I know. Outside of Theresa May and Donald Sodding Trump, David Bowie is probably the most written about person I could have chosen to blog on at this point in time. But he is a hero. And so much more.
To a child of the seventies, this strange and scary creature would habitually re-appear on music television programmes, each time looking somehow even more other-worldly than the last. My most vivid memory is the 'Boys Keep Swinging' video where the three female backing singers turn out to be David himself. Jaw-dropping stuff to a ten year old!
And so it was that I bought the 'Scary Monsters' album in 1980. Didn't get it at first but found myself coming back to investigate those darker corners and rougher edges on a daily basis. And this, of course, is the sign of both a great album and artist.
From here I was quickly captivated. My reward was the whole of Bowie's golden era just waiting to be discovered on vinyl records. I stopped being scared and started to adore the elegant quirks that fed into Bowie the chameleon. And like many I got so used to the idea of David Bowie that I started to take him for granted. When he died last year it seemed so awfully sudden, like the snatching away of a close family member. There had been no time for any of us to re-appreciate the man the way we would have done in younger years when heroes were so important. But when Bowie passed we were all left floundering in the realisation that a true genius had pased-and there was absolutely nothing we could do about it except celebrate him by revisiting the music. Often.
And this, of course, is what elevates a great artist to a hero.