OK…so I wake up this morning and wondered if I were dreaming. Would I need to chew my own arm off and escape silently because of a horrible mistake I had made in a rush of teenaged lust? It was too goo to be real. I was a teenager again. Six feet tall, 120 pounds, with hair half-way down my back. I could drink and fuck all night.
I was afraid to be awake.
So, I get in the car, half-asleep, hair in Albert Einstein mode, and head into town for my morning cup of Willoughbys. I bypass the news, and turn it on. I turn it up. And I get goose bumps. I actually get turned on. It wasn’t a dream. David Bowie HAD released a brilliant new album, and it sounded even better today.
The opening and title track “The Next Day” made me want to cry, I don’t think the stereo in my wife’s GTI could go any louder. The dirty horns on made me feel as if I were in the front row of Radio City Music Hall once again and Bowie was about to launch into “Young Americans” or “Fame.” “Valentine’s Day” sounds like the great missing track from the Ziggy Stardust sessions, the reel of 2-inch tape stolen from the vault and never reported missing. “Dancing Out In Space” must have been recorded in 1969, right? What the fuck?
Thank you, Mr. Bowie, for making me feel young again. And for showing the hipsters and would-be rockers of the day what it means to rock and roll. What it means to write a song. What it means to be a God.
I just need to keep repeating it wasn’t a dream.
I just need to keep it repeating.