About 7 years ago, I went to see a reunion concert by the modestly successful post-punk band Gang of Four.  My excitement couldn’t be understated –  these English blokes were huge to me, albeit for completely self-aggrandizing reasons. As effete music snobs, we’d try to distinguish ourselves from the regular high school rabble by the obscurity of the music we listened to. In Saskatchewan circa 1986, where everyone dressed like they’d stepped right out of Heavy Metal Parking Lot, it was hard to find a band more obscure than Gang of Four.

No doubt the Gang of Four realized their prairie fan club could be named Gang of One and skipped playing my hometown, making this reunion gig the first time I’d see them live.  Sure, their sell-by date was twenty years ago. Sure, they had a lot of miles on their odometers. I didn’t care.  I was ecstatic – a feeling that lasted exactly one minute,  or about the time it took for the band’s aging lead singer Jon King to run out onstage, whirl about like he was Justin Timberlake on speed as he danced to the opening riff of “Damaged Goods -  then bend at the waist and almost vomit, too winded and out of shape to sing the first verse.    I imagine this was the post-punk equivalent of watching Muhammad Ali box in the 80s, long after he stopping floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee – it made you a little sick inside to witness such a legacy-diminishing spectacle.

Which brings me to the subject of one of England’s newest pensioners – one David Robert Jones, aka David Bowie, aka my other musical man-crush.  Ziggy Stardust turned 65 today – a noteworthy event partly because of the man’s incredible impact on music, and partly because you hardly see him anymore.  His last album was almost nine years ago,  and with the exception of the odd appearance here and there, he’s largely disappeared from view – which is probably at it should be.

Now, there could be various reasons for why The Thin White Duke keeps a low profile. He had heart surgery in 2004, and there remains lots of speculation about the effects of his earlier, drug-addled lifestyle on his health.   It could be that (unlike Ali or Gang of Four) he felt he’d done what he needed to and had nothing more to add. More likely, though, Bowie has the self-awareness to realize that his best work is probably behind him.

Bowie himself said he needed to experiment to stay interested in his work, even if those experiments led to the kind of failure that compromised his success.  For a time in the 70s and early 80s, that bravery produced world-changing pop music. From about the mid-eighties onward, however, his gifts seemed to diminish.  His music still showed the same willingness to push boundaries, but those later experiments sounded exactly that – experimental.  A big part of success is making it look easy, and for Bowie the effort was starting to show. Certainly, there was nothing he did between 1983 and 2003 that could tarnish his enormous contribution, but certainly nothing that would add to it either.

Now, Bowie could’ve pulled a Jagger and made even more millions touring the world, basking in faded glory as he drew from his deep well of hit songs, However, as a writer noted in The Guardian today, that is anti-thetical to the man’s work:  “Bowie’s music was never about nostalgia, always the present, or, even better, the future.”

Instead, we have virtual radio silence.  It feels distinguished and elegant, which is in keeping with my perception of Bowie. The silence has had the effect of turning those rare occasions he does show up in public into events of epic proportion.  The Arcade Fire was already a great band with plenty of artistic credibility, but having Bowie get on stage and sing one their songs with them is now tantamount to a papal blessing.  Bigger than a papal blessing.

Herein lies the lesson of Bowie’s example, reaffirmed by plenty of Better Men such as J.D. Salinger or Terence Malick or (the recently-outed) Banksy, Don Mann, or my own dad; there is value in a low profile. The less often you speak, the more it means when you do. Bide your time, choose both your moments and your words carefully, and realize that trying to add to something great may only serve to undo its greatness (hello, George Lucas).  You don’t have to be a pop icon to apply that kind of lesson.

For the record...I do not want this on my gravestone.

Perhaps it’s been the downturn in my fortunes, but lately I‘ve grown fond of planning my own funeral. While some people daydream about spending the vast sums they win in the lottery, or coming home to find Megan Fox vacuuming the rug in the nude, my thoughts linger on that ultimate Going Away Party (I go away, everyone parties). I know it sounds a tad morose, but before anyone starts planning an intervention, please know that I don’t feel suicidal (yet).  In fact,  I’m not really preoccupied with the exact circumstances of my death, although I’d pick a fiery motorcycle crash à la Thelma and Louise if I was certain it could be painless.

Part of my morbid  fascination has to do with that wish every child has when they think they’re in trouble –  to gain the moral high ground by dying (because THEN you’ll be sorry).  Mostly though, I’ve been planning my own funeral because funerals usually suck.

I’m certain I’m not the only one who feels this way. With the exception of funeral directors, no one is jonesing to go to a funeral; there’s no need for a bouncer and velvet rope at funeral parlours, and Owen Wilson will not make a movie called The Funeral Crashers.  Why the antipathy? Well,  there’s that whole “confronting your own mortality” thing, but anyone who’s seen the end of the human safari knows the real reason: funerals are hastily organized affairs done on the cheap – cheap stationery, cheap egg salad sandwiches cut in fours (because that looks fancy), and worst of all…cheap sentiments.

It’s not like we don’t know it’s coming. I suppose most of us don’t give a shit about our own funerals because it’s unlikely we’ll be attending them.   Instead, we’re struck down by an aneurysm, or a drive-by shooting,  and then it’s a mad sprint for our loved ones to get us in the ground before we start smelling like a diabetic hobo on a hot day.  The result is there’s little time to think about how we should truly be remembered. A Better Man would not stand for such a flaccid end to his life.  A Better Man would have a hand in choreographing that moment when the handful of people still alive and willing to admit they knew him come together and celebrate his meagre contribution to humanity.

Hunter S. Thompson - going out with a bang.

Like most people, I want the turd polished – a big reason funerals exist is to salvage dignity from a life where none may have existed.  As Bette Davis pointed out, one should always speak good of the dead, even if the dead were assholes in life, and so it should be with my shuffling of this mortal coil.  Of course, a resplendent funeral where the guest of (dis)honour gets big ups is promised to no one. The only way you can ensure that people leave the church/funeral home/Hooters with an image of you that you yourself helped shape is to be very vocal about what you want at your funeral while you’re still living.  Thanks to my current fixation,  I believe I have it down when it comes to planning my viking send-off.

First off, I don’t want a viking send-off – I’m sure the boat will cost too much, plus nothing kills a funereal mood quite like having firefighters on stand-by to put out your funeral pyre once the thing is over.  In fact, anything grandiose is pretty much a non-starter, because no one will want honour it (unless you paid for it in advance).  So unless you’re Hunter S. Thompson,  forget about having your remains shot out of a cannon.

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