… About The Way We Love…

I was looking for a YouTube video of Station to Station, since that line, the hook, has been running through my head all day, a bizarre sort of calming refrain among the other random thoughts. I found several, of course, but also came across the Dinah Shore interview from 1976. It’s legendary, I know, because I’ve heard of it, although never watched it until now.

What’s interesting to me is not the sheer oddness of the pairing — or pairings, as Henry Winkler and another woman casually smoking a cigarette join David and Dinah on the couch — or the again-seen realization of how pale and cold Bowie was at this time (he looks like, if you grasped his hand, it would be ice-like, since he seems he had no drops at all of blood pumping through his veins). It’s the very interesting treatise Bowie gives on love, starting at 5:58 or so.

He makes the distinction between being “in love” and “loving” and how at one time a particular object of his love became his obsession. It doesn’t really matter who (Marc Bolan? Hermione what’s-her-face?). And then about wanting to get that love of God, or loving God being the ultimate, or… I can’t remember exactly what he said but it made perfect sense to me, just now, when I watched it. What’s interesting is the lyrics of The Informer, off The Next Day Extra:

I’ve got major questions
About the Lord above
About Satan below
About the way we love

And I’ve got not a lot to say here. But I like this question, this analysis. About the progression from human to spiritual love, and whether they can co-exist; and whether one is really just a form of another or whether they are aspects of the same thing.

(It’s too deep for this blog. Save for another place and time).

On another Bowie topic…

I realized that, despite what I’ve written before, I would totally be into a new Bowie show. Who wouldn’t be? And the real nightmare would be not that he never does a show again — but he does do one, but unannounced: as a “surprise,” before any of us who would love to go had the chance to get tickets.

That would be awful. In the end, I suppose Bowie himself really is a commodity, not just his music, not just the old recycled interview clips and images (and I’m sorry about that. I wish it wasn’t true.).