Bowie Best Quotes

Make the best of every moment. We’re not evolving. We’re not going anywhere.

I rate Morrissey (Steven Patrick Morrissey) as one of the best lyricists in Britain. For me, he`s up there with Bryan Ferry.

To not be modest about it, you'll find that with only a couple of exceptions, most of the musicians that I've worked with have done their best work by far with me.

I have seen purer liquors, better segars, finer tobacco, truer guns and pistols, larger dirks and bowie knives, and prettier courtesans here in San Francisco than in any other place I have ever visited; and it is my unbiased opinion that California can and does furnish the best bad things that are available in America.

I have seen purer liquors, better seagars, finer tobacco, truer guns and pistols, larger dirks and bowie knives, and prettier courtezans here, than in any other place I have ever visited; and it is my unbiased opinion that California can and does furnish the best bad things that are obtainable in America.

Self-destructing – in rock, in public, in fact anywhere – is not good for the human spirit, not to mention the lungs, liver and kidneys. Artistically, it’s best approached the way David Bowie did it in the mid-1970s. His cocaine addiction turned him into a withered stick-insect figure of a man but also inspired the best music of his entire career. Then he sorted himself out and became the golden-haired survivor we know and love today.

Those who accuse these women of fraud in their image craft seem not to have heard of David Bowie's successful alter ego Ziggy Stardust or even Bob Dylan, the folksy creation of a genius named Robert Allen Zimmerman. There is a tradition of male artists taking on personae that are understood to be part of their art. It is as though there is so much genius within them that it must be split between these mortal men and the characters they create. Women who venture to do the same are ridiculed as fakers and try-hards.

Sick Boy : It's certainly a phenomenon in all walks of life. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : What do you mean? Sick Boy : Well, at one time, you've got it, and then you lose it, and it's gone forever. All walks of life: George Best, for example. Had it, lost it. Or David Bowie, or Lou Reed... Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : Some of his solo stuff's not bad. Sick Boy : No, it's not bad, but it's not great either. And in your heart you kind of know that although it sounds all right, it's actually just shite. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : So who else? Sick Boy : Charlie Nicholas, David Niven, Malcolm McLaren, Elvis Presley... Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : OK, OK, so what's the point you're trying to make? Sick Boy : All I'm trying to do is help you understand that The Name of The Rose is merely a blip on an otherwise uninterrupted downward trajectory. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : What about The Untouchables? Sick Boy : I don't rate that at all. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : Despite the Academy Award? Sick Boy : That means fuck all. Its a sympathy vote. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : Right. So we all get old and then we can't hack it anymore. Is that it? Sick Boy : Yeah. Mark "Rent-boy" Renton : That's your theory? Sick Boy : Yeah. Beautifully fucking illustrated.

There are, then, no easy answers to the questions raised by a thinker who may best be understood in performative terms. Their texts may be trying to provoke the reader to respond by, for example, saying something which the author does not actually believe. In that case, objecting to the argument merely means that one falls into the trap set by the text, in the way one looks silly by taking something seriously that is meant as a joke. One strategy is to accept that much of what is happening in Nietzsche's texts is indeed more performance than argument, but to look very carefully at the moments when performance gives way to assertion of a kind that cannot be construed as ironic or as merely performative. A further strategy is to keep in mind the ideological context of his writing. Although the Nietzsche of after the BT cannot be considered as a German nationalist, his elitism and his tendency to regard social issues as though they were biological issues - for example in relation to the idea that societies and cultures can become 'sick' - are very much part of reactionary thought in the second half of the nineteenth century. Such ideas fed into Nazism and other anti-democratic movements in the twentieth century, and are neither Nietzsche's creation, nor of any serious philosophical interest.

I may not be a competent judge, but this much I will say, that I have seen purer liquors, better segars, finer tobacco, truer guns and pistols, larger dirks and bowie knives, and prettier courtesans, here in San Francisco, than in any other place I have ever visited; and it is my unbiased opinion that California can and does furnish the best bad things that are attainable in America.

Duncan's best friend, a lean, full-blooded Arapaho answering to the name Benjamin Lonetree, knelt in the dirt above the bloody body of Woody McCune, the Circle D's foreman and Fiona's covert lover.  Benjamin was naked except for stained moccasins and a ragged loincloth which just about covered his privates. His long hair fell in black braids along sienna painted cheeks. He gripped Woody's shirt in one hand and a Bowie knife in the other. He looked up at Fiona and, grinning an evil grin, ran the blade across Woody's throat. The foreman fell to earth in a dusty cloud, his eyes surprised and terrified. Benjamin held his bright wet knife to the sky and howled an Arapaho war cry.

1973 was the year when the United Kingdom entered the European Economic Union, the year when Watergate helped us with a name for all future scandals, Carly Simon began the year at number one with ‘You’re So Vain’, John Tavener premiered his Variations on ‘Three Blind Mice’ for orchestra, the year when The Godfather won Best Picture Oscar, when the Bond film was Live and Let Die, when Perry Henzell’s film The Harder They Come, starring Jimmy Cliff, opened, when Sofia Gubaidulina’s Roses for piano and soprano premiered in Moscow, when David Bowie was Aladdin Sane, Lou Reed walked on the wild side and made up a ‘Berlin’, Slade were feeling the noize, Dobie Gray was drifting away, Bruce Springsteen was ‘Blinded by the Light’, Tom Waits was calling ‘Closing Time’, Bob Dylan was ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door’, Sly and the Family Stone were ‘Fresh’, Queen recorded their first radio session for John Peel, when Marvin Gaye sang ‘What’s Going On’ and Ann Peebles’s ‘I Can’t Stand the Rain’, when Morton Feldman’s Voices and Instruments II for three female voices, flute, two cellos and bass, Alfred Schnittke’s Suite in the Old Style for violin and piano and Iannis Xenakis’s Eridanos for brass and strings premiered, when Ian Carr’s Nucleus released two albums refining their tangy English survey of the current jazz-rock mind of Miles Davis, when Ornette Coleman started recording again after a five-year pause, making a field recording in Morocco with the Master Musicians of Joujouka, when Stevie Wonder reached No. 1 with ‘Superstition’ and ‘You Are the Sunshine of My Life’, when Free, Family and the Byrds played their last show, 10cc played their first, the Everly Brothers split up, Gram Parsons died, and DJ Kool Herc DJed his first block party for his sister’s birthday in the Bronx, New York, where he mixed instrumental sections of two copies of the same record using two turntables.

Mick had become uncertain, had started second-guessing his own talent—that seemed, ironically, to be at the root of the self-inflation. For many years through the ’60s, Mick was incredibly charming and humorous. He was natural. It was electrifying the way he could work those small spaces, as a singer and as a dancer; fascinating to watch and work with—the spins, the moves. He never thought about it. That performance was exciting without him appearing to do anything. And he’s still good, even though to my mind it’s dissipated on the big stages. That’s what people have wanted to see: spectacle. But it’s not necessarily what he’s best at. Somewhere, though, he got unnatural. He forgot how good he was in that small spot. He forgot his natural rhythm. I know he disagrees with me. What somebody else was doing was far more interesting to him than what he was doing. He even began to act as if he wanted to be someone else. Mick is quite competitive, and he started to get competitive about other bands. He watched what David Bowie was doing and wanted to do it. Bowie was a major, major attraction. Somebody had taken Mick on in the costume and bizarreness department. But the fact is, Mick could deliver ten times more than Bowie in just a T-shirt and a pair of jeans, singing “I’m a Man.” Why would you want to be anything else if you’re Mick Jagger? Is being the greatest entertainer in show business not enough? He forgot that it was he who was new, who created and set the trends in the first place, for years. It’s fascinating. I can’t figure it out. It’s almost as if Mick was aspiring to be Mick Jagger, chasing his own phantom. And getting design consultants to help him do it. No one taught him to dance, until he took dance lessons. Charlie and Ronnie and I quite often chuckle when we see Mick out there doing a move that we know some dance instructor just laid on him, instead of being himself. We know the minute he’s going plastic. Shit, Charlie and I have been watching that ass for forty-odd years; we know when the moneymaker’s shaking and when it’s being told what to do. Mick’s taken up singing lessons, but that may be to preserve his voice.

Morality was supreme because it joined male and female characteristics. Blending the best characteristics of both sexes and the 'opposite' races - the characteristics of intelligence and compassion - Comte claimed the legitimacy to act as the spokesperson for the collective being Humanity and to regenerate society. As a completely unified and moral person, he could create within society the solidarity necessary for progress. In a way, he was challenging the two androgynes who had captured the imagination of his contemporaries: Joan of Arc and George Sand. Comte appeared to heed the words of a feminist journal. La Voix des Femmes, which proclaimed in 1848 that 'Woman must ... emancipate man by making him a woman.

A tawdry realm of shifting, insecure employment and fleeting glimpses of high reward for little effort. A world where strings are pulled by complete cretins while those who work hard at the creative coalface are at the bottom of a steaming dunghill of vacuity, broken dreams, and empty promises.

The album is still a treasured possession and a source of pride that “not only was I to cover [a] Velvets’ song before anyone else in the world, I actually did it before the album came out. Now that’s the essence of mod.” In forthcoming years, David Bowie would become the world’s best-known champion of the Velvets, but in 1967, his attempts to assimilate its narco-deadpan thuggery resulted in some of his most ludicrous music.

Bowie’s five best albums came all in a five-year rush: Station to Station (1976), Low (1977), “Heroes” (1977), Lodger (1979), Scary Monsters (1980). What do these albums have in common? The rhythm section: Dennis Davis on drums, George Murray on bass, and Carlos Alomar on guitar.

But the best cover has to be D’Angelo, on his long-awaited 2012 comeback tour—within minutes of the first gig in Paris, the whole world was YouTubing his “Space Oddity” with our jaws hanging open. After all those years away, lost in his own personal tin can, D’Angelo came back to strum his acoustic guitar and work the hell out of “tell my wife I love her very much” line.

My particular favorite was the David Bowie–led masterpiece Labyrinth. I can say that it is without a doubt one of the best children’s films to come out of the 1980s, which is saying something as that particular decade was full of really dark, really twisted films aimed at children, and I was obsessed with each and every one. Upon reflection, that probably speaks to my current personality more than any other possible pop culture influence I had growing up.

Yet Bowie was just hitting his golden years, rushing out his five best albums from 1976 to 1980, the best five-album run of anyone in the seventies (or since): Station to Station, Low, “Heroes,” Lodger, and Scary Monsters. In this time span, he also made the two albums that brought back Iggy Pop from the dead—The Idiot, prized by Bowie freaks as a rare showcase for his eccentric lead guitar, and Lust for Life—and his finest live album, Stage, from the 1978 tour, absurdly turning the ambient instrumentals from Low and “Heroes” into arena rock. As he put it at the time, “I’m using myself as a canvas and trying to paint the truth of our time on it. The white face, the baggy pants—they’re Pierrot, the eternal clown putting across the great sadness of 1976.

brave face and be strong for Austin’s mother. She was the girlfriend, and if Carly could function normally, so could she. She didn’t deserve to be there, at least not as family, but she couldn’t exactly tell Carly why. The secret she kept weighed heavily on her, pushing down on her already-broken heart. It was her burden to bear and one she would take to the grave if she had to. The car door swung open, and Brooklyn caught the eyes of Bowie staring down at her. All her mind saw was Austin standing behind him. They had been inseparable, best friends almost until the end. She knew Bowie’s secrets, and he knew hers. His outstretched hand waited. It would make sense for him to escort her into the church, to sit by her, to be her shoulder to cry on. She had spent years doing that, confiding in him. But that was weeks ago. Life was different now. She ignored him and mustered up her own strength to climb out of the limo.

Alchemy is the name of this temple of images. Here a towering wall of video flashes glamorous vamps and alien androgynes over the heads of the crowd; the black cupid’s bow of Louise Brooks’ lips, the arch of David Bowie’s eyebrow, the Art Deco planes of Fritz Lang’s subversive female android. The demigods of the modern world, as glimpsed through shattered glass. She comes because she wants to believe in magic. Not the bunny-out-of-a-hat kind; the Alistair Crowley kind. This is a ritual.