When all the tributes have been paid and all the music has been played, the name of Bowie merges back into the wall of flowers, cards, sayings, praises and and the blah that has accompanied the deaths of other famous figures.
I was never a particular fan of Bowie, nor did I listen to his music much except to be amazed at his brilliance and his constant ability to re-invent himself. But all this has been covered ad-infinitum throughout today. Like the six blind men who “saw” the elephant in their own way, I have to contribute my Ha-penny worth before the day is out. After all, the man was of my generation and I lived through the time his life covered and absorbed a lot of the sights, smells and the songs of those beautiful years. Immersed as I was in the doss-house hippy culture of the sixties and seventies, I perceived David Bowie in my peripheral vision as this clean cut style icon. In my lived-in jeans and my greasy hair I could observe this glossy spangly creature only with my detached retina as that strange phenomenon adored by first time mothers and the mad men from the advertising world. Here was this tinsel creature that could sell household products and duct tape.
Or so I thought!
Looking back, I take my hat off to a man who withstood the call of the devil, a man who did not sell his soul. He remained this glossy style creature, unattainable by the dribbling media. He kept his cool and his dignity and he kept his distance with the elegance of a deft dancer. By remaining private he did not allow his body to be paraded around in the media show houses. Nor did he drag around a corpulent and decaying body onto endless interviews. He had the magic to withdraw silently and privately while he was still the stately prince.
That is my memory of David Bowie; elegance, dignity and buckets of cool. Long live the dream-makers!