“The Church of Man, love, is such a holy place to be,” sung
the boy David when he was on a very different planet to the rest of us mere earth-bound
mortals. The “David Bowie Is Inside” exhibition currently running at the
V&A in London has at its physical and spiritual heart an enormous shrine to
the Starman himself, never mind the supposed holiness of the masses.
Vast screens beam down to the worshippers projections from
the astral plane of mega rock stardom as David struts his stuff in a variety of
legendary and not so legendary live performances. Frankly, I was happy to be
one the massed ranks of the faithful, making obeisance to a secular God who not
only hasn’t failed but actually seems to have more power with every new rubbing
of his relics.
Throughout the exhibition
there is an enormity of wardrobe function and malfunction reverently on
display, encased in protective glass, thereby lending them all an air of holy object.
The most fascinating section of the loosely themed displays for me was
(naturally) the Berlin period. Covering arguably four albums but usually
obsessed about as just two – Low and Heroes – this era fascinates me more than
the cartoon spaceman that is the behemoth called Ziggy. “Berlin” is like a kind
of side altar at the Holy Sepulchre, not the focal point for most of the
devotees, but that special space where you can cross yourself semi privately and
be grateful that you at least got close to the main act.
Speaking of bits of the true cross, the funniest item in the
whole exhibition for me was a discarded tissue stained with lipstick. This, a
printed card factitiously informed us, was used by David in 1975 during his
Young Americans tour. I recall a relative keeping a similar cast-off from Anita
Dobson’s handbag outside a London theatre. Of course I would have done the
same; maybe not Anita’s though.
Exit stage right for the most important item in the V&A
catalogue: The Gift Shop. This was nearly as popular as the central video
shrine. £280 for a reprint of Aladdin Sane on card encased in cellophane
anyone? I bought myself a fridge magnet of Bowie’s brogues and exited. I had
been, to my surprise, uplifted, entertained, and, less surprisingly, reminded
of his greatness. Not much had been displayed inside relating to David’s latest
incarnation, The Next Day, nor that much about his often unfairly maligned 1980s
product (the album Let’s Dance is allowed to sneak in as a good quality
dalliance signposting supposed spiritual wastelands to come).
Quibbles aside, and plenty
can be made, this was actually a good value bit of sound and vision that gave
this middle aged thin white dude plenty to still get thrilled about.
