One of the consequences of the death of a totem figure is all the eloquent writing it unleashes in those left behind. Column inches capturing the alchemy of every Bowie there ever was continue to line up uniformly on the screen; like mourners taking off their caps to respectfully watch the hearse go by.
I am not one of those writers, but I’m glad I jokingly (if in all seriousness) suggested a moment’s silence at his passing at the end of a work meeting this morning. Sixty-somethings turned to thirty-somethings to compare shock and surprise. Forty-somethings joked with fifty-somethings that they’d never heard of him until a seventy-something interrupted the joke to point out the expanse of his legacy.
For a few minutes at least, they weren’t PSNI officers, or civil servants, or opposing sectoral soldiers, or silent minute-takers, but fans and admirers. Another reminder of the power of music in knocking down barriers and levelling the ground between us all.
David Bowie R.I.P.