Last night, the Independent Film Channel played D.A. Pennebaker's concert film of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars, the final performance from David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust tour, the last time Bowie portrayed that particular character/persona. An event that's achieved mythic status over the years -- no humongo surprise, given the strength and durability of the album it supported and that many think it represented glam rock's high point. Not to mention the strange tales re: Bowie and his wife, Angela, from that sexually amorphous period in rock 'n' roll.
I had to watch the bugger, of course, and starting time found me propped up in front of the tube, its sound channeled through my stereo, ready for a glimpse of history (with a beat).
It had some moments, no question about it, some fine passages of Mick Ronson whaling away on his Gibson Les Paul while Bowie posed and warbled. Overall, though, I found myself feeling curiously underwhelmed. Not the reaction I expected, but there it is.
I'm not someone who's fixated on any one period of rock 'n' roll, or on any one type of music, come to that. There's just too much stuff to be explored, from all over the spectrum, from all over the map. I have an aversion to radio that limits itself (or bludgeons me with ads), so that I generally seek out college stations, where the programming tends to range about with some freedom. And the more free-form, the better. Classic rock? Top 40? Generally not for me. Given that, my lack of Yee-ha! re: the film didn't come as a big honking shock.
This morning, on impulse, I turned on NPR's Morning Edition in time to catch a story about Keith Moon, today being the 25th anniversary of the day he shuffled off this mortal clownshow. It unearthed some vivid, potent memories which have drifted through my thoughts in the hours since. Memories of a younger me, far too young to go into New York City and see a concert on my own, or at least far too young to get the parental okay for that kind of escapade. Which didn't stop me from sneaking out of the house, grabbing a train into Manhattan, finding my way to the Village Theater (soon after acquired by Bill Graham, renamed The Fillmore East), worming my way down to the area in front of the stage where I then remained (sure that someone would realize how young I actually was and toss me out), all the way through a wild Sunday afternoon concert by an arrogant bunch called The Who, touring in support of their Happy Jack album. A sharp, flailing, snotty, self-confident performance, making an impression that lasted for years, until Moon OD'd his way out of here.
With his exit, it felt to me like the bloom was off the Who's rose. Their chemistry felt off in a disturbing way, my attention drifted other places. I never picked up their subsequent releases, still haven't heard those discs. Never saw them in concert again. That is, until they refocused in the mid-90s, with Zak Starkey plugged into the gaping hole left by Moon's demise, and toured a fine edition of Quadrophenia. Sophisticated, explosive, with peaks that lifted me every bit as high (when I saw it in the Worcester, Mass. Centrum, 11/97) as that Sunday afternoon concert in The Village Theater.
That's where some of my thoughts have been today. Experiences and people, how they come and go, how some remain vivid despite the passage of days, months, years, while others fade or lose their punch.
All this through some bleariness that hasn't lifted despite food and espresso, the product of getting to sleep late, waking up at 5 a.m., sleeping essentially not at all after that. Most of the day's been spent either in the kitchen or in front of computer, the hours have slipped by at a deceptively supersonic pace. A Sunday that began shrouded in fog gave way to warm hours of brilliant September sunlight. Clouds have since moved in, it's now gray, cooler, more sober. As they say here in New England: Don't like the weather? Wait ten minutes.
In case you've wondered, there have been no bearish compost raids the last couple of nights. [See entry of 9/5.] I suspect the thrill wore off the second night when the returning marauder finished off the few scraps of bread left in the bin. Either that or hunting season has sent him/her into hiding. (Or killed him/her off.) I continue to wire down the bin cover come nighttime, just in case. Just to see what happens should the big, hairy bugger return to see if anything tasty's been tossed on the heap.
rws 5:02 PM [+]