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I saw this at the bookstore today, and it was almost enough cause for me to break my personal ban on buying new books. I still my circumvent this by buying it for my wife, who is a much more "intense" fan of David Bowie than I am, referring to this cover shot as being of "the sexy David Bowie." Oddly, there have been quite a few women in my life, whose first introduction to Bowie came through the movie Labrynth, and share this opinion. In fact, as far back as high school, a former flame of mine referred to Bowie's presence in the film as "sexy, before you even knew what sex was."How can you deny that piercing gaze?
I read Marc Spitz' previous book, We Got The Neutron Bomb: The Untold Story of L.A. Punk, and found it alright, so perhaps Spitz will be in his element here, too.
Besides, after my whole Bowie or Bust Experience back in the fall, it's safe to admit that this will eventually find it's way into my hands.
In thinking about what such a book might include, my wife and I initially wondered if it might include the exact moment that Bowie sold his soul. But then we decided that that was unfair. There was no singular moment in which Bowie sold his soul. Instead, there were moments when he sold it, but then equal periods when he appeared to barter his soul back. It gave me the idea for a character in a story, a kind of aging artist languishing alone in his mansion without a soul. It wasn't so much that this character had sold his soul, but rather through some sort of artistic alchemy had fused elements of his soul into a few of the records that he made, as if he had been diminished with every creative act, so that in order for him to feel or to experience any sort of emotional memory required the playing or presence of those albums.
It's an intriguing premise, a kind of reverse Dorian Grey meets Voldemort's horcruxes that might have spot in one of the many, as yet, unrealized projects in my head.
