“Let’s Dance”, Let’s Dance, 1983
Cory Lamz
My dad shaped my taste in music — he was the one who controlled the stereo when I was growing up, after all. But every once in a while, mom got to choose the tunes. Her go-to: David Bowie. Mom loves to listen to Bowie when she cooks. (When I lived with my parents, I was her sous chef. We listened to a lot of Bowie in the kitchen together.) I remember one morning when my teenage, oversleeping self woke up to the swagger of “Let’s Dance” blasting through the kitchen stereo. I’m a heavy sleeper, so when I say “blasting” I mean you could hear it from the sidewalk. I walked downstairs. Dad gave me this look as he turned up the music, as if to say, “We knew the Thin White Duke would get through to you.” Meanwhile, underneath a worn apron, mom’s hips shook in time to the saxophone blasts as she cracked a couple of eggs. I grabbed an apron, and we got to work on making a late breakfast. Just another Saturday at the Lamz household. It was only fitting that I woke up yesterday morning to a text from my mom: “Sad news. David Bowie died. He was a favorite of mine.” Mine too, mom. Mine too.