Tuesday, January 19, 2016

Ziggy and Me

Last week, I solicited Facebook friends for writing ideas.  I was subsequently challenged, based on the fact that I don't seriously listen to music or know much about it, to write a music review.  Another friend liked the idea and suggested I start with David Bowie's music since, upon learning of Bowie's death, I had mentioned I was not saddened or as touched as so many others.  So, this is where I begin.  Being too cheap to actually pay for music, even for this experiment, I listened to most of Slacker's David Bowie Top 33.  I'm sure by not listening chronologically or by cohesive album I am missing out thematically.  Oh well,  this is the best I've got.   Baby steps, people.

Perhaps this is where I should set some expectations.  I know little musical jargon; I don't know how to talk about music beyond the way it makes me feel.   This entire exercise is akin to sending a person who eats nothing but Spaghettios and franks  in to critique a five star French restaurant.  He may be able to say, "oooh, that tastes good," but he'll lack the ability to make distinctions in the palate, he may not be able to describe the subtleties and textures.  I also have always had trouble deciphering lyrics.   I don't mean analyzing their subtext, I mean literally picking out the words sometimes.  (Example: At least into my twenties, I thought Neil Diamond was singing about some overly casual preacher, Reverend Blue Jeans.)  My wife makes fun, but sometimes the volume of the music or the singers voice (I'm looking at you Eddy Vedder.) make it impossible for me to hear the words clearly.  So with this info as the backdrop, I put on my headphones, grab my Spaghettios-eatin' spoon and press play.

My Rather Short, Totally Uninformed Review:
I get it now.  I get why people felt a genuine sense of loss when hearing of Bowie's passing.  It is more universal than I realized, I guess.  There were several recognizable songs where I said, "Huh, so that's Davis Bowie, eh?"  There is a little something for everyone in his music.  Some of it is fun.  Fun in a way that makes we want to dance like I would never let ANYBODY see me dance.  (Me doling out moves like Jagger would be a true assault on the eyes.) 

Some of the music practically pulsates with urgency.  There is a yearning driving so much of it.  A yearning to escape, a yearning to be understood, an urgent yearning to stand up and shout, "Look at me.  This is who I am. Tough shit if you don't like it!"  I have long said weird is the new normal.  Weird should be celebrated.  I suppose we have  ground-breaking artists like David Bowie to thank for that.  He made it okay, through costume, through lyrics, and through deed, to be different.  He brought outsiders in.  I understand how relatable he must be to so many who struggled with identity, who struggled to gain acceptance.

Beyond what his performances represent, of course, there are the performances themselves.  The music seems complex, at least to my simple reptilian brain.  The change of pace, the "arrangements"(?) keep you on your toes.  And that voice.  The voice of a chameleon, ever adjusting to mood and theme.   A voice sometimes beckoning, sometimes powerful, sometimes playful, but never timid.  A voice stretching through the stars to entrance and entertain.  I get it now.  Bowie still would not be my first choice when reaching for a cd, but I understand why he might be yours.

So, how'd I do? I don't suppose I'll be hired by Rolling Stone anytime soon. Send all hate mail to the That's No Moon World Headquarters.  Maybe, if you are lucky, I'll make music reviews a regular thing.

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