Now the whole damn world and his attic-dwelling, serial-killing second cousin will be Bowie fans and will be jumping on a bandwagon they hardly spared a thought about before, oh, January 11th. The same old record plays on and on. Tiresome, inevitable, perfectly normal. Accept it, ignore it, deplore it; but it’s part of the cycle. Those of us who care want(ed) Bowie to be the biggest deal around on his own considerable merits.
For in truth, it’s the beginning of an end. And nothing has changed.
Everything has changed.
(I hadn’t even had the time to write all about the new album, Blackstar, since getting it last Friday, which incidentally I both adore and will probably be unable to listen to for a while. What a wonderful way to start 2016. Really fucking wonderful.)