Near the start of Moonage Daydream, a new David Bowie documentary that is generously proportioned to the point of overkill, the director Brett Morgen – who had millions of audio and visual items put at his disposal by the singer’s estate – cuts to a 1970s schoolgirl sobbing after failing to meet her idol. “He’s smashing!” she splutters through a veil of snot and tears.
Well, he was, wasn’t he? Morgen has said that he couldn’t recall whether puberty or Bowie came first in his life, and I can identify with that. As a teenager in the 1980s, I had his albums on constant wheezing rotation on my Walkman. In the 1990s, I saw him play live on four occasions, three of those in the space of a week. A decade ago, I even wrote to his PR to ask whether Bowie might agree to an interview with this magazine solely to discuss his acting. I still reread the reply sometimes: “I will certainly make David aware of the kind invitation but…” Never mind the “but” – David Bowie was aware of my email!
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