A NONDESCRIPT bloke walks the streets of Manhattan. His clothes casual, his face and eyes obscured by flat cap and sunglasses.
But more observant members of the public might just recognise this understated figure as one of Britain’s biggest ever pop icons.
David Bowie, once one of the most recognisable of all big-stage performers, has turned his back on the limelight for life as a comparative recluse.
And good for him!
I’ve always had a respect for Bowie. His music has originality and integrity and he has always done his own thing rather than slavishly follow the clock of fashion.
Which includes not going on forever, long after the best performance years are behind you but when there is still a public demand for you to continue (rather than calling it a day because you were a one-hit wonder!)
Mind you, when people are paying hundreds of pounds a head for this year’s Rolling Stones concerts you can’t really fault some wrinkly rockers for hanging on in there.
No, David Bowie has earned his corn, he has carved his niche in popular musical history and is now perfectly entitled to enjoy a quiet retirement just like the rest of us, although this is no doubt to the great chagrin of his fans.