Okay. First of all, if you hate David Bowie, you should skip this post! But: if you have an open mind, perhaps you should read it after all.
Long, long ago, when I was thirteen and living in the middle of nowhere, and cycling to school every day (took me thirty minutes there against the Westerly wind, and back again, more often than not again against the wind), and hating every minute of my life (I was a troubled kid), one of my classmates who was heavily into music pointed the following out to me: "There is a guy who makes music for people like you".
Oh?
The next day he was so kind to bring his cherished David Bowie album to school; 'The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust'. He promised me I could take it home for exactly one evening, in return for a grope and a kiss.
The grope he never got, but the kiss...I was a good bargainer even then.
That evening I put on the album, watched over by my dog Bello and one of my three cats, Bobby. I sat down cross-legged on my second-hand afghan carpet, surrounded by incense fumes, and staring at a candle (told you...), and prepared to be enlightened.
At first I was bewildered.
Then I was intrigued.
When I put it on for the third time, I was tapping along and anticipating the best songs.
The fourth time running (it was way past my bedtime by then and my room was misty blue and foggy from all the fumes, and Bello and Bobby had colonised my bed) I listened to 'Rock 'N' Roll Suicide' five times in a row and cried my eyes out.
There I was. I recently had had the most shitty time of my life, and here was a man who knew exactly - but exactly - what I was going through. And he didn't even know me! But he knew what words I needed so desperately.
Right. Long story short. I hung on. Became a life-long David Bowie fan. Even now, I struggle to play his songs on the guitar.
So, Hans, mate, haven't a clue where you are these days, but you were right. And I don't begrudge you that kiss for a second.
Rock 'N' Roll Suicide
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