"In the event that this fantastic voyage should turn to erosion" -- On the Eternally Extraordinary David Bowie

David Bowie, Rosemont Theater, January 2004. Photo Credit unknown.

David Bowie just seemed like the coolest guy.

I don't mean because he was a legendary rock star, whose musical brilliance ran far deeper than I initially, or even long, knew--as I wrote about in a tribute for his 64th birthday (and reposted on his 65th).

And though my regard for his ceaseless and visionary creativity--as documented in the David Bowie Is exhibit I saw in both 2013 and 2014 and reviewed here--knows no bounds, and was reiterated just last Friday on his 69th birthday, when he released a brilliant new album, Blackstar, only 2 days before he would succumb to cancer, which means he devoted his dying days to new artistic life, this isn't really what I'm referencing.

Sure, Bowie fused art and theater and fashion and visual imagery and alternative personas into popular music like no one before him, and his shape-shifting personas of Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, the Thin White Duke and more made it cool to appreciate, admire, accept and embrace weirdness and outlandishness and gayness and androgyny and bisexuality and theatricality and alienation and misfits and Muppets and interracial marriage and restlessness and uncertainty and reinvention and searching for one's true self, perhaps behind disguises.

Not only was he one of my favorite musical artists of all-time--and second favorite solo act behind just Bruce Springsteen--but he acted on Broadway and in movies, bridging multiple mediums like few ever have. And forever inspired by his high school art teacher, who happened to be Peter Frampton's father, Bowie oversaw every aspect of his multifaceted presence, from concert stage designs & fashions to album covers to music videos, including his staggering way of saying goodbye, "Lazarus,"  released just last Thursday.

Somehow this immortal artist was able to forestall his death--said to have come after 18 months of bravely battling cancer, though other ill health rumors have existed with Bowie living largely outside the limelight for nearly 10 years--until he could foretell it in a new song & video, have his first official theatrical creation (also titled Lazarus) open off-Broadway and celebrate his 69th birthday with the release of a rather adventurous, highly acclaimed new album.

Long wondering "How and where is Bowie?" after a 2004 heart attack curtailed his touring career, I was ecstatically astounded on his 66th birthday in 2013 when--with no advance warning in the age of social media--he released his first song in 10 years, "Where Are We Now?" and announced a new album, The Next Day, which I would name my favorite of that year.

So while I've long had an uneasy notion that the man who fell to Earth might not be long for it, just Friday I was again reveling in a new David Bowie album, with thoughts that his appearing in the "Lazarus" video meant that he must be doing relatively well.

Sadly I was wrong.

Unable to readily fall asleep last night, I found myself checking Facebook at 1:15am and could not believe the news that rendered the Golden Globes fashion and gossip crap even triter than it had been a few hours earlier.

To paraphrase Bowie's great 1971 song, "Life on Mars"--a favorite along with about 100 others, from the well-known ("Rebel Rebel," "Changes") to the obscure ("Joe the Lion," 1964's "Liza Jane" when he was still known as Davie Jones)--I hoped I was "walking in a sunken dream."

But I wasn't.

After listening to several songs, reading tributes, shedding tears and finally falling asleep, I awoke to find it still true.

The "Starman," Ziggy Stardust, Aladdin Sane, the Thin White Duke, etc., etc., but most of all, David Bowie--or perhaps David Jones--is gone, at least from our mortal world.

"Planet Earth is blue and there is nothing I can do,"--as Bowie sang on his first hit, "Space Oddity"--and as I posted on Facebook earlier:

Bowie was singular. We will never see anyone like him again. He was Elvis and Picasso and Bertold Brecht rolled into one, and I think the world senses a loss of genius that won't be replaced.

Like Elvis, Dylan and the Beatles--and maybe even more so--he essentially influenced everyone who came after.

When Elvis and John Lennon died, I hadn't yet developed the esteem I have now for Bowie. Other celeb deaths have hit me hard; Kurt Cobain certainly, and Philip Seymour Hoffman and Robin Williams, even Michael Jackson and Whitney Houston. But those all involved a sense of regret; here the sorrow is solely based on appreciation, and both are deep.

But all of this doesn't explain why David Bowie just seemed like the coolest guy.

Nor does his being among the first musicians to champion Bruce Springsteen (with early covers of "Growin' Up" and "It's Hard to Be a Saint in the City") or introduce me and much of the world to Stevie Ray Vaughan (who played on the Let's Dance album) or hung out with Andy Warhol and Lou Reed or lived with Iggy Pop or gave "All the Young Dudes" to Mott the Hoople or worked with Jim Henson or acted with Catherine Deneuve or married Angie and Iman or slept with Mick Jagger or made great, understated albums late in his career like Heathen and Reality and The Next Day and Blackstar that didn't try to replicate the AOR glories of his youth.

While my fandom will forever run deep, I am not extolling David Bowie because I  first came to own ChangesOneBowie on vinyl by the age of 12 or because his show at Dodger Stadium in 1990 was the first concert I attended after moving to L.A.--I still rue missing chances to see Bowie in '83 and '87--or because after seeing him in January 2004 at the relatively intimate Rosemont Theatre, I went again to the next show and then again when he came to Milwaukee that May.

No, while the music and visual stylings and acting and overall artistry of David Bowie has long enriched my life and forever will, what I'll remember most is, more literally, just how cool he seemed.

Onstage at the Rosemont Theatre, where I attended in awe of one of the world's greatest--and purportedly richest--rock stars, a visionary, a genius, a man who had cloaked himself in numerous personas and essentially defined "edgy," Bowie came off as gracious, warm, affable and comfortable in his own skin as any performer I've ever seen. 

And I've seen thousands.

There was no pretense, no pandering, no smugness, no megalomania, obvious ego or star affectations.

There was just David Bowie engagingly addressing the audience as if he were in a living room with friends.

And just happened to be the coolest guy you ever would want to know.
---

"I, I will be king
And you, you will be queen
Though nothing will drive them away
We can be heroes, just for one day
We can be us, just for one day"

-- From "Heroes," by one of mine
    David Bowie, Jan. 8, 1947-Jan. 10, 2016

(Blog title quote from "Fantastic Voyage," 1979)

---

 Here's a full David Bowie concert from New York in late 2003, just a month before I saw him twice in Rosemont and found him tremendously personable:

Let's Play Two, Forever: Ernest and Eternal Thanks to Mr. Cub, Ernie Banks

Name someone whose name and fame you likely knew by the time you were 7 years old, and who is still living today.

I don't mean a family member or a cartoon character, even if they're not mutually exclusive.

Certainly, this should be a bit easier for those a good bit younger than my 46, although even with the more recent proliferation of information options, I'm not sure which actors or athletes or politicians might pervade the consciousness of a kid of 6 or under.

While I almost assuredly would have vaguely known of Richard Nixon and Gerald Ford by sometime in 1975--my birthday isn't until October--they of course are no longer with us, and though I won't pretend to precisely recall my sphere of knowledge as a toddler, I really don't think I could have recognized and named still-living (and largely working) movie stars of the time such as Clint Eastwood, Burt Reynolds, Robert De Niro, Al Pacino, Robert Redford, Dustin Hoffman and Sylvester Stallone.

My guess is that my answer to the question above would be: Paul McCartney, possibly Ringo Starr, Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Sandy Koufax, Tom Seaver and Gene Wilder.

And until this past Friday night, Ernie Banks.

Banks played his last baseball game with the Chicago Cubs in 1971, so though I probably technically saw him play on TV--my dad was always a big Cubs fan--I certainly can't say I remember it.

But especially at a time when Chicago was largely devoid of great sports teams, Banks remained a larger-than-life icon whose resonance--if only to this fledgling Cubs fan at that particular time--was greater than that of Dick Butkus, Gale Sayers, Bobby Hull or other Windy City superstars.

So already somewhat indoctrinated to baseball before my 7th birthday, I was probably just as aware of Ernie Banks as I was of many active Cubs of 1975 (it's possible I knew Andre Thornton, Rick Monday, Jose Cardenal, Rick Reuschel, Steve Stone, Bill Madlock and Steve Swisher by then, but more likely not really until 1976 and beyond).

And I still recall how my family got to go onto the field at Wrigley circa 1977 and I met Ernie and got his autograph, along with that of Cubs starter Ray Burris.

That was a pretty big deal to an 8-year-old.

As was going to the Baseball Hall of Fame with my family in August 1977, just a few weeks after Ernie Banks was inducted.

I also recall, without real specificity but long before the Internet, that as kids my still-best friend Jordan and I somehow came upon Jack Brickhouse's call of Ernie's 500th career homer.

So although Ernie Banks' playing career was "before my time," it's not like he was just some legend of yore.

For much of my youth, and ever since, my reverence for "Mr. Cub" was in the present tense.

Also factoring into my chagrin over his passing--and conceivably that of many others, given the huge outpouring of memories and sentiments--is that Ernie essentially symbolized the Cubs, as his entire 19-year major league career was played in Chicago (and he remained prominent here long after).

While this also means he holds the rather dubious record of most MLB games played without a postseason appearance, even in playing in a pre-free agency era, Ernie Banks was unique from contemporaries such as Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Frank Robinson and Harmon Killebrew, who played for multiple teams and/or whose franchises changed cities during their careers.

Banks was born and raised in Dallas, was drafted into the U.S. Army, served in Germany during the Korean War and played in the Negro Leagues for the Kansas City Monarchs.

He was sold to the Cubs in 1953, becoming their first African-American player when he debuted at Wrigley Field on September 17 of that year, without spending any time in the minors.

Initially a shortstop, Banks hit over 40 home runs in 5 of 6 seasons between 1955-60, winning 2 straight MVP awards in 1958 and 1959 despite the Cubs having losing records and the National League being filled with all-time greats like Hank Aaron, Willie Mays, Frank Robinson, Eddie Mathews and Roberto Clemente.

In 1969, at age 38--having long since switched from shortstop to first base--Banks hit 23 home runs with 106 runs batted in as the Cubs had their best season in decades.

They were in first place by 9 games on August 15, but despite having three future Hall of Famers besides Banks--Billy Williams, Ron Santo and Fergie Jenkins--the Cubs wound up losing the NL East by 8 games to the New York Mets. (1969 was the first year the leagues had divisions.)

Despite--or likely in large part because of--their disastrous collapse, the 1969 Cubs have long stood as one of the most storied teams in franchise, and Chicago, history. Though toward the end of his glorious career, Ernie Banks was part of that.

And while his career home run total of 512 now ranks him 22nd all-time, he was in 8th place when he retired after the 1971 season.

Several of those who have recently passed him by--Bonds, A-Rod, Sosa, McGwire, Manny Ramirez--have been forever tainted by steroids, other PEDs or at least rather damning suspicion.

By all accounts, all Ernie Banks was ever on was the joy of life.

For despite truly being one of the best baseball players of all-time, many tributes in the last few days have referred to him as an even better person.

His "Let's play two!" catchphrase calling for a doubleheader due to his love of the game is legendary, and Ernie Banks is being remembered for having one of the greatest, most perennially upbeat personalities not only during his playing time, but in the 44 years since he hung up his glove.

Even fairly young media members, yet alone those who go back a long way, have been expressing their admiration for a man they personally knew.

I can't claim to have known Ernie Banks, or even encountered him often.

Back when I was collecting autographs much more avidly, I saw Ernie at a few sports collectibles shows, and without recalling specifics, I'm pretty sure I saw him at Wrigley at least a few times.

But in August 2010, I had the pleasure of seeing Ernie Banks speak at the Highland Park Public Library, where a conversation he had with longtime Chicago baseball writer Phil Rogers accompanied an exhibition called Pride & Passion: the African-American Baseball Experience.

As I wrote about here, it was a thrill to see Ernie talk about baseball--and life--to fans of all ages, but especially a large turnout of kids who could only have known about him second- or third-hand.

Banks was his typically delightful self, and it was a joy to see him reminisce with another Negro League player on hand that night--Ray Knox--but I was especially thrilled to see him stress the importance of education, as he urged the youngsters to learn something new every day.

This is a brief video I shot:



The last time I ever saw Ernie Banks in person was on the evening of July 19, 2013.

Actually, rather late in the evening, around 11:45pm.

That was the night Pearl Jam played Wrigley Field...

...and a rather gnarly lightning storm forced the sold out crowd to sit through a 90-minute rain delay.

After which, Pearl Jam lead singer and longtime Cubs fan Eddie Vedder told a story about Banks, Jose Cardenal and proceeded to sing his ode to eternal Cub optimism, "All the Way."

And then, brought the at-that-point 82-year-old Mr. Cub onstage.

Seeing and hearing Ernie, speaking ebulliently to the crowd, close to midnight, at a rock concert by one of my favorite bands, within the Friendly Confines, has to rank as one of the coolest things I've ever seen.

And especially given all that he must have seen and experienced, in the Negro Leagues and as the first black Cub, through years of losing teams and the misery of 1969, and even as the team's greatest fan through the heartbreaks of 1984, 2003, 2007, 2008 and all else, Ernie Banks stands as one of the coolest people, and certainly Chicagoans, of all-time.

For while I'm sometimes suspicious of how highly certain celebrities are extolled after their death, from all I've seen and known Ernie clearly was, as I've seen cited by a few commenters:

Pure joy.

Believe it, Ernie, someday we'll go all the way. And when we get there, we'll play two.

Thanks for making the world a happier place. 

A Story of Friendship that Begins on the First Day of Kindergarten, 1973

Anyone who reads my blog posts with any degree of regularity should be able to learn a good deal about me, for most of my reviews of music and theater or discussions of other subjects not only convey my tastes and tendencies, but typically include a long-winded introduction that provides a good amount of  background, biography and opinion beyond the topic at hand.

So I have certainly mentioned several friends and relatives, and shared numerous recollections involving many, but very rarely have I written directly about personal matters, such as relationships with those I know and love (or once did).

But today seems like a good day to do so.

Especially as last night was a relatively rare Saturday not spent at a performance of some sort (such as Billy Corgan, Tom Petty/Steve Winwood and Rod Stewart/Santana over the past three).

Rather, I had dinner with a friend and his family.

While always agreeable, this might not sound particularly noteworthy or newsworthy, especially as the restaurant--the original Chinatown branch of Lao Sze Chuan--was one I featured last year in my Chicago Dining World Tour series. (The service last night was still a bit spotty but not nearly as bad as I wrote about then, and the food remains first-rate.)

Even to say I was celebrating a friend's birthday would not ordinarily seem like anything worth documenting for history, or even the cyberspace black hole that this blog represents (hence the Seth Saith nameplate design at top).

But in celebrating the 46th birthday of my friend Jordan, I was also celebrating a friendship that has now lasted 41 years--since we met in Kindergarten at Highland School in Skokie, Illinois in the fall of 1973. 

And while the active friendship and Jordan himself in the present tense merit greater celebration than the accumulation of years, the continuity our friendship represents is undoubtedly one of the most intrinsic parts of my being. 

Though I can't specifically recall our initial encounter, as pictured at top Jordan and I were in the same Kindergarten class--along with a handful of other kids I'm connected to on Facebook plus another with whom I've stayed in fairly regular touch--and so I assume we met on the first day. 

After all, what do you do on the first day of Kindergarten if not meet all the other kids? (And the teacher, Mrs. Boaz.)

In the early years, our friendship revolved around going to each other's house after many a school day...and a lot of baseball. 

Jordan sets the record--over 400,000 points--on my family's
pinball machine, circa 1978. Like our friendship, the record
and the machine still stand.

We played in Little League together, traded baseball cards, spent numerous hours competing in Intellivision Baseball--I still recall one time when things were going more my way than his in the video game, Jordan chucked the console across his family room--and went to Cubs games together, taking the Skokie Swift and the Howard L likely as young as 10 or 11 years old. 

After a junior high graduation party that had us each drinking more hard liquor than either of us ever have since--and Jordan tripled my intake of Jim Beam--high school escapades include hijinks in freshman Algebra, Geometry (or was it trigonometry?) and Mr. Jackson's AP U.S. History Class, in which I recall us clandestinely listening to Game One of the 1984 NLCS in which the Cubs beat the Padres 13-0.

...on their way to a ball rolling under Leon Durham's Gatorade soaked glove and a Game 5 loss that gave the Padres the pennant.

I don't think that's when Jordan switched allegiances and became a White Sox fan, but who could blame him?

It was at some point during junior year at Niles North High School that in a library study room Jordan and I used primarily for flicking folded-paper "football" field goals, he told me he was moving to New Mexico to live with his dad and would not be spending senior year in Skokie. (Jordan's dad had taken us to my first Bulls game ever--circa 1978--and had been our Little League coach during our best season, but had moved to Taos at some point.)

Though Jordan would spend summers back in the Chicago area before and during college--which we didn't attend together--once he wound up in Champaign-Urbana in 1988, we haven't ever lived in the same vicinity. 

So in being proud of maintaining a close friendship over 41 years, I can't help but be self-impressed that roughly the last 2/3 of those years have not been abetted by geographical proximity.

I typically only see Jordan 2-3 times per year; usually when he and his wife Erin come up for a birthday dinner with family--his mom, step-dad, sister and brother-in-law have long been like a second family to me--and again on Christmas Eve, which I have spent every year for decades at a party hosted by his mom & step-dad.

And in most years, I have ventured down to Urbana at least once; lately to attend Ebertfest in late-April.

We have gone to a handful or two of ballgames over the years, and a few random concerts, but our friendship has primarily been maintained through a monthly phone call of good length.

Although the multitude of small moments are more important than the amplitude of overt experiences, well-worth mentioning is how Jordan and Erin (early into their enduring relationship) drove a car I bought from another Skokie friend out to me after I moved to California in early 1990.

And how I went to Ireland along with a small group of family members and other close friends when Jordan and Erin decided to get married there in 2000.

Or that just days after I got fired from a job in October 2005, I went down to Urbana and watched the White Sox win the World Series in Jordan & Erin's company, furthering my conviction that personal connection & continuity trump periodic ups & downs in shaping one's being. (And yes, I was delighted the Sox won, having long been a fan of both Chicago baseball teams, however heretical it may be.)

Nowadays, the retention of real, long-distance and/or tenuous relationships is a lot easier given one's Facebook community, but Jordan has opted to abstain--not incomprehensibly--from social media, and it is not lost on me that I literally know more about the daily activities and thoughts of fleeting co-workers from years ago than I do of my best friend since Kindergarten.

But I know that he reads nearly everything I write on Seth Saith--which means more to me than traffic stats that suggest over 20,000 people stumble across something here each month--and he has closely followed all of my travel adventures, which I have incessantly shared in recent years on a dedicated travel blog.  

As Jordan has developed into the most avid soccer aficionado I know, he has helped further my fandom of the sport--though still not nearly to his level--and I was delighted to share his insights in some recent World Cup and English League Soccer posts here. (Best seen in sum here.)

This love of soccer is what suggested this year's edition of my annual self-made birthday card for Jordan, shown nearby, which he and his family got a big kick out of (at the expense of Luis Suarez).

I still genuinely and acutely enjoy every occasion on which I see or speak to Jordan, and interactions with the wider circle that includes his family and Erin provide a warmth that I elsewhere only derive from my own family and a few other close friends.

But just as important to my existence has been 41 years of knowing simply that he is there.

"You and I have memories longer than the road that stretches out ahead"

-- The Beatles, "Two of Us"

The above lyric comes readily to mind as rather apt, and I can't help thinking of it without a sense of happiness and pride, but also--as he has turned 46 and I will in about 5 weeks--a suspicion that its sentiment could well be literally true. (I'm also reminded of the days Jordan and I would spin Beatles records backwards, searching for the "Paul is Dead" clues.)

One never knows what the future, let alone each day, will bring, and we've all been given numerous reasons not to take anything, or anyone, for granted.

But all you can do is the best you can, for as long as you can, and along with much else my friendship with Jordan has meant, I see it as proof that I have at least done one thing right.

So, thanks and love.

And, of course, a song by the Boss, my favorite of any about friendship.

Despite the fact that you aren't much of a Springsteen fan, the lyrics don't largely fit our relationship and that this clip of "Bobby Jean" was from a different London concert than the one I attended in 2013, well, Jordan, this one's for you: