David Bowie
Blackstar

Let's start from the end of the CD. On the other hand, the word "end" is, unfortunately for the chameleon David, also linked to the closing of his earthly cycle. However, those who, in "Blackstar," seek a logical connection between the compositions of "The Next Day" – the last disc published – and, indeed, the songs of the new album, will surely appreciate the songs that have been assigned to the final zone of this, unfortunately, last work of Ziggy. The reference is to the tracks "Girl loves me," "Dollar Days," and "I Can't give Anything Away." These concluding compositions, indeed, somehow mark continuity with the material that, about three years ago, the Duke intended for publication. That said, the stylistic novelty is to be found in the first part of the album. Indeed, and probably, it is precisely thanks to the initial tracks that the work can be considered a CD notable among the most important releases of 2016. It's worth noting that the seven compositions present in "Blackstar" struggle to accept the title of songs. They seem more like seven mini suites. Anyway, gentlemen, it's fitting. We are talking about Bowie. The compositional episodes of the album are complex, dark, and overwhelming for the potentially unprepared listener. But, even when armed with a hefty volume of Costume and Music History, the listening remains challenging in value.

"Blackstar," perfectly coinciding with Bowie's birthday, was released on January 8, 2016. Upon listening, the dances – so to speak – are opened by "Blackstar," a composition characterized by darkness made sound and words; the landscape behind it is elusive. Mystical. After the dark and gothic start entrusted to the title track, listening continues: it's the turn of "Tis a pity she was a whore." The hovering mystery in the previous track seems to have moved away. You notice the almost garish colors of the winds and certain irregularities in the compositional line; surely there is an unconscious touch of Bowie's artistic origins. The rhythmic anxiety of this track leads and yields to what is – 'legally' one might say – the flagship track of the CD: "Lazarus," simple in its dramatic nature. Exciting. Then it's the turn of "Sue (or in a season of crime)"; the characteristic times of Drum'n'Bass, between 160 and 180 BPM, along with the probable attempt by the composer to move even further away from already trodden musical paths, make it a certainly impeccable composition. However, "Sue" appears alienated from the material that precedes it: it is a beautiful but distant fragment. "Blackstar," naturally, and in particular – even from a visual point of view – the video "Lazarus," remain the last artistic testimonies of David Robert Jones, who died on January 10, 2016.

Now, for those who don't have to rush to update themselves on what the Juventus coach announces rather than Inter or any other team that literally deal with balls – it's truly incredible how some people make these topics a reason for living! Football is just entertainment, not a theory about the Major Systems! – I was saying that for those who have another moment of attention, I would like to add half a word about Davide Bova alongside the four words on Bowie. And who is that? (Max Gazzè will forgive...). He is not related to Raul Bova.

At his funeral, which took place eight days ago, there were five of us: me, the Romanian worker with the screwdriver, one of those high-society ladies who infiltrate those charity organizations not to feel guilty towards the unfortunate, a ninety-year-old with a dog that kept pulling him because it was fed up, and a lady from manutencop (one of those paid a pittance because they are made to appear as partners!) who, working at the cemetery, was moved by the scant number of 'relatives' present at Davide Bova's last goodbye and also approached to pay the final respects to a perfect stranger. The man we were bidding farewell to, I learned from the plaque the worker screwed onto Davide's final resting place, was born on January 8, 1947. It is the same birth date as Bowie. Then, add to it the fact that the name Davide Bova sounds like David Bowie, and some cheekiness emerges. Davide Bova, profession cobbler, was a gentleman who lived across my street, and I don't remember who introduced us. Perhaps no one, and we never really got to know each other. Davide would shred my ears every time he saw me from afar and greeted me loudly: he would always shout that it was about to snow. He never got it right. He was as alone as a menhir on Mars. David Bowie, profession rock star, obviously never gave a damn about me nor ever thought of doing the weather for me. Is it irreverent to ask who of the two realized that one must make room for the new kids of the future? Well, maybe Davide Bova, the nothing on earth and the double nothing below. Instead, Bowie, probably and for a long time, will be forced to endure, in front of his tombstone, annoying hermeneutics of his thought. It's time for goodbyes; dear useless Davide Bova, rest in peace. And forget about shoes, with the arrival of sneakers there's nothing left to repair.