David Bowie
The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars

THE REVIEW

Solitude saddens me. The mere thought of being alone terrifies me. Being residual, being distinguishable makes me gloomy. A cigarette. I place it in my mouth, I turn it between one finger and another and another still. Time calls, but you don't answer. You know you're too old to be a loser. You know you're too young to decide. You’re not alone, let’s turn on and be. It’s my Rock’n’Roll Suicide. So I want to win. Didn’t know what time it was, the lights were low, some cats was layin’ down some rock’n’roll lotta soul, I said. It strengthens the awareness of not being alone.

I look at the shelf where my friends lie. They're just waiting for a nod from me. They're all there. There's David, there's that freak John and his little friend Paul. There's Lou. They're all there. You can't be afraid of loneliness when you have so many friends, ready to give you their essence, ready to transform you. You just have to ask. I call David. He responds. He asks me to look at Mick Ronson, the way he makes the strings rasp. He orders me to listen to the rough skins flogged and dazed by Woodmansey. You realize that there’s no point in being afraid, you are the different one, you understand, you come from a distant world. You come from Mars, you brought the squires with you and you came back to scandalize. The very concept of "Obscene" needs reforming. I look up, out of the window, I search for a foothold so that I can still believe that God exists, I seek a hint of Truth while David's voice guides me. With a suggestive gesture, he indicates where the Supreme Being resides.

God exists, now I am sure, and in his spare time he listens to Bowie. Secretly though, otherwise he would be sullied with homosexuality. At this moment, with the tension generated by the notes of the Lady Stardust, my soul and God draw near, we're about to become, one in the other, the same wave, the same vibration. I exude emotions, David is in me while I am in God, it is catharsis. It is the Universal Orgasm. There's no more modesty in his words. There's no more restraint in his attitude. The Transformer doesn't fear for his impunity because He is listened to by God Himself. He wants to be what others are ashamed to think. He wants the taste of scandal on your face, he wants to relish it. He is the Starman, the Star Traveler. “…Keep your 'lectric eye on me, Baby. Put your ray gun to my head. There’s a Starman waiting in the sky.” Ziggy is here, he slams your shames in your face, he ridicules you for your well-meaning conformism. You are no longer afraid to be alone because you realize that your true fear should stimulate what you are now.

Ziggy reminds you that you are too dirty inside to allow yourself to criticize His attitude. His coming has erased the rest. There's no tomorrow if you can't be now. Thank you, David, now I understand. My rock’n’roll suicide has just begun. I place the Harmony in its regal case, not before having kissed the Emitter of Emotions, and I set off. Many people have yet to see their full right to listen to Bowie asserted, and I have the related duty to satisfy that legitimate right. Bowie is not a musician. He is a state of mind.