We Are the Dead

David Bowie is evidently versed in the art of the double entendre, and many of his songs rival even Bob Dylan's Desolation Row in lyrical complexity. This is most likely one of those songs. To me, We Are The Dead is a song of juxtaposition and comparison - the juxtaposition of tender affection and corporate avarice, and the comparison between totalitarian oppression and prostitution. The melancholy musings of the narrator as he regards his lover are broken the grotesque imagery of a corrupted society. Towards the end of the song, the juxtaposition disappears, as the beauty of a fragile relationship is crushed by the weight of the world.

The entirety of the first chorus appears to be an explicit description of street prostitution. The narrator is pimped out, instructed to stay close enough that his employers can maintain a hold over him, but also to keep a low profile. He prowls the streets and deceives other young people down on their luck, seducing them into his world of shame and abuse. Despite the allusion that the narrator does in fact carry out these tasks, he seems to feel even more ashamed for his participation in the deconstruction of innocence. Just another pathetic minion carrying out the commands of yet another pathetic minion, and, for whatever reason, he is powerless to rebel.

So the night-walking narrator of We Are The Dead is something of an alter-ego to O'Brien and Winston of Nineteen Eighty-Four. The Ministry of Truth is symbolised by a brothel or group of pimps, and prostitution is another word for fascism. It's fascinating to get a look behind the scenes and into the mind of the enemy. O'Brien clearly possessed humanity and even a sense of individuality at some point, but he has allowed himself to become the shadow of a monster. In blind service, he continues to convert more souls into withered caricatures of living people, passing down his legacy of guilt and colourless existence. Winston and Julia are the innocents in the song, and O'Brien seeks to turn them into copies of himself.

And they're breaking. Winston looks at Julia or Julia looks at Winston, and both wonder whether or not they should simply give up and give in. When all is said and done, they do. They give up they're ideals, each other, and ultimately themselves. In the moment of the couple's capture, Winston implores Julia:

"Oh, caress yourself my juicy, For my hands have all but withered"

Thereby implying that his hands have not completely withered and are not completely dead. Of course, we know that both hero and heroine will be dead. A betrayal, although constituting weakened character, does not specifically indicate an utter lack of humanity on a person's part. It is the final betrayal in Nineteen Eight-Four that speaks of this deficiency. So who are The Dead? They are Winston, Julia, O'Brien. They are all who came before them and all that will follow after them, although even as they lay symbolically dying, they pray that someone will survive in a world where they themselves could not.

So there you have it: David Bowie's intellectually and emotionally stimulating masterpiece converted into my own especial brand of philosophical masturbation. Clearly, I Am The Dead.