10 years on from David Bowie's death, my cosmic link to him remains

When I think about David Bowie’s death I think about life. Very literally.

I remember standing in my kitchen that early morning 10 years ago in January 2016, with my chest heavy as a rock even before I’d turned on the radio and heard the news. Because I was getting ready to leave for an important hospital appointment, to hopefully catch a first glimpse of my unborn child.

The last time my wife and I had been at an ultrasound scan a couple of years previously, the nurse hadn’t been able to find a heartbeat. We discovered that we’d miscarried, in the cruellest moment. It had been a long road back with a lot of twists and turns, and to be preparing to face that moment again was scary. There were, shall we say, some emotions in the air.

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So, as I heard the bulletin on BBC 6 Music that morning to report that Bowie had died in New York, as I absent-mindedly made coffee in Glasgow, it hit me harder than it probably ought to have done. And for the first if certainly not the last time that day, there were some tears. “Is this a bad omen?” I remember wondering, selfishly. “Or is this perhaps a good omen? Or is this, in fact, no omen at all because omens are just stupid?”

Probably more than anything I thought: “Not now, David. Not today.” But the rest of our morning went well, and we got a good heartbeat. And I’m pleased to say that, as of this morning, when I saw my soon 10-year-old daughter off at the school gate, that heartbeat is still going very strong indeed. 

It’s a strange thing to admit, but sometimes I look at my daughter and I think to myself: “I have known her in almost precise proportion to the time in which David Bowie, the greatest pop star that ever walked the Earth, has ceased living.” It’s a shame that they just missed one another.

Yet, superstitious as I am occasionally prone to be, I like to believe that circumstances and timing mean they are somehow forever cosmically linked. At least in my mind. My daughter’s getting really into music now, and sometimes I’ll play her a bit of Aladdin Sane or Heroes and attempt to explain this wholly unscientific theory of mine. I’m proud to say that she is having absolutely none of it and gives me strong “What the hell are you on about, Dad?” face.

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Prior to his death, I can’t even claim to have been the most avowed Bowie superfan. I had many of his albums, and I had come agonisingly close to seeing him live (at the T in the Park festival in 2004, before he pulled out due to illness). But I’d never truly put in the work, and for that I felt guilty, as well as sad, when he left us.

Ever since, I’ve resolved to spend more time listening and reading and writing about Bowie. I enjoy soaking up all the good new radio and TV documentaries and magazine articles that come around every January, anniversary of both his birthday and his death (two days apart). The recent landmark 10th anniversary of Bowie’s passing has proved particularly content rich. 

I find special fascination in learning about his journey as a father. How he eventually made up for lost time with his son, the filmmaker Duncan Jones, after being absent for much of his youth at the peak of his fame and in the pits of his decadence. How he contrastingly strived from day one to be the most regular, down-to-earth dad he possibly could to his much younger daughter Lexi Jones, eschewing touring and the limelight in favour of doing the school runs and making the dinner.

He clearly found much quiet contentment in his family in the latter chapters of his life and career. I love how the wholesomeness and ordinariness of it all juxtaposes so sharply with the sex, drugs and oddness of his earlier days.

In his remarkable book Ziggyology: A Brief History of Ziggy Stardust, Simon Goddard weaves a knowingly absurd tale of how humankind dragged itself out of the primordial ooze precisely so that billions of years later Bowie’s Martian rock god alter-ego might one day stand on stage at the Hammersmith Apollo in London and break teenage hearts by announcing his shock demise.

It was a feat of fame and illusion that exploded the drab grey world of the 1970s into glorious futuristic technicolour. 

A madly over-the-top way, I think, of making some sublime points. About how life is a miracle. And how we don’t get to share time on this planet with all that many people in the grand scheme of things – be they shapeshifting art pop geniuses from Mars, or our own kids.

The people we give life to, and the people whose art helps make us feel alive. We can be very grateful for them all.

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