I'm writing this review on January 1, 2017, the dawn of a new year. I'm writing this with both middle fingers raised to 2016, one of the shittiest and most fucking awful years on record.
Personally, 2016 was the year I lost my father-in-law to liver cancer. I had to watch a wonderfully kind, loving, funny, intelligent man with a crazy work ethic (he was a truck mechanic and he was working two weeks prior to dying quietly in hospice) and the wisdom of a demigod wither away and crush the spirits of my wife and mother-in-law, dying a week before Christmas. I will never have the pleasure of building a deck or putting up a tub surround or changing my oil again with him. We will never again have the pleasure of talking for hours about our favorite science fiction novels or bad 1950s grade-B horror films that we loved or our shared admiration of Kurt Vonnegut, Katy Perry videos, and Japanese cuisine. I will miss him terribly.
This past year was also the year that a fascist orange moron with yellow hair won the presidential election. I will never call Trump my president. He is an embarrassment, a national joke, a nightmare, and a piece of shit. He is the Asshole to end all Assholes, and I honestly fantasize that something awful will happen to him, Mike Pence, and Trump's entire Cabinet sometime before the 20th. Something juicy, like a pack of rabid wolves or a meteor shower right in the middle of Trump's getaway, Mar-a-Lago. It can take his whole worthless family, too, for all I care. I don't---and won't---apologize for this.
This past year was the year that Aleppo was bombed; millions of children were killed; the Russians hacked the United States; the Zika virus hit; kids in Flint, MI got lead poisoning from tap water; oil pipelines threatened to wipe out ancient Sioux burial grounds in ND; and global climate change got real, but nobody---including our President or anyone else in Washington, D.C.---gave a shit because they were too worried about transgenders raping our children.
This past year was the year that Black Lives Mattered but, ultimately, didn't.
This past year was the year that so many beloved celebrities passed away---Alan Rickman, Carrie Fisher, George Michael, to name a few---long before their time.
This past year was the year Bowie died.
So, fuck you, 2016. I hope you are rotting in hell for all eternity. I hope you are gagging on Satan's cock. I hope Antonin Scalia is dropping trou and dumping Cleveland steamers all over your face, you stupid, stupid, stupid excuse for a year.
Okay, that's enough… Thanks for letting me vent.
Anyway, Rob Sheffield's little 197-page book "On Bowie" is a beautifully-written love letter to Bowie and his legacy of awesome music. Sheffield, a music critic and contributing editor of Rolling Stone, focuses on the evolution of Bowie's music, starting with his forgettable Brit-pop roots to his sci-fi hippy resurrection with "Space Odyssey" and the heavy metal period of "The Man Who Sold the World" to his revolutionary experimental phase and brilliant collaboration with Brian Eno on "Low" to his brief but successful foray into mainstream with "Let's Dance" to his relatively dead period with the forgettable "Tin Machine" to his Iman-inspired resurrection with "Earthling" to his surprise last album "Blackstar".
Bowie fans know the first time they fell in love with Bowie. They could tell you which album and which song it was that they had the revelation that Bowie was a musical god, in much the same way that born-again Christians know the exact moment that they were saved.
I have that moment, and I don't necessarily have a problem with sharing it, but I'm keeping it to myself because I want that for myself, that shared moment I had with Bowie, for all time.
5/31/2025 addendum: I still miss my father-in-law dearly, and my own father passed away three years ago, but my happy and fond memories of both of them far outweigh and overshadow the sad ones. It's weird, but every time I listen to Bowie (which is a lot actually) I get teary-eyed, but mostly in a good way...