Like a lot of people, I’ve been playing my
David Bowie albums since the great man died, especially Scary Monsters. And no doubt
it’s because I make some claims to be a pedestrian that I’ve been fixating on
those words, “She could’ve been a killer if she didn’t walk the way she do.”
It’s a great line but does it mean anything?
I’m not sure that it does, and I’m absolutely sure it doesn’t matter whether it
means anything or not, but I have been wondering what style of walking prevents
you from being killer. I suspect there
are no easy answers.
One of the more interesting pieces written
after Bowie’s death was by Steven Kurutz, in the New York Times, titled “David
Bowie: Invisible New Yorker.” Apparently
there was a time about ten years ago when Bowie and John Guare would get
together once in a while to talk about the possibilities of collaborating on a
theatrical project.
It never happened, but Guare is quoted as
saying, “We would take walks around the East Village and I was always praying
somebody would run into us so I could say, ‘Do you know my friend David Bowie?’”
He was understandably disappointed
that never happened either.
The article claims that Bowie could pass
unnoticed even among the crowds of New York. Guare again, “He traveled with this cloak of invisibility -
nobody saw him.” Well, I’m here to tell
you: not always.
About 15 years back I was in the Museum of
Modern Art in New York, on a Sunday morning, and there, large as life, and very
conspicuous, walking through one of the galleries was Mr. Bowie, accompanied by
an entourage of half a dozen young men.
They were looking at paintings and every now and again Bowie would say stop
and say something about the art, and the young men would hang on every
word. Before long everybody in the gallery
was looking at Bowie and it became impossible to look at any of the art on the
walls. Iman and an all-female entourage
were in the adjacent gallery but they were much less compelling.
This was on my mind last Sunday as I walked
along West Temple Street in Los Angeles, on the way to see a “sound installation"
by William Basinksi, in a storefront gallery called South of Sunset. There was work by Chris Oliveria, and Steve Roden in there too.
Basinski has said in interviews that he
changed from clarinet to saxophone because he wanted to be more like Bowie, and
as a member of a band called the Rockettes he supported Bowie on the Serious
Moonlight tour. Of course he’s somewhat
influenced by Bowie, because what modern musician isn’t, but I think he’s
rather more influenced by the people who influenced Bowie: Eno, Steve Reich,
John Cage.
Anyway, one has heard grander – and god knows louder - sound installations than the sound at South of Sunset. Basinski’s music was more than minimalist, being played quietly on distinctly low-fi reel to reel tape recorder, but somehow the extreme modesty of the event was part of its charm.
Anyway, one has heard grander – and god knows louder - sound installations than the sound at South of Sunset. Basinski’s music was more than minimalist, being played quietly on distinctly low-fi reel to reel tape recorder, but somehow the extreme modesty of the event was part of its charm.
West Temple is a bit bleak, a bit rough at
the edges, but hardly the meanest of streets, and after the gallery I was
wandering, taking the occasional photograph, including this one:
As I took the picture, a tough-looking Hsipanic
guy who was out washing his car in the street yelled at me “Hey, why are you
taking a picture?” And I said, calmly, “Because
I like the mural.” And he said, not much
less aggressively, “Who are you taking the picture for?” And I said, “For me.” This, rather unexpectedly, seemed to satisfy
him, though it left me thinking there must be some story there I didn’t know about. Was the guy simply fed up with hipsters photographing
his neighborhood, or did he think perhaps I was a man from the city, come to inspect
and maybe order the painting over of his mural? I have no idea. But when this was over, a much older, very benign-looking
Hispanic guy who’d witness the exchange, he to me in a very friendly way, “Yes,
it’s a great mural, isn’t it?”
And
I agreed that it was, though I think maybe I like this one better. I think it’s the juxtaposition of the Virgin
Mary and the Bud Light ad.
In fact I can't even tell you the title of the installed Basinksi piece. It wasn't this one, but this one's good too.
