The non-laughing gnome

Thomas Forget’s 2002 biography of David Bowie contains this fairly inarguable statement:

Because he has succeeded in so many different styles of music, it is almost impossible to find a popular artist today that has not been influenced by David Bowie.

Note that Forget is not limiting this to musical artists, either: given Bowie’s seemingly infinite capacity for self-reinvention — Madonna only wishes she were so protean — the Thin White Duke’s influence is all over the map. (ObPony: late in the first season of My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, there appeared three surly canine miners dubbed “Diamond Dogs.”) For his 66th birthday, which was yesterday, Bowie showed off yet another persona: the boulevardier turned perhaps immobile and definitely melancholy.

“Where Are We Now?” heralds the arrival of The Next Day, due in March, Bowie’s reunion with longtime producer Tony Visconti. I admit to being a little uneasy about the prospects. Then again, it took me twenty years to warm to Ziggy Stardust.

(With thanks to Michele Catalano.)







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