Death comes for us all, even – as it did in the dark days of early 2016 – the seemingly immortal David Bowie, whose earthly departure felt both sudden and, in a sense, long overdue: the starman had finally pulled the ultimate artistic reinvention, disappearing into the cosmos from whence he came.
In the years since, the shapeshifting icon has encountered a fate worse than death: enshrinement in the pantheon of rock 'n' roll myth; the very thing that the restless artist – the actor – likely would have disdained.
The music endures, of course, but amid the endless greatest hits repackagings and box sets, the image, so often reduced to a cartoon lighting bolt and flaming mullet, now adorns coffee mugs, adult colouring books, and licensed T-shirts lining the racks at chain stores. Crack, baby, crack.
