Space Oddity (1969) – David Bowie

(Part One of The Moon In The Mind’s Eye tetralogy)

Initially released during the summer of 1969, (when Harriet Wheeler stayed up as a little girl to watch the first mission to the moon), “Space Oddity” explores the disconnect between public adoration and one’s sense of self-worth. Major Tom’s mission allegorically recounts society’s whimsical fascinations, the trivial details over which the media trifles, and the tenuous creation of celebrity status. However, when Major Tom actually steps out into space, he steps into a psychological vacuum, realizing that he is an insignificant object tethered to a piece of metal. The mission no longer defines him: alone in space, all his accolades on Earth are meaningless. He does not feel like the man he was—Major Tom, the renowned astronaut—so much so, that he has lost the desire to pilot the spacecraft for re-entry, allowing it to continue on its course without navigation. No longer an “astronaut,” Tom says farewell to his wife and his former identity, orbiting the Earth incommunicado in pursuit of his re-defined existence.

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Major Tom (1983) – Peter Schilling

(Part Two of The Moon In The Mind’s Eye tetralogy)

As “Space Oddity” redux, Peter Schilling audaciously invoked a David Bowie classic, setting himself up to fail. While “Major Tom” succeeds of its own accord, the fact that it does so despite its derivative theme is a testament to the appeal of Schilling’s adaptation.

Its pulsating synth, scraping guitar, stout bass and propulsive beat immediately distance “Major Tom” from the more deliberately paced “Space Oddity.” Schilling dwells on the details of the countdown, setting up a red herring that foreshadows a technical malfunction. As in “Space Oddity,” once in orbit, Major Tom questions the meaning of his mission. Likewise, he refuses to re-enter the Earth’s atmosphere, sending a farewell to his wife. To further clarify the fate of Bowie’s Major Tom, Schilling posits that he voluntarily marooned himself in orbit, perhaps suffering from dementia. What truly elevates Schilling’s version is its uplifting anthemic chorus that melodically parallels its lyrics—drifting, falling, floating. The chorus reveals a little more with each refrain, until its exultant coda is suspended in celestial background vocals, stirring the soul in a spine-tingling denouement.

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Ghosts of American Astronauts (1988) – The Mekons

(Part Three of The Moon In The Mind’s Eye tetralogy)

“Ghosts of American Astronauts” is an alluring, well-disguised commentary on the values by which America defines its heroes. The grandeur of the first landing on the moon allowed America a diversion from the ongoing Vietnam War. In 1969, America regarded astronauts in general as heroes and held them in high regard, so much so that, even in death, they would remain in the public’s collective memory. The Nixon administration received the glory for the mission’s success, despite its responsibility for the quagmire in Vietnam. On the other hand, U.S. soldiers fighting in Vietnam were vilified as baby killers for whom there was no heroes’ welcome upon their return.

For all we know, this cinematic event could have been filmed on a soundstage. [In its closing moments, My Favorite’s “Absolute Zero” alludes to this notion as well.] What good is landing on the moon if the freedoms of America are taken for granted or abused?: “A flag flying free in a vacuum.” Warning of the precarious missions into space to appease mankind’s brazenness, Sally Timms alludes to the inherent dangers of space travel, as if the fate of Icarus were inevitable. Indeed, two years earlier the Space Shuttle Challenger had disintegrated 73 seconds into its flight.

Timms’ ethereal lead and double-tracked background vocals sedately bathe in lush reverb. Generous compression imparts a dreamlike sheen to the entire mix. Occasionally, a phase shifter causes the heavens above to swirl. Beguiling and insidious, “Ghosts” lulls even as it criticizes a large contingent of its audience—or at least their parents’ generation.

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Monochrome (1997) – The Sundays

(Part Four of The Moon In The Mind’s Eye tetralogy)

Subdued trumpets transport us back to a moment when the world gathered to watch the July 20, 1969 lunar landing. With childlike fascination, Harriet Wheeler’s delicate voice fondly recalls the hazy details of a night long ago, as if watching an old 8mm film. Wheeler uses the grammatically incorrect “me and my sister” to suggest that she was young at the time (6, in fact), when the siblings surreptitiously spied upon the guests who had gathered around the sitting room telly in the early morning hours.

At the foot of the staircase, the girls watch the astronauts bound sluggishly across the surface of the moon, as if puppets suspended on wires, cavorting on a surreal stage. Guitar notes waver in elasticity, a state of weightless buoyancy. Wheeler recalls the comfort of hearing adult laughter—familiarity amidst the curious event they are witnessing—and the momentous beauty of the world celebrating in unison. Perhaps Wheeler also wistfully laments the loss of childhood innocence—the days when she could put blind faith in things she did not understand.

Wheeler takes one last pull at the heartstrings by reminding us of the awe and fanciful perspective of childhood we eventually leave behind—marveling at the dangerous romance of space exploration and the uncertainty of what it all means: “And I run to look in the sky and / I half expect to hear them asking to come down / Will they fly or will they fall?” Quite possibly, to this day, a part of her still wonders. . . .

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