The news of David Bowie's death left a creative void for the music industry and admirers. Most fans around the world did not even know he had been battling cancer. Bowie lived a life of distinguishable, unparalleled oddity and artistry to the end.
I believe that genius is made of three important ingredients: creative impulse, hard work and careful study. They are created, not born. Bowie was a genius. One more for old times sake, Mister Jones, with glitter on top?
The song my sisters liked was "China Girl." They were four beautiful girls -- eminently dateable -- and I was their youngest brother, their pet. They weren't allowed to go off with strange boys. My parents were very strict. But they dated anyway, secretly, and I was their alibi.
The other day, I was about halfway through a piece on David Bowie's outstanding, genre-annihilating new album, Blackstar. Today, I write something new, a head full of Starman-studded memories, eyes damp with real tears.
Not a Rock and Roll Suicide but a victim of liver cancer, he died too soon. So Where Are We Now? Although Bowie didn't live to see his Golden Years, Let's Dance and celebrate his life and the musical memories that he left behind.
Recently, a severe heat advisory was upon us in New York City, however for the unsuspecting patrons of a serene Chelsea café which normally tends to the urban chic, there was no warning that performance artist Kenyon Phillips was about to arrive.
Believe me, I loved David Bowie. Crazy love. Second only to The Who for at least a year or so. Actually, pretty much from Space Oddity through Aladdin Sane. For some reason, he lost me with Diamond Dogs.