David Bowie has died at the age of 69. In 1972, Duncan Fallowell was quick to highlight his merits in The Spectator’s pop column:
I am writing about David Bowie, and had originally intended to do so by jotting down on pieces of paper all the appropriate epithets and phrases, putting them into a silver top hat, shaking it all about, you know, selecting them at random and typing out the results with a dash between each. It began as follows: Deciduous/carnivorous — sleeve as tattooed prophylactic — erectile lyric, retractile music — car mechanic catamite — henna in the works — lurex (that word contains everything) — butch drag inverted to reveal its true nature: sequins and axle-grease — cult then fashion . . . and so on for another four pages. Which was splendid until realised I was producing a significant work of cut-up literature and perhaps ought to publish it in the Etiolated Quarterly or something.
Is the world ready for the rock review as art? Judging by the new Bowie record, The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, Bowie himself would be.
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