January isn’t even over yet, and I’m having trouble keeping up with all the deaths. Just a few quick tributes before we get started.

Alan Rickman was always, in everything, an absolute joy to watch. I’m pretty sure I first saw him in Die Hard, but I first became aware of him as someone I enjoyed in the otherwise terrible Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves. After that, I saw just about every film he made. I was especially pleased when Kevin Smith cast him as the voice of God in Dogma (I was a big Kevin Smith fan at the time), and by Grabthar’s hammer, I couldn’t get enough of him in Galaxy Quest. He was the perfect Marvin in that lousy Hitchhiker’s Guide movie, and the perfect Severus Snape in eight Harry Potter films. Rickman’s death at age 69 of pancreatic cancer was a total shock, and it made me as sad as I’ve ever been at an actor’s passing.

Glenn Frey was a founding member of the Eagles, and an accomplished solo artist. In fact, it was his solo work that I heard first – “The Heat is On,” from the Beverly Hills Cop soundtrack, was one of my favorite songs as a kid. I’ve never quite connected with the Eagles, though I think they’re one of those bands you grow to appreciate as you get older. But there’s no denying their accomplishments, or their place in musical history. (And man, they could sing together very well.) Frey died at age 67 from complications following surgery, just a few years after releasing his first solo album in two decades.

David Bowie, Alan Rickman and Glenn Frey are just three of the many people death has claimed in the past month. On top of all that, Steven Moffat has quit Doctor Who. This is really not the best way to start things off, 2016. I hope you have better plans ahead.

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When people have asked me which new records I am most looking forward to this year, I have not hesitated to name Megadeth’s Dystopia.

Longtime readers know this, but it always surprises people who don’t know me all that well: I’ve been a Megadeth fan for more than 25 years. In a lot of ways, part of me is still living my teenage metalhead phase, and when I am in the mood for technically powerful yet still melodic metal, most of Megadeth’s output fits the bill nicely. Rust in Peace remains one of the finest metal albums I own, right up there with Ride the Lightning and Reign in Blood – just a complete classic of the genre. And in recent years, Dave Mustaine and his rotating cast of characters have kicked things into high gear, rivaling their earlier material. Mustaine sounds older and crankier now, but still hungry, which is fantastic.

Dystopia is the band’s 15th album in 31 years, and in all that time, the only stumbles they’ve made have come when they’ve wandered off the heavier path. Fans still look askance at 1999’s Risk, a detour into FM pop territory, and they have the same concerns about 2013’s Super Collider, a diverse collection of more tuneful material. I must be getting old, because I liked Super Collider, and I’m starting to appreciate Risk. But if Dystopia proves anything, it’s that Megadeth is at its best when Mustaine chucks all that experimentation in the bin. The new album is a blistering return to straight-up metal that focuses on Mustaine’s strengths: there is no one else able to be compact, heavy and melodic in equal measure as well as he can.

Mustaine is joined this time by longtime bassist Dave “Junior” Ellefson and two newbies: Angra guitarist Kiko Loureiro and Lamb of God drummer Chris Adler. Together they’ve made a 47-minute burst of classic Megadeth – this album can sit proudly next to anything bearing the band’s name. None of it is flashy – this is a record that gets the job done in four-minute hits, Mustaine and Loureiro taking plenty of blink-and-you’ll-miss-it solos, but never at the expense of the song. These tracks are technically complex, but don’t call attention to themselves – they’re nimble, fleet-footed and direct. The longest of them, “Poisonous Shadows,” is the only nod to experimentation – there are strings, and a slower, more contemplative tone. But that’s it. The rest are quick and pummeling, and the record even ends with a light-speed cover of Fear’s “Foreign Policy.”

Time has done no favors to Mustaine’s voice – his range has deteriorated, leaving him with a sour, curmudgeonly scowl in audible form. Sadly, that fits his lyrics well. On Dystopia, as he has for a while, Mustaine comes off like a grumpy old man watching Fox News from his underground bunker. Opener “The Threat is Real” is his most xenophobic, making the fear-driven argument for turning away refugees: “Messiah or mass-murderer, no controlling who comes through the door.” (The 20 seconds of Middle Eastern soundscape at the beginning drive the point home, and leave me wondering if Mustaine told Jordanian singer Farah Siraj what the song was about before she laid down her haunting vocals.)

“Death From Within” has the same point to make, and “Post American World” is full-on Fox jingoism: “What will we look like in a post American world, why cower to all those who oppose the American world?” “Lying in State” lays it out upfront: “What we are witnessing is the decline of western civilization.” When Mustaine isn’t grousing about the state of the country, he’s complaining about women who abandon him. It’s pretty standard stuff for him, and Dystopia, like other recent Megadeth albums, is an exercise for me in appreciating (even loving) the music while disagreeing with the sentiments it expresses.

Luckily, I’m good at that, and Dystopia‘s music deserves that particular skill. It is one of the strongest records Mustaine has given us, and not just recently – this one can honestly shine in the same orbit as his more revered works. Mustaine will be 55 this year, and even though he’s turned into a paranoid, crotchety geezer, he’s still delivering with no sign of slowing down. There aren’t many bands who, 30-plus-years into their career, can make something as tight, powerful and just plain killer as Dystopia. I honestly didn’t think Megadeth would be one of them, but here we are.

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If you want a real trip into the heart of darkness, though, you should check out Savages.

This London band crashed out of nowhere two years ago with Silence Yourself, an album that felt like a rawer Siouxie and the Banshees to me. Now they’re back with their second effort, Adore Life, and it’s much darker, a bit scarier, and certainly less concerned with whether you or anyone else will like it. For the record, I definitely like it.

The touchstone this time is Patti Smith – the songs on Adore Life are doused in feedback and noise, some of them rushing forward like a tidal wave, some crawling like a tar pit. The (almost) title track is pure Smith, inching along a pitch-black hallway on a wary bass line, leader Jenny Beth embracing both fatalism and joy: “Maybe I will die, maybe tomorrow, so I need to say I adore life…” In one of my favorite moments on the record, the band drops out entirely before the title phrase, and then builds and builds to a powerful conclusion.

In truth, the record is full of moments like that. Savages sound like they’re right on the edge of losing control of this powerhouse they’ve conjured, but they never do. The album is tightly arranged under all that feedback, and Gemma Thompson knows how to drape her sheets of guitar over the rhythm section in a way that feels haphazard, but clearly isn’t. “I Need Something New” is a great example, Beth kicking things off with a Bjork-like caterwaul and the band basically delivering a one-note groove for four minutes, with Thompson spinning out galaxies of noise. At first it sounds like something they threw together in 10 minutes, but upon repeat listens its more complicated structure becomes clear, especially as it slides into delirious cacophony.

Adore Life takes the ball Savages were tossing around two years ago and runs with it. It’s an inky whirlwind of a record that will leave you a little dazed, but in a good way. I’m glad to see them going further into their dark, twitchy, less accessible side – it proves they’re in it for the long haul, and makes me excited to follow along.

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Megadeth was number one on my list of reasons to love 2016. Number two was Shearwater, a far less well-known outfit from Austin, Texas. I’m very happy to report that both of my first two anticipated records have delivered, and delivered strong.

I didn’t have any doubt, though – Shearwater has never let me down. The brainchild of Jonathan Meiburg, who possesses one of the most original and captivating voices I know, Shearwater specializes in the massive and the sweeping. They’ve been changing up their formula lately – after expanding their sound on a trilogy of records at the end of the last decade, they released Animal Joy, their loudest and most guitar-oriented gallop forward, and then Fellow Travelers, a superb set of (mostly) obscure covers.

Now, with their ninth album Jet Plane and Oxbow, they’ve woven in electronic textures. Which, granted, is a bit of a cliché, but don’t worry. Meiburg and company are subtle about the electronics they do use, and by the album’s midpoint, they’re all but gone. And blessedly, they’re just textures – the real meat of this album is the songs, which, as usual, are magnificent. Shearwater were always good at orchestrating dramatic moments, but they’ve become masters at it here, arranging songs around a single sustained note breaking through the clouds, or around a mesmerizing harmony.

The effect, then, is an album whose closest touchstone is probably Echo and the Bunnymen: propulsive, bass-driven, synth-inflected, expansive and aiming to scrape the sky. The singles are up front – “Quiet Americans” is as clear-eyed a pop song as Meiburg has written – but the best material is the spacier, more open anthems in the later going. “Filaments” is six minutes of thumping bass and driving-through-tunnels atmosphere. “Glass Bones” is wicked, its tricky guitar rhythm never sitting still, its final minutes a celebration.

Best of all here is the penultimate track, “Radio Silence.” Over a wonderful six and a half minutes, Meiburg and his band give us an insistent rock song that explodes into a wonderful refrain around the three and a half minute mark. The song takes time to breathe and explore the space it’s been given, and I didn’t want it to end. Jet Plane and Oxbow continues Shearwater’s winning streak, managing to push their evolution forward while retaining everything that makes them special. While this year has already taken its toll, I’m beyond pleased that its music, at least here at the start, is making the grade.

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Next week, Dream Theater goes insane. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

For the past week, I’ve been trying to gain some perspective on David Bowie’s death.

Which really means I’ve been trying to gain some perspective on his life. I’ve been reading essays and remembrances and think pieces almost non-stop, and I certainly won’t be able to match the heartfelt and witty words that have been written about the man since he left us last Sunday. As I said last week, Bowie has been a constant musical presence in my life, but if I wasn’t aware before, it’s now crystal clear how much he has meant to so many, not just as a musician but as an advocate for the unorthodox, the beautifully weird.

I’ve also been doing something Bowie never did: looking back. I’ve been revisiting his catalog in order, and rediscovering some gems I had forgotten about. The first of them was “An Occasional Dream,” an absolutely lovely song buried on side two of his 1969 self-titled record (often called Space Oddity). But there were countless others. I even rekindled my love for Tin Machine, Bowie’s raucous rock band with Reeves Gabrels, and reminded myself just how awesome Earthling is.

And of course, I’ve been thinking about how widespread Bowie’s influence has been on the music I love. I can see it everywhere, from the obvious (Beck, Gaga, Arcade Fire) to the more obscure (Eric Clayton of Saviour Machine, Jimmy Brown of Deliverance). Bowie even guested on an album by people I know – the long-overlooked Portland, Maine rock band Rustic Overtones. Any artist from the last 30 years who seems to jump styles and identities album to album owes a debt to Bowie. He was the one who pioneered the idea that one could make one’s life a work of art, and one’s musical catalog just a part of that work.

But mostly, I’ve been listening to Blackstar.

Bowie’s 25th and final album was released on his 69th birthday, just two days before he died, and at first, I’m sure most people thought that a coincidence. But according to the people who helped him make the record, including longtime producer and friend Tony Visconti, Bowie had planned Blackstar (and its two videos) as a last grand statement, and timed it with his impending death. The album was meant as a farewell gift, his death as much a part of his art as his life had been.

That revelation, to me, makes Blackstar far more than just a last record from a legend. I can’t fathom the depth of commitment it takes to create a work of art around and about one’s own death, never mind make that death the centerpiece. The album and the haunting video for “Lazarus” play completely differently now than they did just nine days ago, and that was Bowie’s intention. It’s a stunning declaration of the man’s will – he lived and died on his own terms, and made the most beautiful art he could up until the very last day he was able to.

This means that what was, just nine days ago, a strange and wonderful collection of songs is now one of the most painful and powerful records I own. Blackstar was captivating even before its author passed on, but it has taken on new dimensions now that I know that it was consciously the last music of Bowie’s life. I will not be able to adequately explain what listening to Blackstar does to me now. I can’t even imagine what it does to those who invested more of their lives into Bowie’s music than I have.

The reason, I think, is that this is not an album made by someone who is accepting of his own death. It is a record full of turmoil and darkness, roiling with struggle and pain. It is perhaps the darkest of Bowie’s records – he teamed with a group of well-known jazz-influenced musicians, including saxophonist Donny McCaslin, bassist Tim LeFebvre and drummer Mark Guiliana, and the resulting sound is like tumbling underwater into the black. There’s a sense of motion to these tracks, and a sense of fighting to stay where you are.

No song exemplifies that more than the 10-minute title track that opens Blackstar. Shrouded in occult imagery, and centered on the symbol of a candle burning in the darkness, “Blackstar” slithers forward on its belly, its pitter-patter drum beat writhing against the long, drawn-out soundscapes beneath it, Bowie doing a compelling Scott Walker impression. The middle section sounds more like floating in space, which is fitting for a song whose video depicts Major Tom drifting off to his own death. Over that middle section, Bowie declares himself a blackstar, “not a film star, not a pop star,” the first of many lines that seem to predict his own demise.

It is track three, the spacey “Lazarus,” that has drawn the most attention, at least partially because of that video, in which an aging Bowie moves from his sickbed into a cabinet that resembles a coffin. “Lazarus” is absolutely about his death and how he faced it. Its first lines: “Look up here, I’m in heaven, I’ve got scars that can’t be seen, I’ve got drama can’t be stolen, everybody knows me now,” are chilling in retrospect. Bowie kept his 18-month battle with cancer, which left him with invisible scars, a secret from the public. Blackstar is his drama that can’t be stolen, but he knew the secret would be out after his death. At song’s end he dreams of being “free, just like that bluebird.”

The two most raucous tracks on Blackstar are ones we’ve heard before – “Sue (In a Season of Crime)” and “’Tis a Pity She Was a Whore,” from the 2014 compilation Nothing Has Changed. Here they are absolutely awesome, big and chaotic, anchored only by Bowie’s tortured voice. Both songs reference John Ford’s play ‘Tis a Pity She’s a Whore, in which many men bring themselves to ruin while blaming the woman of their affections. Bowie could very well be talking about his own fame here, about chasing any number of things until they bring him low. “’Tis a Pity” also references, in Bowie’s words, the “shocking rawness of the First World War.” The song features McCaslin’s most unhinged sax work, underpinning lyrics both crude and mysterious.

Nothing here is more inscrutable than “Girl Loves Me,” a song that is largely sung in Nadsat, the slang language from A Clockwork Orange: “Cheena so sound, so titi up this malcheck, say, party up moodge, nanti vellocet round on Tuesday…” Translated, it describes a dark and debauched future, full of drugs, illicit sex and blackouts. (“Where the fuck did Monday go” is a repeated refrain.) Bowie whips out a Peter Gabriel-esque yodel-howl to punctuate these lines, and the string section only adds to the hazy grime. While Bowie has rarely cared what the reaction to his work will be, “Girl Loves Me” is further proof that on this album, he spared not a single thought for those who wouldn’t get it.

And then he ends his final record with two of his most beautiful ballads, upending that impression. “Dollar Days” is heartrending, Bowie dismissing thoughts of an afterlife: “If I never see the English evergreens I’m running to, it’s nothing to me, it’s nothing to see…” He spares a thought in the middle for the fans he has been keeping in the dark, telling them, “Don’t believe for just one second I’m forgetting you.” But the song is, now, very clearly about the force of will it took to create Blackstar and stay alive just long enough to see it released. “I’m dying to push their backs against the grain, and fool them all again and again,” he sings, telling us, his fans, how much he wants to keep going, keep on with the show. And he tries: “It’s all gone wrong, but on and on…”

“I Can’t Give Everything Away” is the last song on Bowie’s last record, and though its tone is very different – Bowie’s is an almost danceable major-key ditty featuring the harmonica part from his 1977 song “A New Career in a New Town” – it reminds me of Queen’s “The Show Must Go On.” It’s about keeping his cards close, even to the last, about continuing to make his life his art even as that life slips away. It also calls for us to look beyond the characters, the makeup, the artifice and see that Bowie has been truly putting his heart on his sleeve the entire time: “Seeing more and feeling less, saying no but meaning yes, that’s all I ever meant, that’s the message that I sent…”

Like Freddie Mercury, Bowie took on his illness privately, and faced death on his own terms, refusing to give everything away. His gift to us has always been his art, his life a show he’d been performing for 50 years, right up until his last breath. Blackstar is the final piece of that gift, and it’s difficult and dark and painful and extraordinary. I have always felt like we never knew David Bowie, like his theatrical nature and his tendency to slip characters and identities like robes kept us at arm’s length. But perhaps we did. Perhaps, in not giving everything away, he showed us more about himself than we thought.

Blackstar hurts, in ways I will not be able to explain. But like all important and painful experiences, it is also crushingly beautiful, a testament to an artist and a man like no other. I’m not sure what else to say. I’m not sure what else needs to be said. So I’m going to go back to what I’ve been doing for a week now – listening to David Bowie.

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Oh, hi! There you are. I’ve missed you.

Welcome to year sixteen of this silly music column. I’m not sure I’m ready to be on the downward slope toward two decades of this thing, but here we are. I was 26 when I started scribbling my musical thoughts down for the internet to read, and now I’m 41. I own a home, I have a good job, and I have a nice life, despite the fact that I still get depressed for no reason. But I’m working on that too. Life is very different than I thought it would be, but I’m in a good place, and I’m glad to be here.

And man, does 2016 look like a good year from where I sit. There are all kinds of life-related reasons I’m looking forward to the next 12 months, but I’ll stick to the entertainment-related ones here. I had some difficulty finding 15 reasons to love 2015 a year ago, but only two of those things didn’t end up panning out, and three of them wound up on my top 10 list. By contrast, I had no trouble coming up with 16 reasons to love 2016, and in fact I thought of more than I needed, and had to leave a couple off this list.

In short, it’s gonna be a good year. Here are 16 reasons why.

1. Megadeth, Dystopia.

Let’s start off with the albums I know are on their way. If you’d asked me back in high school whether Megadeth would still be going when I was over 40, I would have said… well, frankly, I would have said, “Of course they will.” But even my idealistic teenage metalhead self couldn’t have guessed that they would still be this good. Everything I’ve heard from album 15, Dystopia, is that classic blend of melodic and insanely heavy that Dave Mustaine does better than anyone. This one feels like a return to basics after the diverse Super Collider, but that’s OK. The basics are pretty awesome. Dystopia is out this week. (My inner teenage metalhead is also pretty excited about the new Anthrax, For All Kings – it’s their second since reuniting with singer Joey Belladonna, and it’s out Feb. 26.)

2. Shearwater, Jet Plane and Oxbow.

It’s been almost four years since Animal Joy, the last original album from Jonathan Meiburg and his band, and I’m excited to see where they go next. Shearwater has been on a purposeful journey from placid epics to more propulsive material, all of it powered by Meiburg’s unique, haunting voice. Jet Plane and Oxbow, out this week, promises a shift in sound to a more electronic palette, and though that sort of thing usually makes me wary, if any band can pull off that transition and make something extraordinary, it’s Shearwater.

3. Lush box set and new album.

So basically, every shoegaze band that was big when I was in high school and college is now back together and giving us new material. My Bloody Valentine, Swervedriver, Ride and Slowdive have all re-emerged, and now Lush is on the train. Next week, the tremendous British band will grant us a box set called Chorus that includes all of their albums and EPs, and sometime later this year, they’ll release a new record and tour behind it. I can’t wait.

4. Dream Theater, The Astonishing.

It’s been a while since I’ve breathlessly anticipated a Dream Theater album. But then, they’ve never made one like The Astonishing, a 130-minute sci-fi rock opera with a crazy backstory and a goofy power-of-music theme. The whole thing sounds totally ridiculous, which is exactly where Dream Theater lives. This is really their first major piece of work since Mike Portnoy left, and everything I hear about it makes me believe they all truly committed to it. Because if you’re gonna do a two-hour homage to 2112, you can’t half-ass it. This sounds… well, astonishing. It’s out next week.

5. The return of The X-Files.

Here’s a great way to round off January – six new episodes of the best paranoid sci-fi thriller ever. Helmed by creator Chris Carter and featuring some of the best writers of the original run (Darin Morgan!), this new X-Files mini-series will hopefully kickstart a renaissance. Or, at the very least, put a better capper on the show than the second movie did. Trust no one.

6. Kanye West, Swish.

So Yeezus wasn’t very good, and the songs I’ve heard from Swish have been a mixed bag, and I liked the previous, more humble title – So Help Me God – a lot better. Still, I’m quite looking forward to hearing Kanye’s seventh album. He’s one of the most talented record-makers in rap, and everything he’s done has been a grand departure from its predecessor. He’s spent a long time on this one, and I hope it’ll be worth it. Swish is out Feb. 11.

7. Nada Surf, You Know Who You Are.

This year is the 20th anniversary of Nada Surf’s debut, which featured their one and only hit (“Popular”). Frankly, it’s amazing that they recovered from that song at all, considering how little it sounds like the rest of their output, but it’s equally amazing that they’ve slowly transformed into one of the best pop-rock outfits around. You Know Who You Are, out on March 4, will be the band’s eighth, and if it’s even half as good as their last one, 2012’s The Stars Are Indifferent to Astronomy, it’ll be very good indeed. I’m always happy to see one-hit wonders survive and thrive, and Nada Surf is one of the most deserving examples of that I can think of.

8. A new Marillion album and tour.

There are few phrases that get me more excited than “a new Marillion album,” but one of them is “a new Marillion album and tour.” Marillion is one of my very favorite bands, and that they’ve remained incredibly creative and self-sufficient for as long as they have is completely remarkable. Their new, as-yet-untitled album will be their 18th – yes, 18th – and reports from the studio are encouraging. (Three epics!) The band funded this one through PledgeMusic, remaining their own bosses, and once it’s out this spring, they’ll be launching a world tour. They’ll be in Chicago for the first time in four years in October, and nothing will keep me away.

9. Bryan Scary’s Birds.

Speaking of independent musicians working through PledgeMusic, there’s Bryan Scary. He’s an absolute genius, having penned some of my favorite pop records of the past decade. Last year, he concentrated on his wonderful new band, Evil Arrows, issuing five terrific EPs before diving into Birds, his first new album in four years. I’ve pre-ordered, but I have no idea what to expect, other than brilliance.

10. The Nice Guys.

Seriously, have you seen that trailer?

11. A new Nine Inch Nails album.

Believe me, I’m beyond overjoyed that Trent Reznor has found a second career as an Oscar-winning composer. His film scores are dark and moody wonders, and I’ve often enjoyed them more than the films themselves. But nothing beats a new Nine Inch Nails record, and Reznor has promised one for 2016. This will be the follow-up to 2013’s Hesitation Marks, which updated and expanded the NIN sound nicely. Reznor’s body of work is remarkably consistent – more so than I would have expected 20 years ago – and I’m looking forward to where he goes next.

12. Circle of Dust reissues and new album.

Speaking of ‘90s industrial bands, here’s your chance to hear one of the best and most overlooked of them. Like NIN, Circle of Dust was a one-man project, and that one man now creates full-color electronic wonders under the name Celldweller. Circle of Dust made three albums, and all three of those, plus remix project Metamorphosis and side effort Argyle Park, will be released on Klayton’s own label with hours and hours of bonus material. I’m excited to see this chapter of industrial music’s history get the treatment it deserves. And he’s hinted at a new Circle of Dust record to accompany all the old stuff, which would just be marvelous.

13. James Blake, Radio Silence.

I feel like we’ve known the title of James Blake’s third album for years now. It’s been a long wait, but Blake is always worth it. He has a voice like no one else, and a minimalist sensibility that somehow finds the perfect almost-there backdrops for that voice. Evidently Kanye West is somehow involved with this one, which makes it even more intriguing… and makes waiting for it even more difficult.

14. Radiohead’s ninth album.

It’s been five long years since the relatively underwhelming The King of Limbs, and Radiohead has never taken this much time between albums. The stars are aligning, though, and they’re saying that the band’s ninth effort isn’t far off. I expect another surprise self-released effort, but what the music will sound like I have no idea. Will it be closer to the warm pop of In Rainbows or to the colder, more exacting jigsaw of Limbs? As usual, the band is telling us nothing.

15. U2, Songs of Experience.

Yes, this was on the list last year – it was one of the two predictions that didn’t pan out. (The other involved the Cure.) I’m hopeful, though, that the follow-up to the excellent Songs of Innocence will be with us this year. The fact that I’ve included this two years running should tell you how psyched I am for it. I hope we get to hear it in 2016.

16. Rogue One: A Star Wars Story.

I’ll close this list the same way I closed last year’s: with a new Star Wars movie. I enjoyed The Force Awakens at least as much as I expected I would – I have problems with it, but then I have problems with all of them, and this movie kickstarted the franchise in style. That’s what Star Wars is now, for better or worse – a franchise – and Rogue One should make that clear. The first movie set between episodes, this will be the story of the brave band of rebels that stole the plans for the original Death Star and got them to Princess Leia before the start of Episode IV. That’s a great idea for a movie, but even if it doesn’t work out, Episode VIII will be out five months later. We will soon double the number of existing Star Wars movies, and that thought thrills and chills me in equal measure. Like my other obsession, Doctor Who, Star Wars is going to outlive me, but I’m going to enjoy what I get to see.

And we’re off and running. Next week, I will review the first great album of 2016, and I bet you can guess what it is. Thanks to everyone taking this journey with me. Year sixteen! Hey ho, let’s go. Follow Tuesday Morning 3 A.M. on Facebook here.

See you in line Tuesday morning.

So listen. This is not how I wanted to start the year.

I had another column ready to go. In fact, it was my annual list of reasons why the next year will be the best one ever. It’s completely written, and I had planned to post it today and kick off my 16th year of this silly music column with a burst of hope.

And then we lost David Bowie.

And suddenly the wide-eyed optimism of that particular column just doesn’t seem right.

I was always more of a Bowie admirer than a Bowie fan. But for my entire musical life, he’s been there, often at the margins, making strange and beautiful music. I will admit here that the first Bowie album I heard all the way through was 1995’s Outside, not counting his stint with Tin Machine, which I loved before I even really knew who Bowie was. It’s usually overlooked, but Outside is amazing, as is its follow-up, Earthling, and those two records hooked me.

Coming in so late, it was easier for me to get a grasp on the sheer scope of the man’s talent and influence. There aren’t very many legends walking the earth – and now there is one less – but Bowie certainly fit that bill. There isn’t a corner of the musical world he hasn’t impacted in some way. Bowie made it not only acceptable to be a theatrical musical chameleon, he made it awesome. You never knew what Bowie would sound like, look like or act like, and that was thrilling, exhilarating.

Perhaps best of all, he remained a strong creative force until his final days. I’ve been reading a lot today about how Bowie timed the release of his final album, Blackstar, and his final video, “Lazarus,” with his own death, making that part of the performance. It’s incredible, and I will have a lot more to say about that next week, when I review the album. But even at 68, ravaged by a cancer he kept secret from the world, Bowie kept his astonishing musical imagination at full bloom.

I will not be able to articulate what a loss Bowie is to the world. So I will not even try. I’ll save my words for next week, when I will post both the column that was supposed to run in this space and my Blackstar review. For now, I’m going to stop talking about David Bowie and listen to some. I’m not sure where I’ll start, but it hardly matters. The journey isn’t about where it starts, or even about where it ends.

Rest in peace, David. And though it doesn’t seem like nearly enough, thank you.

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