I spent my last $80 to see David Bowie in concert in Madrid. I didn’t think too much about the decision, for Madrid is easy to walk around and I had a box of “Maria” cookies, so I was set for the two weeks until I would get paid, and I knew it would be worth any discomfort to see Bowie.
I had seen him in Syracuse, but going to concerts in Spain is a lesson in beats; Spaniards pick up on rhythms, clap, and synchronize in a way that carries concerts into areas that often surprise even the performers.
My older siblings didn’t really dabble in David Bowie’s music too much, so I was proud of my discovered treasure when I saw “Man to Fell to Earth.” It was his strength and fragility that pulled me to his music, his own complexity and directness that kept me devoted.
I have loved David for years. We had a secret (known only to me) empathy link via our hair. When I saw “The Man Who Fell to Earth” I had just cut my long blonde hair off and was left a mousey short-haired girl in glasses. Some friends insisted I had changed because my hair had, so I kept my friends but started to change my hair more and more often.
I am morbidly shy and my hair has been a way to test myself and to grow up with a type of safety net: it wasn’t me, it was shaved-headed me. It wasn’t me; it was the red-head. This has been an easy way to have the world come to me and to learn how to deal with it on my terms – nothing quite offends society as much as the person who does not fit in neatly. Over the decades I would see a picture of David and realize, as we aged, that we always have had similar hair-styles and colors.
The similarity stops there, unfortunately. I could never carry a tune and the ability to make music seems to me like the most magical of arts. I can change my hair, though, and feel that brave hair push me forward into the world.
I had seen him in Syracuse, but going to concerts in Spain is a lesson in beats; Spaniards pick up on rhythms, clap, and synchronize in a way that carries concerts into areas that often surprise even the performers.
My older siblings didn’t really dabble in David Bowie’s music too much, so I was proud of my discovered treasure when I saw “Man to Fell to Earth.” It was his strength and fragility that pulled me to his music, his own complexity and directness that kept me devoted.
I have loved David for years. We had a secret (known only to me) empathy link via our hair. When I saw “The Man Who Fell to Earth” I had just cut my long blonde hair off and was left a mousey short-haired girl in glasses. Some friends insisted I had changed because my hair had, so I kept my friends but started to change my hair more and more often.
I am morbidly shy and my hair has been a way to test myself and to grow up with a type of safety net: it wasn’t me, it was shaved-headed me. It wasn’t me; it was the red-head. This has been an easy way to have the world come to me and to learn how to deal with it on my terms – nothing quite offends society as much as the person who does not fit in neatly. Over the decades I would see a picture of David and realize, as we aged, that we always have had similar hair-styles and colors.
The similarity stops there, unfortunately. I could never carry a tune and the ability to make music seems to me like the most magical of arts. I can change my hair, though, and feel that brave hair push me forward into the world.
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