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David Bowie: the voice, the voice, the voice

RIP, David Bowie. My sons were in tears this morning when they heard the news. Many memorials say he’s returning to his home planet or being beamed back to where he came from. I’ve managed to skip most of the bizzaro showmanship and role playing that Bowie is famous for (I know, that’s like saying I like Italian food except for all the pasta), so all this “he’s an alien! He’s a weirdo! He’s not like the rest of us!” stuff never felt true. Because  . . .

That voice. Alien? No. It sounded like wood weathered to silver by the ocean; it sounded like steel corroded into intricate designs; it sounded like crazed glass that had cracked but not shattered. Pain and anger and weariness and wit — these are not alien or martian or otherworldly. They are human, and so was he.

Oh, how he worked, never coasted.

Eternal rest grant unto him, o Lord. He knew he was dying, and worked hard to earn his audience until the end. No man knows the state of his soul. May his devotion and generosity toward his audience be acceptable to God as a work of charity, and may he be rewarded for the hours of elation and transcendence his music brought to us.

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