. The allure and hold of
David Bowie was immense and had been intensified with news that he was gone. He
was controlling his image even in death, expanding his mystery.
I hadn’t heard
the album before I played it at home, so there was that kid in a sweetshop
sense of anticipation – yet also lingering in the back of my mind, the slim
thought that I could be in for disappointment. You never know until you have
listened to something.
I needn’t have
worried.
The opening
track, Black Star, seemed to be a
foreboding prophecy of his death and is one of the most unnerving songs I have
ever experienced listening to. Bowie was in my front room, his voice sounding
jaded yet vital, coming out of the speakers, telling me about the vision of his
demise – "in the Villa of Ormen stands a
solitary candle." Then out of this obscure doom comes light – "something happened on the day he died.
Spirit rose a metre and stepped aside." He then appears to cut his ego down
to size – "I’m not a film star, I’m a
black star" – preparing for some kind of after life, before the track resumes its original sombre tone and we are taken
back to the Villa of Ormen. Mind blowing stuff. He was writing his own eulogy. The
first time I listened was spellbinding. It felt weird and exciting. Surely the
timing of his death and release of the record was too impeccable to be a
coincidence. It’s as if he said once I’m gone put it out there and after his
passing, the personal tracks on the album become all about Bowie’s death, with
him trying to make sense of the situation and say farewell. The album certainly
took on a more profound status following the shock of Bowie’s sudden death. Dollar Days is a longing for England, his
home, which he grapples with, then dismisses – "If I’ll never see the English evergreens I’m running to, It’s nothing
to me" – and a sense of personal lament runs through I Can’t Give Everything Away, with the words - "seeing more and feeling less, saying no but meaning yes" - a feeling
of drifting away.
To be writing his
story and continuing his creative path, with the Black Star album and the
musical Lazarus, even when he is no
longer walking the planet, shows exceptional vision. Bowie’s major albums were
released before my time; Young Americans, Hunky Dory and Ziggy Stardust are my
top 3 but I have always been listening in retrospect. Black Star on the other
hand was here and now, in the present, whilst he was soon to be spoken of in
the past tense. Bowie was always known as the pop chameleon, because of his
ability to change image and direction. This was beyond reinvention, this was pop resurrection. Following his
passing, several of his albums were charting high up in the albums chart and
staying there for weeks on end. Black Star was his parting gift and is a truly
great album.
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