In the days since the news of David Bowie’s death, my Facebook feed, and presumably yours, was filled with tributes, memories, allegations and celebrations, in a thoroughly 21st century public showing of grief.

It quickly became apparent that Bowie was a big fucking deal, particularly within the queer community. Everyone seems to have a moment where Bowie helped solidify their queerness, or explore it, or celebrate it.

I couldn’t recall my own Bowie moment. As a teenager, my dad bought Hunky Dory on sale from the local Sanity, when we first got a CD player in the car. He played it on the way to and from school, soccer practice, the supermarket. It stayed until I knew the words to every song and the order of the songs on the album. But that was me and my dad in the car – it didn’t feel particularly queer. It was forever associated with him. If it were up to me, we’d have been listening to Tegan and Sara.

I was a closeted teenager. My other firm memory of Bowie was at school, under one of the big trees out the back, talking to the boy I thought I was in love with about his love for Bowie. We often discussed his crushes on men, and mine on women, in a way that just felt so progressive while still utterly heterosexual – we’d watch a movie featuring both of our same sex crushes, then make out after to reaffirm our infinite straightness. We sat under the tree as he played me songs from the Bowie albums his late father had given him, and while with hindsight this moment was pretty thoroughly queer, at the time it was just us talking about the music of our dads.

I’ve always liked Bowie, and danced to him in gay bars and clubs, but no instances felt particularly revolutionary. That was until his death and the public outpouring. As he probably was for you last week, for me, he was everywhere.

I’d been up at the crowded Newtown Hotel with my girlfriend and some friends last Wednesday, wondering where all the other lesbians had gone (my investigation into this matter is incomplete, but a few potential hypotheses are that they’ve all disappeared for the summer, are trialling Dry January before Mardi Gras, or have just been drowned out by the increase of heteros in Newtown). We decided to head home via the reopened Imperial for a round of pool.

We got there to find just three other guys in the bar. Shortly after we arrived, they left. We chatted to the bartender about work, the old Imperial, and living in the Inner West. Three more guys came in and gunned straight for the jukebox, pooling their coins to play every Bowie song available.

As we danced around the pool table, singing along, failing to sink the balls, it occurred to me that this was a better tribute I could give Bowie than had I attended the Sydney Festival special, or any of the countless other Bowie events. This felt far more natural than any of those. The men who put on the songs were at their table, and hadn’t acknowledged us. The bartender was back behind the bar, cleaning up before close.

The lack of clear connection to anyone else might seem cold, but to me it felt comfortable. It felt like a few small groups of queers, together in isolation, enjoying their Bowie moments, while the rest of Newtown – and Sydney – raged around us. It reminded me of what Bowie might have meant to the others in the bar, and it was just that that made him feel queerer for me.

Some people lament the kind of celebrity worship our society has fallen into, but to me, such public displays of meaning (be they good or bad) attributed to a single figure just show how little it takes to bind a community together.

This Week:

This Thursday January 21, Le1f is playing at Oxford Art Factory. Even my mum likes him and his voguing, so you really shouldn’t miss it.

On Sunday January 24 is both another instalment of Super OpenAir and Bad Dog. OpenAir is at the Factory Theatre, and features Tim Sweeney, Matt Vaughan, L’Oasis and others, while Bad Dog is at the St George Sailing Club and features Ben Drayton, Annabelle Gaspar, Steve Sonius and more.

Monday January 25 sees Unicorns taking advantage of public holiday eve and throwing a party at the Red Rattler. There’s music from Sveta, Del Lumanata, Gay Cliche and Mira Boru, as well as performances, body painting, dating games, and, if previous Unicorns parties are anything to go by, lots of scantily clad lesbians (possibly on skates).

On Tuesday January 26, you should remember that we are living on stolen Aboriginal land. If you want to do something with your day off, head to Yabun Festival in Victoria Park to celebrate the survival of Aboriginal culture and identity.

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