Sounds of the City: the Parisian Playlist
The city of Paris decided to name one of its streets after David Bowie, whose illustrious career marked the landscape of modern music and pop culture in many ways that are still palpable after he died in 2016. When we take a look at other musicians honored with a street of their own in the French capital, it’s easy to see why this is a big deal. Almost all of them are European classical composers, with exceptions like George Gershwin. There’s Rossini, Bach, Schubert, and many others. There is nothing to sneeze at if you manage to sneak into their company, knowing how much criteria is invested in maintaining the image of the most prestigious city in the world. If cities were status symbols, Paris would be the Birkin bag.
Americans may have their Dream, but it can’t touch the magic The City of Lights exudes, even when it’s fake. This ultimate fake fact is the sum of parts accumulated by the media, art history, fashion, show business and mass tourism. It’s where street artists scraping together an income to pay for basic life supplies by portraying people are called bohemians. They arguably make more money than you think but hardly enough for a life enjoyed by those who usually sit in front of their easels in Montmartre. You could describe the center of Paris as the world’s largest museum gift shop. It’s not just about Mona Lisa or Edith Piaf and Coco Chanel. There’s Carrie Bradshaw and the insufferable Emily from the namesake show on Netflix.
There’s even a name for it: the Paris syndrome, where your expectations clash with the less appealing reality. I still remember the endless waiting line in front of the Notre Dame. Who could have known that it was the last time you see it in the original condition? It will be strange to see the new spire on top mimicking Viollet-Le-Duc’s masterpiece that made it one of the most famous cathedrals in the world. Paris is a magnet for artists who want to be a part of the city’s narrative. They include many icons of art, literature music and cinema. The cemetery Pere Lachaise is like a hall of fame, with the graves of Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf and Frederic Chopin. Instead of a place like this, he chose to have his ashes scattered in Bali. This is the core principle death and real estate are sharing: location, location, location.
David Bowie’s alter ego Ziggy Stardust had the same standout qualities like Spielberg’s E.T.: otherworldly impressive. Ziggy became an ever-present icon ever since. He was a creation for the future, though I can no longer tell what kind of future exactly that was supposed to be. Judging by our world today, it must be a place somewhere in outer space with Kubrick’s Dr. Floyd in the DJ booth of a cosmic drag show with party breakers from his own Clockwork Orange. Let’s hope this inspires other cities to do the same and make room on their map for 20th-century rock artists with important legacies. I propose Springsteen Street. Imagine a speaker playing Born to Run every time the traffic light hits green. Or Start Me Up on Jagger Street.
Bowie’s passing hit me harder than I expected. In a similar way like when news broke Michael Jackson had died so suddenly. You’re never prepared for the inevitable passing of role models that profoundly shaped your tastes and preferences as an important part of your identity that cuts much deeper than ethnic and confessional labels. I could imagine living without a passport, but a life without music would indeed be a life sentence. Blindness can feel like a blessing sometimes, but deafness is the curse of a very cruel kind. On the other hand, Beethoven allegedly kept composing after losing the power of hearing due to mathematics that’s connected to composing in some way and luckily, it seems to have worked for him.
In an age of shotgun marriages that have been a part of showbusiness as usual, David and Iman were an exception. A mostly drama-free couple whose relationship survived the tabloid firing squad, a real accomplishment compared to Hollywood standards. There’s more attention invested in the prenup than the marriage itself. The only thing selling more front pages than the lavish wedding is the ensuing bitter divorce. They cry into their pillows too, even if theirs are made of silk. The public gets to bask in a bit of envious schadenfreude with an enthusiastic wave of jazz hands. Bowie later lived in Swiss mansions of the Russian aristocracy and Mustique, the tax-lax tropical paradise for the bold and the beautiful.
The French capital isn’t the only city that played a role in his life. There was Berlin as well, where he shared a place with Iggy Pop in the late 1970s, trying to get off drugs and create music in the process. The apartment in the Hauptstrasse 155 now has landmark status and it’s open for visitors. In 1986, he did what must have been a once-in-a-lifetime gig with Eurythmics at the Reichstag and people from East Berlin perched on other side of the Wall watching in awe what was being denied to them purely due to the whims of politics. You can be a rockstar’s roommate but junkies are junkies no matter how skilled they are at earning money for a new shot of toxins. When they’re blessed with a unique talent, it’s an even bigger waste.
When you recall other famous junkies like Whitney or Amy Winehouse, he was the one who got away and survived all of it, dying of liver cancer in New York in 2016. It was two days after the release of what was to be his final album appropriately called Blackstar. To paraphrase Winehouse, the star of someone like him can never truly fade to black. He made a name for himself in 1980 with hits like Let’s Dance, which left the biggest impression on the public and led him on a path of success that occasionally tapped into movies too. Bowie played Andy Warhol in Julian Schnabel’s directorial debut Basquiat and Nikola Tesla in Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige. You can almost say he was a rather unremarkable departure instead of dissolving in a big puddle of alcohol like his peers.
Being David Bowie was likely both a burden and a blessing. Ziggy Stardust was the extraterrestrial, providing him with a colorful screen behind which he could hide his vulnerabilities and give us an unforgettable persona. The artist himself slowly matured into a gentleman who could certainly boast with his CV but made the impression of someone who would be roommates with Igor Stravinsky instead of a walking rockstar cliché. I’m sure it would result in an album but we should only be so lucky. However big his legacy may be, with extraordinary people, there’s always a reason to expect more. Let’s not wallow in gloom and sadness. Instead, follow his lead. When you feel like shedding a drop, pull yourself together and let’s dance. After all, the dead in medieval frescoes are dancing too.
