Pop Between Realities, Home in Time for Tea 13 (The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars)
With thankful apologies to Chris O’Leary of Pushing Ahead of the Dame.
1. Five Years
Some say the end is near
Some say we’ll see armageddon soon
I certainly hope we will. – Tool, “Aenema”
The smart money, you have to realize, was not on reaching 1978. The question was just which of the myriad of ways we might kill ourselves would pull it off. Nuclear war? Ecological disaster? Social collapse into anarchy? Doomwatch, after all, made three seasons off of cataloging the myriad of ways humanist might slaughter itself.
So it’s no particular surprise that Bowie starts the album with a song of apocalypse. And a remarkably concrete song of apocalypse at that – wandering through the streets and observing the people responding to the news that the Earth has five years to live. But notably absent is any explanation of how this happened – of which disaster will befall us. All of them. None of them. In a world in which the end is an absolute certainty, the means are beside the point.
The result, as Bowie exposes, is the fetishization of disaster. The Atrocity Exhibition writ large. The news isn’t that we have five years to live. It’s that we have only “five years left of crying.” The end is a welcome thing. This has always been the logic of Doctor Who – the appeal of looking at the monsters, of seeing the threat. The money shot of Inferno is that we finally get to see the world end in fire instead of just being teased. At last, armageddon stops blue balling us and gives us our payoff. The end of this growing agony and the cathartic release of knowing there is a genuine resolution. Finally, the finale. At its endpoint, Bowie’s song explodes from its initial yearning sorrow into a soaring football terrace song. A rousing sing-along chorus of “five years,” the end turned into the anthem it always was. You’ll Never Die Alone. You’re Going Home in a Nuclear Fireball. Come On You Daleks.
2. Soul Love
The spectacle is not a collection of images; it is a social relation between people that is mediated by images. – Guy Debord, Society of the Spectacle
In a world defined by its imminent apocalyptic finale, the blinding flash of the nuclear inferno becomes the light of a film projector, pressing nuclear shadows to the screen for us to watch. There is nothing but appearances in a pre-apocalyptic world. Bowie’s song begins with a mother kneeling before the grave of a heroic son “who gave his life to save the slogans that hover between the headstone and her eyes, for they penetrate her grieving.”
When the ultimate disaster porn spectacle has become the teleology of the world, there is nothing outside the gaudy glory of slogans. Love is nothing but an ideology, a product, another slogan. There is only idiot love, the love of love. But here again, there is a countermeasure to the bleak cynicism offered by this. The fact that love is empty, cold, a rote formal process.…