Going out on a limb, I’ll say nonetheless that when I was young that I found the super elegant and distant sheen that shaped the persona and music of David Bowie too cool, even icy, aristocratic and alien, impossible to comprehend. Some of it may have been “ethnic,” and large parts homophobic, and my own lack of art. Or was it a time lag. Friend PG recounts listening to Bowie in 1973, realizing that this was the future. In contrast, for my friends and me, the 1960s didn’t really end until quite late. I remember the day I cut my hair short. That was 1980 and I was in 11th grade. In between then and now, my appreciation has matured and warmed. I can’t quite trace when this happened, but it probably has to do with Warhol and aesthetics. Flipping along the dial in the car, I always stop and listen to the radio when they play him.
