One of my favorite stories involves David Bowie having gum spit in his hair, at a concert, by my friend, at my own behest, right before walking out of the show, as nigh twenty years ago. I often tell the story for a rise out of people or to embarrass my best friend from high school, though we haven't talked in seven or so years, something about time and distance which drags you apart, but sadly, that is not the story I am here to tell.
One of my bedrock principles was that I didn't listen to David Bowie. Almost as if not listening to his music is a vindication of an act of teenage antics. Of course, listening to David Bowie will not change the act, nor the value of the story. In fact, my friend who spit gum in his hair, ended up being a big fan of David Bowie and dated someone who worshipped him. Leaving him quite embarrassed as I told the tale to his girlfriend at the time with great relish and flair and her feeling quite irate, as he never admitted his sordid deed prior.
So, as I read Morrissey's autobiography, which is altogether an entirely different story, I realize that David Bowie is supposed to be an influence of many musicians that I like. So gradually, I am forcing myself to listen to David Bowie. I'm still not convinced I like his music and am fairly certain I don't care for his later work at all, but think there is something here. If I could go back in time, would I stop my younger self from encouraging this "assault" against this great musician< of course not, the story is better than everything. Even if he became my idol, tearing down your idols is always superior to doing nothing. Nonetheless, at some point, David Bowie cursed at me in some fashion for making him perform an entire set with gum in his hair.