David Bowie dies

I had the privilege of meeting David Bowie back in ’94, as a kid visiting London for the first time. My parents and I were visiting the National Gallery, when they came across a slim, smart, and enigmatic stranger. They could barely contain their awe, as there he was -  Ziggy, Aladdin, and The Thin White Duke all rolled into one - sipping a coffee and checking out Monet’s Water Lilies .

    He was warm and approachable, with the true grace of a natural star, and the generosity of a legend who still had his feet on the ground. He politely enquired how our trip to London was going, in that warm, interested way of a family friend (and that voice, full of history and power). He signed an autograph, wished my parents well on their trip, and he was gone. Those few minutes of his day meant the world to my parents, who came of age to ‘Changes’ filling the smoke-filled teenage discos of 1970’s rural Ireland.

    As a hyperactive 10 year old, he was just one of my parents’ strange friends, delaying my pursuit of ice cream and pigeons in Trafalgar Square. If only I could have met him again, as an adult, and a fan, I’d tell him thanks. Thanks for the glorious sound and vision of nearly 50 years of pushing boundaries, and for a quick chat with some fans in a cramped gallery in London all those years ago.