Posts Tagged ‘david bowie’

Flight of the Conchords: Bowie2Bowie

June 7, 2012

 


 

Jemaine Stardust

In honor of the 40th anniversary of the 40th anniversary of the release of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars, witness Brett’s “frEAKy dREAm” from the Flight of the Conchords episode “Bowie’s In Space.” That’s some New Zealand comedy so good that it almost killed me when I first saw it.

Do they really like Bowie down under, man?

Where better?

In addition to Bret’s freaky dream, don’t miss the brilliant “Bowie’s in Space/Bowie2Bowie” medley from the same episode.

 

 

Bowie2Bowie

A few choice lyrics:

Isn’t it cold out in space, Bowie?

Do you want to borrow my jumper, Bowie?

Does the space cold make your nipples go pointy, Bowie?

Do you use your pointy nipples as telescopic antennae to transmit data back to Earth?

Bet you do, you freaky old bastard you

Hey Bowie, do you have one really funky sequined space suit?

Or do you have several ch-changes?

Do you smoke grass out in space, Bowie?

Or do they smoke Astroturf?

 

 

 

Forty Years On, Man: The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars

June 7, 2012

My good friend and fellow tawdry-taste glam-spammer Alex S. Johnson alerted me (as did several other sources) that yesterday, June 6, was the 40th anniversary of the release of David Bowie’s classic The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars.

This was one of my favorite albums when I was in the second half of high school and made a huge mark on my psychological (some would say “psychiatric”) development. Tell me straight, man, does that maybe explain some of those freaky danced-up spikers, man, like the quick fly rule jewels, the sky high rude games, and the heart stain spy game commanders on the wrapper taste folly flies of the monkey train?

Ever since those days, I’ve always subscribed to Bowie’s philosophy that if you can’t think of a phrase, let the streets make it up for you…or better yet, you make it up for them. In his world, it appears to have been the underground clubs of London. In mine, it’s the sewer-street sand castles and dreamy speaks of Squeesville, bubbled-up tight through a jigger of game-taming sting teasers.

Language-fu has always been one of my favorite sports, man, and Bowie did it as well as any freaked-out scribbly wibbler stale-nailed to the jeezy mudgang. I’m pretty sure the drugs really helped. In lasting tribute to Ziggy, I’m also sometimes tempted to lick my guitar.

Today, Ziggy Stardust the album remains eminently listenable, packed with happy earworms that burrow into my brain.

Happy anniversary, Zig, and don’t stay a stranger, man.