Queen Bitch—Angie Bowie Strikes Again!
David Bowie—a man who, as they say, needs no introduction—has made a triumphant return to public life recently with the release of his 24th album, The Next Day. The man really is a legend in his own time; and for people like me growing up in the seventies his music was absolutely essential listening. Push the boundaries? For Bowie there weren’t any boundaries. He was a guy who not only had his finger on the pulse but always seemed to be that little bit ahead of everyone else. Every time you thought that you had the man figured out he would change direction and give you something totally different but just as satisfying.
His second album The Man Who Sold the World was as different to his debut Space Oddity, as his third one, Hunky Dory was to the one that preceded that. And so on; although it was with the brilliant Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars that he really arrived.
That one was the one we couldn’t stop talking and playing back then, but from Space Oddity right through Diamond Dogs I was always there early at the record store (well, my dad bought me the first couple) to see what wild stuff he was up to this time. After that I tapered off a bit as other interests came along. But I still remember the excitement of hearing the strange and beautiful Low. Or seeing him in concert for the first time (at the Glasgow Apollo if you want to know.) And then there was watching him on the big screen in Nicholas Roeg’s strange and enigmatic The Man Who Fell to Earth. Strange and enigmatic: that film could have been made for him.
Even as we learned of his sexual and drug excesses he still managed to remain mysterious; and to this day, even in his mid-sixties he still pretty much does. Whatever you thought of him, only a fool would have denied that he was and is a huge and unique talent.
So imagine my surprise when I learned that he wasn’t really all that gifted at all. No, it seems that he owes everything he was and became to some extraordinary female Svengali figure called Mary Angela Barnett.
What? You’ve never heard of her? That’s OK, neither had I. But Bowie owes it all to her. Apparently she was a seventies cover girl and model—well, they’re all models aren’t they?—and now is a writer and performer. She was Bowie’s muse who found him an unknown, pretty ordinary little songbird and through her indomitable will she transformed him into a major artist.
OK, enough of the sarcasm. Yes, the dreaded Angie Bowie has unsheathed the claws again, dipped into the little pot of vitriol that she habitually carries around with her and decided it’s time to sell the same old tired stories to the newspapers once more, whilst whining about how much he owes to her for everything.
Bitched, bothered, boring and bewildered ex-wives, don’t you just love them? Isn’t it great that they can just come out of the woodwork every now and then to drive another knife into you?
It must have been the happiest day of his life when he dug her nails out of his back and got on with his life. Weird, though; even though he was out of control when he married the sour old trout—obviously in a moment of altruistic madness that would have done Jesus Christ and Buddha credit—he then got his act together and has since lived a life of blissful harmony. All of it without her.
Angie Bowie—and yes, she has always kept the name of the man she seems to hate so much because who would know who she is without it?—always did come over as a mad old bag and the years haven’t softened her. Her son hasn’t spoken to her since he was a young boy, something that she’s remarkably off hand about. Now called Duncan Jones (as opposed to Zowie Bowie, wonder why he changed it), considering his unusual upbringing he has turned out quite normal and is the talented director of the films Moon and Source Code. On the evidence of her latest ramblings he’s done well to stay out of the way of the ghastly old wagon.
She turned out an utterly boring autobiography some years back. It was full of their drug-fuelled existence and their many sexual encounters and name checked everyone from Mick Jagger through Lou Reed to Iggy Pop. And yet with a cast like that it is still unreadable. If Angie used a ghost writer it must have been a bargain basement one. If you’re masochistic enough the book is called Backstage Passes: Life on the Wild Side with David Bowie. Yes, that’s right, she may hate him but she was still trading on his name. I[‘m sure you can find this out-of-print clunker on eBay, with some poor sap willing to pay you to take it off his hands.
All the guff that she is retreading now is exactly what we always knew about Bowie’s lifestyle back then. It didn’t matter to his fans then and it sure as hell doesn’t matter to us now. Angie Bowie is just a bitter, twisted and I would imagine insanely jealous woman. After all, her ex has now been happily married to the gorgeous model Iman for many years. And that is a lady with more beauty and class in one finger than Angie ever had in her whole body.
It’s great to see David Bowie back, none the worse for the heart attack that laid him low for so long and looking relaxed and healthy.
Angie, stop living in the past and get over yourself. We don’t like you and we never really did.
This has been a message from Charley Brady, hugely enjoying getting in touch with his inner Queen Bitch.