We all have landmarks that colour our lives; media moments creating a soundtrack to our memories. Sorrowfully many of these are attributed to the death of public figures.
Watching the news break live on telly and listening to the woe from London radio listeners I could do little to stop my own David Bowie flashbacks. Whether it was attempting to perfect the croaky voice on ‘China Girl’ or playing the 7 inch single “Dancing in the Street” over and over again after Live Aid. One of the few tunes I played on my battered record player that Mum didn’t ask me to turn down.
I’m a child of the 80s so this is my Bowie era. By the time I discovered him, Ziggy Stardust was a constellation away. But as many people are saying today, we have all grown up with his music.
When I donned my faded rhinestone Bowie T-shirt this morning, my key Bowie memory was during my turbulent teen years; wearing ripped jeans, far too many earrings, a leather jacket with tatty suede tassels and strolling to the shops with my rare-to-visit aunt on my mum’s side. Still moody from an argument with my mum about my attire and the numerous posters of weird looking pop stars on my wall, I was stopped in my tracks when told that my mum had covered her own wall in David Bowie posters when she was a teenager. Apparently she loved him.
My mother. Into modern music. Loving a pop star. This was the stuff of nonsense surely. I suppose in an attempt to save face, Mum never admitted her David Bowie crush.
But I cherish the image of my mum, all funky and afro-cool, lying on her teenage bed gazing up at a poster of David Bowie. And I’ll also make sure my own teen-to-be is regaled of my own poster-love when the time comes.