David Bowie: The Man Who Fell Into Sinatra's Suit

IT'S HALF PAST five on Sunday afternoon and I still don't know how to start this thing. Only David Bowie could return like the Prodigal, play six successive nights at Wembley before close on 60,000 (count 'em) peoploids and have me forget practically the entire show. Is it right for the 70s premier solo artist to specialise in almost total ambivalence this far into the ball game?