Who the F*ck was David Jones ?

The change of name is significant.

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Foreshadowing has never met such a friend. Perhaps Jones himself never saw it coming. Or maybe he / she did. An alter name to match the alter ego. Legend says a Monkee was the reason. Legends are made from legends.

Undressing a style of music, tossing trends aside for a trendy statement never to be forgotten in anyone’s lifetime. Anyone, anyone, anyone that witnessed any of his musical / dramatic and reality characters. The forefather of reality shows with a question mark hanging over the reality. A question mark punctuating each and every questionable performance.

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 Others dressed the part of ambiguity.  They sported cloaks of ambiguity. Others walked through drapes of ambiguity as they spoke with ambiguity through the shadows of  ambiguity. Others sang songs with the gayness of Porter and the conviction of Sinatra. David Bowie combined them into one. For once. For all.

Hound Dogs were understood. Yellow Submarines were filed under water. Surfin’ was cool. Red doors painted black, however morose – understood as a repainted mood. Life on Mars? Say what?

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Chuck Berry played guitar. John Lennon played guitar. Jimi Hendrix played guitar. Ziggy played guitar yet somehow Ziggy matters in the literary world. A descendant of Jones. The Grandfather of Offspring. Ziggy played guitar and nobody wondered how well. Ziggy played guitar and everybody wondered where?

Within the singer, within the songwriter – within the actor. Ziggy played guitar.

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Curiosity over the curious. Craftiness over craft yet the craft on top disguised as a half dressed cherry on a half eaten sundae. Sunday morning melancholia mixed with magnetic beats from a Friday filled with flashes of fetishes. Places, names and things foreign to all yet familiar to David Bowie. Introduced as quickly as they leave and a slowly as they came.

Disguised as himself through glasses of different shades. Transcending time and altering minutes. Slapping the moment with innocent hands with permanent scars the remnants of stitched and roughened gloves.

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Tender words chilled with gut wrenching ice cold stares. A priest and a devil. A flower and a weed. The duality of souls in a four sided ring. Scratching the surface of the inner self  and providing ointment on the skins of  the suffering. Battling the world within it’s own smoke and mirror battlefield. Displaying the world as a smoke – filled mirror of horror.

On the streets or in a bank, a diagnosis of mental illness by the mentally ill. The artiste painting the canvas among the blackened stills of time gone by. Of time to come. Of songs to come.

Rest in peaceful pieces and fly among us with occasional whispers into our ears deafened by music. Rest in peaceful pieces Mr. David Jones.

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Listen below to a few Bowie Tracks and stay tuned for an interview with someone who was influenced by Bowie and in turn highly influential within the Montreal music scene.

 

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