The very idea that a performance of a piece of music may be perfection can only be found if there is skill in the slicking of varioations on themes already found to be appealing to the human sexual response networks. That thing in the air that makes a panther pounce. Or a hit be brewed, even if slowly.
The death of Ziggy Stardust was the apoleptic of Rock to die a proper rock-and-roll-suicide at the ends of the extended deathwish blade the British formula gave to an act with specialist market appeal, recognised that they lumped Bowie’s art alongside more scholochy, schmucky glam, either gloomy, insane or blokish ladding about in tights as well as his imitators. There are a few acts in the Glam genre that perhaps should have a connection to the Bowie version of Glam, but after he killed Ziggy and Aladdin Sane overdosed on quaaludes in Mullholland Drive, Bowie gave birth to this performance of his own addition to the great America Jazz songbook, Young Americans.