Arquivo da tag: david bowie

por essas e outras (ou “25 favoritos Dele”)…

márcia mandou pra gente esta matéria de 2013 onde bowie seleciona vinte e cinco discos favoritos “que podem mudar sua reputação”. o empolgante – no meu caso – é testemunhar as presenças de linton kwesi johnson, robert wyatt, daevid allen, the fugs e incredible string band. como deu uma creca na formatação do texto/imagens, vale muito clicar AQUI para checar a lista completa… imperdível!

Confessions of a Vinyl Junkie

By David Bowie

Vanity Fair, November 2013

From his collection of 2,500 vinyl LPs, the rock star has selected his greatest discoveries, and some record-buying memories as well.

There is really no way to do a list of my favorite albums with any rationality. I do only have about 2,500 vinyls. There is a possibility there. I’ll look through the albums and pull together a list of those I have re-bought or am in the process of re-buying on CD. I have little time, and there are just too many to sort through. So, I’ll keep pulling stuff out blindly, and if it’s too obvious (Sgt. Pepper, Nirvana) I’ll put it back again till I find something more interesting. A lot of the rock stuff I have is the same as everyone else’s, and I have so many blues and R&B albums that it would topple over into trainspotter world if I went that route.

O.K., no rules then. I’ll just make ’em up as I go along. I’d say half of this list below is now on my CD racks, but many are finding impossible to trace. The John Lee Hooker album, for instance, or The Red Flower of Tachai Blossoms Everywhere. I have done the only thing possible and burned them to CD myself, reduced the cover art down to size, and made reasonable simulacrums of the originals.

If you can possibly get your hands on any of these, I guarantee you evenings of listening pleasure, and you will encourage a new high-minded circle of friends, although one or two choices will lead some of your old pals to think you completely barmy. So, without chronology, genre, or reason, herewith, in no particular order, 25 albums that could change your reputation.



(1970, Douglas)

One of the fundamental building blocks of rap. All the essential “griot” narrative skills, splintered with anger here, produce one of the most political vinyls to ever crack the Billboard chart. While talking rap (what?), I can piggyback this great treat with the 1974 compilation The Revolution Will Not Be Televised (Flying Dutchman), which pulls together the best of the formidable Gil Scott-Heron works.



(1982, Rough Trade)

Not an album, a 12-inch single. A vinyl nonetheless. A well-thought-through and relentlessly affecting song co-written by Elvis Costello, and Wyatt’s interpretation is the definitive. Heartbreaking—reduces strong men to blubbering girlies.



(1959, Specialty)

Unusually subdued, these performances were recorded by Richard at his first Specialty sessions, mostly in 1955. It was sold to me discount by Jane Greene. More of her later.



(1978, ECM)

Bought in New York. Balinese gamelan music cross-dressing as Minimalism. Saw this performed live in downtown New York in the late 70s. All white shirts and black trousers. Having just finished a tour in white shirt and black trousers, I immediately recognized Reich’s huge talent and great taste. The music (and the gymnastics involved in executing Reich’s tag-team approach to shift work) floored me. Astonishing.



(1967, Verve)

Brought back from New York by a former manager of mine, Ken Pitt. Pitt had done some kind of work as a P.R. man that had brought him into contact with the Factory. Warhol had given him this coverless test pressing (I still have it, no label, just a small sticker with Warhol’s name on it) and said, “You like weird stuff—see what you think of this.” What I “thought of this” was that here was the best band in the world. In December of that year, my band Buzz broke up, but not without my demanding we play “I’m Waiting for the Man” as one of the encore songs at our last gig. Amusingly, not only was I to cover Velvet’s song before anyone else in the world, I actually did it before the album came out. Now that’s the essence of Mod.

12bowies (ou 12vejas)…


vamos olhar a situation, “simplesmente”, como um fato jornalístico? não aconteceu nada na última semana que pudesse desbancar a subida de bowie, procede? não houve um mega atentado terrorista internacional, nenhum político de peso foi enjaulado, o neymar não comprou o novo modelo da ferrari e, sequer, o wesley “safadão” começou romance com a ana maria braga (é?). portanto, sem nenhuma dúvida, a veja galgou parâmetros jornalísticos e meteu na praça DOZE capas diferentes mostrando bowie em doze momentos diferentes de sua passagem pelo planetinha em matéria assinada por sérgio martins e  marcelo marthe.

a banca aqui da esquina recebeu metade da carga e deixou neguinho da pastelaria doidaralhaço. uns compraram/roubaram/trocaram as favoritas… outros levaram a meia dúzia dizendo que iriam catar as outras pra fechar a tiragem… PQParille.

o fato é que a veja teve o peito que, por exemplo, faltou ao globo para “transgredir” e assumir decentemente, junto aos leitores, a gigantesca perda.

cada capa vem acompanhada por uma frase importante na carreira de bowie. sem piscar, catei…



David Bowie ‘cremated without ceremony in New York’

David Bowie, who died on Sunday, insisted that he did not want a funeral and has reportedly already been cremated

David Bowie has been cremated in New York without any of his family or friends present, according to reports in the US. Bowie, who died on Sunday aged 69, had kept his 18-month cancer battle a secret. And a friend of the singer in New York – where Bowie had lived for the past 22 years – told The Mirror on Wednesday that his cremation had already been carried out.

Bowie reportedly told his loved ones he wanted to “go without any fuss” and not have a funeral service or public memorial.

“There is no public or private service or a public memorial. There is nothing,” a source told the paper.

Another source said: “In many respects you don’t need a memorial or service to remember David by – you have his music instead.

“He would have wanted to just disappear with no fuss, no big show, no fanfare. This would totally be his style.”

The singer may have had what is known as a “direct cremation”, described on the New York State’s health department website as “the disposition of human remains by cremation without a formal viewing, visitation, or ceremony”.

The deceased is generally collected from the place of death and transferred to the crematory. Once the required paperwork is done, they are then cremated.

as letrinhas de suzanne…


suzanne moore (the guardian)

My David Bowie is not dead. Nor ever can be. What he gave to me is for ever mine because he formed me. I have absolute clarity about that, I need no lamentations from politicians or TV presenters with their dim memories of his “hits”. I need no ranking of whether he was up there with Dylan or Lennon because I just know that is a dumb question. I simply know. He was my lodestar: in the years when I was trying to become myself, he showed me the endless possibilities. He extended out into the new spaces, metaphorically and physically. That man could move.

Those possibilities never end though of course he knew they would. He has gone “just like that bluebird” as he soars and sings on his latest single Lazarus. Well he knew things we didn’t, as he had all his life. He departs with Blackstar which I found terrifying without knowing why. What can I do now but listen and weep?

Or find your own Bowie. You will have it somewhere. That first play of Ziggy. That time you put food colouring in your hair. The night when lust became utterly confused with a different kind of longing. A longing to be in one of the worlds he told us about.

It is still with me. Taking Station to Station around to a mate’s flat. He had to hear it. We treated these albums as religious artefacts. We worked hard studying the sleeve notes. We wanted to know some of what Bowie knew. He was our university. He was the one who could open up the world.

From a small town and what my teachers called “a broken home” Bowie would guide us. We could give up trying to be normal now that we entrusted ourselves to him. He sang of space and drugs and floating above the world. He could be so tender (Letter to Hermione) and then swagger like a brute. He was tapped right into something mystical that we recognised but could not grasp as we were too busy preening and dancing and wanting.

But all the time he was passing on secret knowledge. I would learn about Burroughs, Kemp, Crowley, Berlin, SakamotoRoeg and so many others through him. I would have my first proper boyfriend because of him – working-class lads started wearing eyeliner and nail varnish because he did, which made them vaguely interesting.

This was a time when tabloid headlines screamed “gender bender” though I had never even heard the word gender before. My mum and grandad ruined Top of the Pops by staging shouting matches when he appeared “Is it a man or a woman?” How could they be so stupid? How did they not get it? I have not changed my mind since then about that actually.

Because we knew what he was. There was never a doubt. He deconstructed fame before anyone had ever really come to grips with the concept. He was thinking, not only dancing. Pulling us through the genres on a diet of cocaine and milk. He looked like an alien. But the funk man, the funk, it was so real.

When I sat next to him in some dark basement of a club in the early 80s in New York he did seem human. I pretended not to know who he was because I was just overwhelmed that he was an actual person. I did the same thing years later at a party. There he was, immaculate in the flesh, all I ever dreamed but still he belonged to my imagination. I did not want an actual conversation with him because I have always been having one. In human blokeish form he was charming but my love was pure.

Only last week I was obsessively playing Hunky Dory because someone on the internet annoyed me by ranking the tracks in order of greatness. And they got it wrong. This incensed me because I care.

I never grew out of Bowie. He was never past. Always present. And Blackstar? This most sublime of English artists hankering for the “evergreens” even at the end. Still dislocated. Still embodied in the music.

“Lay me place and bake me pie I’m starving for me gravy
Leave my shoes, and door unlocked I might just slip away.”

He has slipped away.

That door. He unlocked it. For me, for you. For us. He gave us everything. He gave us ideas, ideas above our station. All THE ideas and a specific one. Of life. The stellar idea that we can create ourselves whoever we are. He let us be more than we ever knew possible. There is nothing greater. Nothing.