Bowie

Bowie meets Monroe

In our house we’ve been bowled over by the advent of the new Bowie album.  Perran has been a fan for several years now, ahead of the current rush of adulation.  My brother was also a Bowie fan, so the music that permeates our home now is the same that vibrated through my bedroom wall when I was Perran’s age. 
The difference is that our music was very foreign to my parents.  It was difficult for them to relate to it.  That gap between us and our parents was useful when we wished to feel pained and alienated.  It also meant that rebellion could be achieved simply and harmlessly by supporting The Sex Pistols or Motorhead. (Perhaps not quite harmlessly – I still have hearing loss.)

“Is there a kind of music that belongs only to your generation?”

“Not really,” says Perran, “Not many styles you didn’t have.”

Carenza adds, “But a lot of really good female singers: Adele, Amy Winehouse, Florence, Lily Allen.”

A good crop – true, but hardly a revolution.

Perhaps my grandchildren will find some new paradigm for music – a sound previous generations have never heard before and cannot comprehend.  I shall be puzzled and disapproving, and they will revel in being misunderstood.  I can’t wait.