My good friend and fellow tawdry-taste glam-spammer Alex S. Johnson alerted me (as did several other sources) that yesterday, June 6, was the 40th anniversary of the release of David Bowie’s classic The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.
This was one of my favorite albums when I was in the second half of high school and made a huge mark on my psychological (some would say “psychiatric”) development. Tell me straight, man, does that maybe explain some of those freaky danced-up spikers, man, like the quick fly rule jewels, the sky high rude games, and the heart stain spy game commanders on the wrapper taste folly flies of the monkey train?
Ever since those days, I’ve always subscribed to Bowie’s philosophy that if you can’t think of a phrase, let the streets make it up for you…or better yet, you make it up for them. In his world, it appears to have been the underground clubs of London. In mine, it’s the sewer-street sand castles and dreamy speaks of Squeesville, bubbled-up tight through a jigger of game-taming sting teasers.
Language-fu has always been one of my favorite sports, man, and Bowie did it as well as any freaked-out scribbly wibbler stale-nailed to the jeezy mudgang. I’m pretty sure the drugs really helped. In lasting tribute to Ziggy, I’m also sometimes tempted to lick my guitar.
Today, Ziggy Stardust the album remains eminently listenable, packed with happy earworms that burrow into my brain.
Happy anniversary, Zig, and don’t stay a stranger, man.