"I can't give everything away"
When news of David Bowie's death appeared in the corner of my screen, I said it aloud, matter of fact, in the cruel way reserved only for people you've never met. And yet at that moment, my friend's face sank in disbelief.
To understand what happened, she read an article as I detachedly scrolled past videos and links of his music flooding all my social media. They were all unfamiliar titles and albums, so I clicked none. And then suddenly I came across his face, a simple portrait, hair-slicked back, mouth ajar. In that moment I remembered his voice, not from any album, but from his work as an actor. Playing Nikola Tesla, he embodied the strangeness of a genius recluse, perhaps because of his own untamable genius.
But here I am again, voicing the words of others, accepting his trail-blazing role in our world — not just in music, but fashion, queerness, and all sorts of radical ways of existing. I am listening to his music now, most songs for the first time, but how can I discern a life of brilliance from a single song or two? A legend in life, a legend in death, and I'm passively accepting that status. Again.
I say again, because a few years ago another genius died, much younger yet in many ways more expected, the tragic Amy Winehouse. I say again, because as I watched television networks blasting her death, I heard snippets of her voice in the same way my Twitter is doing for Bowie. Then, I heard the voice of "Rehab"—the frustratingly catchy song that dominated airwaves and that I mostly despised—but I also encountered the voice of "Me and Mr. Jones," the voice of dejected regret which is the voice I realized I needed to hear at that moment.
Winehouse paved the way for my own personal journey into hurt, longing, and bad decisions. She didn't force me into those situations, but her music was there to explain them and their consequences. I heard stories from my past and hers while listening to the two albums I had missed as well as the posthumous album released while her fans, and I as a newly inducted member, mourned her.
With Bowie, I'm starting at the end, his 2016 ★ (Blackstar). "I can't give everything...I can't give everything...away," he repeats on the final song to his final album, and, fittingly, the song I first listened to tonight.
I'm not sure what his music will do for me, but seeing his images and his voice, I know that — even if he means nothing to me now — he paved the path for the way I am. People like me have a much easier time existing in a world in which Bowie dressed the way he dressed and lived the way he lived across decades and continents. It is my sincere hope, that as we absorb his music and images we ensure that the world remains a place that supports people like him, because we need it.
(Portrait by ANDREW KENT)
