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Thread: David Bowie . . .

  1. #11
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  2. #12
    Early S Reg #1395 LongRanger's Avatar
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    Heroes . . .

    . . . . . . . . . . . .
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AZUr5cFqqxw



    One o' mine



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  3. #13
    Senior Member DavidRees's Avatar
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    Class to the end and beyond! RIP David "YOU'LL NEVER WALK ALONE"

  4. #14
    Early S Reg #1395 LongRanger's Avatar
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    More Heroes . . .

    . . . I can remember . . .
    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wSX9F6ETTDQ

    . . . standing . . .





    . . . standing by The Wall . . .







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  5. #15
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    AND ANOTHER "HEROES" LIVE ACOUSTIC VERSION

    https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBiiFplMWls


    Here the clicking in the background? He has a bottle cap strapped to his right foot and it's mic'd up.
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  6. #16
    Early S Reg #1395 LongRanger's Avatar
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    Quote Originally Posted by mfitton View Post
    . . . the clicking in the background? He has a bottle cap strapped to his right foot . . .
    Love that --- thanks . . .


    Great show, too
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  8. #18
    Senior Member CamBiscuit's Avatar
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    I like this version, he just looks like he's having so much fun - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bsYp9q3QNaQ

    Enjoyed that acoustic version too Mike.
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  9. #19
    Years ago I ran into David Bowie on an early morning flight from Montreal to Boston. We went through security and sat in the public area. All he had was a small Fostex recorder slung over his shoulder as he had gone to a club the night before to listen to a band and record some of their music. People knew who he was but didn't bother him. Even at 5:30am he was so alert, full of energy, courteous and impeccably dressed. We boarded the flight together and he sat in economy (as I did) a few rows apart from where I was. I noticed that right after he sat down he extended his arm out to shake the hand of the man beside him who had no idea who he was. It made me smile.
    1972 911 Narrow-Body Group 4 Project - On The Road.

  10. #20
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    An (Other) Englishman in New York

    Quote Originally Posted by 72Group4 View Post
    . . . Years ago I ran into David Bowie on an early morning flight from Montreal to Boston . . .

    . . . We boarded the flight together and he sat in economy (as I did) a few rows apart from where I was. I noticed that right after he sat down he extended his arm out to shake the hand of the man beside him who had no idea who he was . . .

    '. . . About 10 years ago, the playwright John Guare got a call asking if he wanted to meet David Bowie to discuss a theater project.

    As Mr. Guare remembered it, Mr. Bowie was “in a very dark place” (it was shortly after he had had a heart attack onstage in Berlin), and a mutual friend, the English producer Robert Fox, was trying to coax him back to a creative life. Mr. Guare immediately said yes.

    He and Mr. Bowie met at each other’s homes in New York to throw around ideas, and sometimes they went out. “We would take walks around the East Village,” Mr. Guare said. “And I was always praying somebody would run into us so I could say, ‘Do you know my friend David Bowie?’”

    It never happened.

    Mr. Guare was at first puzzled and then amazed at how Mr. Bowie — the stage creature, the persona, the guy he saw command an audience at Radio City Music Hall in 1973 with his spiky orange hair and snow-white tan — could walk the city streets unrecognized.

    “He traveled with this cloak of invisibility — nobody saw him,” Mr. Guare said. “He just eradicated himself.”

    People often forgot, but up until his death, on Sunday at age 69, Mr. Bowie was a New Yorker. He said so himself, emphatically. “I’m a New Yorker!” he declared to SOMA magazine in 2003, after he’d been here a decade.

    He and his Somali-born wife, Iman, who is a model fluent in five languages, spent almost their entire marriage, more than 20 years, as residents of the city. Anyone will tell you they were one of New York’s most glamorous, graceful couples, made all the more so by the dignified and private way they lived.

    And though Mr. Bowie was enormously wealthy, he wasn’t one of those rich guys who kept an apartment in the city, along with a portfolio of global real estate holdings, and flew in. Aside from a mountain retreat in Ulster County, N.Y., his Manhattan apartment was his only home.

    You may not have considered all this because Mr. Bowie was an apparition in the city, rarely glimpsed. You heard it mentioned that he lived here. Somewhere downtown, someone thought. But seeing him out? Good luck.

    Michael Musto, the veteran night life columnist (and occasional New York Times contributor), met him at a party in the 1970s but saw him very few times after that, he said. Gerard Malanga, the poet and Warhol associate, who lived three blocks from Mr. Bowie and had friends in common, described himself as “one of the millions who never encountered David on the street or anywhere.”

    Mr. Bowie wasn’t a Garbo-level recluse. He got around enough to avoid the terrible fate of having his privacy draw more attention to him. But if people did spot him at Lincoln Center or out to dinner with Iman, they usually gave him wide berth, out of respect and also a sense of intimidation.

    “I had always thought he was unapproachable,” Mr. Musto said. “But he was quite lovely and accessible.”

    “The fabulous identities he had,” Mr. Guare said — meaning Ziggy Stardust and Aladdin Sane and the Thin White Duke and even the Bowie of the ’80s, who looked like the world’s most elegantly dressed serial killer — “bore no reflection on the person who was carrying them.”

    “I think he had complete access to David Jones,” Mr. Guare added, referring to Mr. Bowie’s birth name. “And that’s who I knew.”

    Mr. Bowie heard New York before he ever saw it. When he was 19 and still living in England, his manager, back from the States, gave him an acetate record of “The Velvet Underground and Nico,” obtained directly from Andy Warhol.

    “I was hearing a degree of cool that I had no idea was humanly sustainable,” he later wrote in an essay for New York magazine.

    He traveled to New York in 1971, around the time he released “Hunky Dory,” his fourth album. One of the first New Yorkers he encountered was Moondog, the blind, flowingly bearded street performer who dressed in a homemade robe and a horned Viking helmet and planted himself on West 54th Street. On that trip, Mr. Bowie visited the Factory; touchingly, he wanted to play his song “Andy Warhol” for the man himself.

    When he came for an extended stay in 1972, he was accompanied by his first wife, Angie, and his new manager, Tony DeFries. Mr. DeFries, a cigar-chomping, Col. Tom Parker-like showbiz slickster, believed in success by way of publicity-generating spectacle. Back then, Mr. Bowie did not pass through the city in a cloak of invisibility. He took limos everywhere and presented himself like an abstract canvas.

    Here’s Bebe Buell, the musician and rock star paramour, recalling Mr. Bowie’s arrival at Max’s Kansas City: “He walked in wearing a powdered-blue suit with orange hair, and just bedazzled us all.”

    After he became Ziggy Stardust, and a huge star, Mr. Bowie found refuge at the West 20th Street apartment of his publicist, Cherry Vanilla. In her memoir, “Lick Me,” she recounts how he would do brain-sizzling amounts of cocaine and drink milk for nourishment (no solid food in those years), and they’d rap about “power, symbols, communication, music, the occult, Aleister Crowley and Merlin the Magician.”

    Like a lot of rock stars, Mr. Bowie lived in hotels: first the Gramercy Park Hotel, then the Sherry-Netherland until the room-service bill became obscene. Throughout the 1970s, he was less a citizen of New York than a debauched tourist, directing his limo to Max’s, Paradise Garage and Reno Sweeney. Socially deft and curious, he transited between Studio 54 and CBGB, and hung out with Mick and Bianca Jagger and Iggy Pop.

    In the New York magazine essay, Mr. Bowie wrote of that period, “I rarely got up before noon and hit the sack again around four or five in the morning.” He saw the city with “multicolored glasses.”

    As had been widely chronicled, Mr. Bowie left America for Berlin, partly to flee his druggie lifestyle.

    In 1980, after recording the albums “Low,” “Heroes” and “Lodger” — which became known as his Berlin trilogy — he was back in New York, this time as the Elephant Man at the Booth Theater on Broadway. (“He is splendid” The Times wrote.) In 1982, with Nile Rodgers producing, he recorded the album “Let’s Dance” at the Power Station on West 53rd Street, a sonic and commercial triumph. But for all his victories and nocturnal good times in the city, Mr. Bowie seemed unable to commit to it.

    When Iman met Mr. Bowie at a dinner party in 1990, he was living in Switzerland as a tax exile, a citizen of the world. She wasn’t having it, she once told The Guardian: “I’m a New Yorker. I was like, ‘Let’s go home.’”

    The couple married in 1992 and moved into a conventional prewar apartment on Central Park South. They had a daughter, Lexi. In 1999, they paid $4 million for two penthouses (an upstairs-downstairs) on Lafayette Street in SoHo, where they remained. That’s also where fans gathered in the numbing cold after he died to lay flowers, many unaware, until that day, that he’d been a fellow New Yorker.

    Over time, Mr. Bowie did become a real New Yorker. He absorbed the city’s attitude and cultural quirks, and had trouble catching a cab. He wrote a song (“Slip Away”) about Uncle Floyd, the host of a weird, low-budget, quasi-children’s TV show that aired locally back in the UHF days.

    After the Sept. 11 attacks, he performed movingly at the Concert for New York City at Madison Square Garden. He covered Simon and Garfunkel’s “America” and announced from the stage, before singing “Heroes”: “I’d particularly like to say hello to the folks from my local ladder. You know where you are.”

    In photographs, you can see how subdued and grown-up Mr. Bowie’s second go-round in the city was. “He did the ballet, all the fun cultural stuff,” said Patrick McMullan, who photographed him over the years, though much less after Mr. Bowie’s heart attack in Berlin.

    He was always in a sharp suit or tux. Regularly at the Met Gala or the Council of Fashion Designers of America Awards to support his wife. Never caught stumbling out of the hot club at 4 a.m. He’d already been to a lifetime’s worth of parties.

    Iman once described Mr. Bowie as a “homebody”; The Onion imagined him as a “pansexual alien” staying in to “do lasagna for dinner.” He led a pretty normal-seeming life. He shopped for groceries once a week at Dean & DeLuca. He loved the chicken sandwich with watercress and tomatoes at Olive’s on Prince Street. He liked to rise at 6 a.m. and get his “buzz” by walking the still-empty streets of Chinatown.

    He read a lot. He collected art. He painted. He and Iman socialized with the parents of their daughter’s friends at school. He spent his remaining time meaningfully and productively, and largely here . . .
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