Welcome To The Dschungel

Back in the early Seventies, I had an unquenched fascination for popular music. David Bowie, in particular seemed to be a flame-haired lightning catcher, promising to initiate us young people into some cosmic dimension. I used to read his sleevenotes, looking for arcane clues. In particular, there was an instruction on the 'Ziggy Stardust' back cover: "To be played at maximum volume". Myself and my mates figured that in the apparently silent gaps between songs, there were half-hidden instructions about what Ziggy really "meant". So we played the record at murderous levels and tried to hear those magical commands. One guy even claimed that he'd "got it" and just grinned stupidly when we quizzed him about it.

Forty years on and the quest continues. Broadsheet newspapers with sensible agenda are putting Bowie on the front cover and are musing about the lyrical content of 'Where Are We Now' and the significance of Potzdamer Platz, the Dschungel nightclub and Bose Brucke. Likewise with the video, which has already provoked a parody version, with Harry Hill's face superimposed over that of the enigmatic Jacqueline Humphries. There's already an arch cover version by Momus, a long-standing Dave-watcher. Isn't that tremendous? Would we ever find such intrigue with will.i.am, Taylor Swift or the endlessly pouting Rihanna?

The return of a decent Bowie song has also raised some proper music writing again. Do a search on responses from Chris Roberts, Jim Shelley and even Tony Parsons. Intellects have been roused. The singles chart is again worthy of comment. Don't be swayed by the contrarians and the grandstanding bloggers who try to provoke with drab opinions. Good people, Bowie is back among us and the papers want to know whose shirts he wears.