We Will Never Be Rid of These Stars

First we ended last year with the loss of one of the rawest and purest voices in hard rock music. A whiskey-swilling guitar god sent to this earthly plane to weed out the weak from the strong by subjecting the masses to face-melting bass riffs and liver-ravaging nights of hard drinking. I am, of course, talking about Ian Fraser Kilmister, better known as "Lemmy." If there was a totem pole carved to represent the musicians dedicated to the Rock 'n' Roll lifestyle, Lemmy would be right up there with Keith Moon and Ozzy. With Lemmy's death leaving rock music a sadder and lonelier party than it already was (I'm talking New Year's Eve, drinking alone with the cat, passing out before midnight type party), we entered the new year with minimal amounts of optimism. But soon we were gifted with a light from above: a new album by David Bowie released on the day of his 69th birthday. Oh, sweet joy in heaven! If the Rock 'n' Roll metaphor left off at our forever alone New Year's Eve party, it just became a fuck-it-all-lets-get-shitfaced birthday celebration. The album, stylized as ★, is quite remarkable. A 41 minute avant-jazz masterpiece. Hands down the best thing Bowie's put out in 2 decades. But, alas, the album's release was followed two days later by another punch to the gut: the departure of David Bowie from this earthly plane back to his celestial home amongst the stars. The Starman is now waiting in the sky; he blew our minds one too many times. I don't think I remember seeing as much coverage or as many people being affected by the passing of a celebrity. Possibly Michael. David Bowie was a rare one indeed. Unnatural, yet alluring. Otherworldly and still somehow down-to-earth. If you've ever felt like an outsider, if your personality ranges from slightly eccentric to downright unusual, if you have a fondness for the flamboyant, or if you're just into fantasy movies, there's a Bowie for you. Hell, there's a Bowie inside of all of us. That untamed, unnatural side of us that we keep hidden out of fear of rejection. This we must never tame. Own it, like Bowie did. And with the loss of Bowie it seemed liked so many of the artistically inspired decided, "well what's the point anymore?" 2016 alone has seen the loss of Glenn Frey, a founding Eagles member; Natalie Cole, a classic R&B artist; Abe Vigoda, legendary actor and Conan O'Brien regular; Harper Lee, Pulitzer Prize winning author of To Kill a Mockingbird; Alan Rickman, or more widely known as Severus Snape and Hans Gruber from the Harry Potter and Die Hard films, respectively (whatever you know him as just know that by Grabthar's hammer, he shall avenged); and the latest tragic loss in a tsunami of tragic losses: Pfife Dawg, a wildly underrated member of the influential hip hop collective: A Tribe Called Quest. The gravity of these losses is enough to leave a massive hole inside of our being, but the great thing about stars is even after they're gone you can still see their light.