MY OWN WALKING - Puts You There Where Things Are Hollow.

It is educational to note, that as one grows older so do the heroes of your youth. In my case those I lionised were mostly musicians. And whilst Bolan and now Bowie are dead, many are still around and, most shocking of all, still touring. Milking their youthful career highlights to augment their pension pots, their urgent need for rehab, or to raise the down payment on a place in a retirement community.

There is something to be lauded, in being easy going and relaxed about one's own aging process. How one's former heroes cope with it is of genuine interest, as they are often older than you. Which makes observing the existential travails of our heroes, once so godlike, now reduced to the mortal frailty they always possesed - at least instructive. And so we find the surviving spectre of our idols, now looking more like they ought to be our accountant or vicar. Or worse, resemble a nefarious Uncle who everyone warned you was a bit pervy, so steered clear. Others bare the beaten looking visage of boxers, except the pugilism has mostly arisen from being subject to bruising encounters with alcohol or drugs. 

Few are charmed with musical career longevity. The ocassional duff album you might be forgiven, but two in a row might prove terminal. Wither the one hit wonder much lauded for a month or so, failing to follow through on their limited appeal and potential. A three minute monster single, followed by decades of genteel obscurity subsisting in the Cotswolds. 

Even those whose careers do continue to thrive are often mentally damaged by the stress of sustaining it. Regularly reconstructing it with as much frequency as their faces have been to the plastic surgeon. Any music career is inclined towards 'erectile disfunction' from time to time. If you can't get it up by natural means of innate talent, then maybe it could benefit from some chemical stimulation, or a collaboration.

The youthfully defiant unconventionalism, of saying unsayable things, of teenage rebellions against the norm, can become reduced in crotchety middle age to the lazy tropes of right wing patriotism, with all its suspect sentimental assumptions loudly declared. When all but the most loyal of fans have only a vague idea who you were, a bit of controversy reminds them what a twat you currently are. Maybe always were.

Its as though, post fame, it's never going to be kind to our heroes. Their minds addled by increasing age and inflexibility. Finding themselves hankering for a career and a time before arthritis or slerotic arteries were even thought of, let alone experienced. They are after all, human.

The transitory nature of fame, is just a micro example of the transitory nature of everything. The energy, idealism and optimism of our youth, worn down by experience into world weariness, cynicism or abject fear. Change, once so enthusiastically welcomed, is now strenuously resisted. We all want to make our presence felt, to leave something behind of value, to be in someway remembered. Whether that is by fans, friends or family. However, the circumstances that support remembrance are also likewise transitory. Adulation is fickle, as is memory, history and the internet.

'Time takes a cigarette, puts it in your mouth. You pull on your finger, then another finger, then cigarette. The wall to wall is calling, It lingers, then you forget - Oh oh oh oh, you're a rock n roll suicide.'  

David Bowie - Rock n Roll Suicide