‘Look up here, I’m in heaven… Everybody knows me now’ – it’s understandable, the rush to read these lines from David Bowie’s final album, Blackstar, as a knowing look forwards to his own death earlier this year.  They are, after all, taken from a song called ‘Lazarus’, not to mention the fact that Bowie died a mere two days after the album’s release, having been diagnosed with cancer 18 months earlier. But now we have some distance from the singer’s January death, and can move past the claustrophobia of purely biographical interpretations. Given the events of 2016, Bowie’s words read as much like commentaries on the fallout after any icon’s death than as predictions of his own.

‘Everybody knows me now.’ We’ve seen this often (too often) this year: an influential artist’s death usually sparks a revival of interest in their work, like a consolation prize they can never enjoy. For a musical icon, death is never the end. Obituaries will be broadcast, ‘Greatest Hits’ albums compiled (such as Bowie’s own Legacy, or Prince’s 4Ever). Leonard Cohen’s particular revival has been remarkable: according to Billboard, Cohen’s sales and streams have increased by 407% since his death in November.

I’m tentatively proud to be a part of that. Before Cohen died, he was always on my radar. An artist I knew of, but had regrettably never explored. I knew ‘Hallelujah’; I could probably stretch to the chorus of ‘Anthem’ on a good day. But that was as far as it went. Then, convinced by televised obituaries and magazine articles, I started to explore his work. I only wish I’d done so a year ago. Cohen’s rusty voice became my soundtrack to the last few weeks. Now, I could tell you the chorus of ‘Anthem’ even on a bad day.

Discovering a new artist is, of course, always more exciting when you know they’re still alive. That way there’s the possibility of learning new information from them, gaining new insights from interviews on their work. Also (though you’d never like to admit it) the chance, however remote, that you might one day see them, somewhere. And yet, had it not been for Cohen’s death, his music would never have come alive for me. As for Prince, I’m not nearly qualified to comment. But who knows? Maybe the tributes I’ve seen after his death will prompt me to explore the purple pop-star‘s oeuvre yet.

“The musical world knows best how to cheat death of its sting”

My point is that the loss of an artist, while painful to fans, is not a purely negative force – it can often revitalise public interest in their work (Bowie’s Blackstar was his first and only album to reach US number one, for example). Death provides us with an opportunity to re-evaluate the artist and return to neglected parts of their canon, and that fact should be celebrated even as their passing is mourned. It’s always a tragedy to lose an artist of Bowie or Cohen’s calibre, but 2016 was not the bleak year it’s been made out to be (not for music, at least). The musical world knows best how to cheat death of its sting, and Bowie’s legacy shows this vibrantly. It’s always said after a musician’s death that they live on in our memories, and they live on through their music. Bowie seems not only to be living on through his art, but even to be releasing new material from beyond the grave.

What do we do when our idols become monsters?

In addition to the three new tracks posthumously included on the soundtrack to off-Broadway musical Lazarus, owners of the vinyl release of Blackstar are continuing to find messages hidden in its artwork. Leaving the record sleeve in the sun reveals the image of a galaxy on its otherwise-sombre black background; the run times on the album’s back cover appear to be printed in a font called Terminal, part of the ‘Lazarus’ design suite. The most subtle–and touching–easter egg can be found when the gatefold cover is half-closed, reflecting an image of Bowie on one side onto a field of stars on the other. This could be a coincidence but, as Andy Cush puts it, “it’s still a nice thought to imagine the Starman among the stars.” This is an ongoing process of discovery: designer Jonathan Barnbrook has revealed “there’s one big thing which people haven’t discovered yet on the album. Let’s just say, if people find it, they find it, and if they don’t, they don’t. And remember what Bowie said about not explaining everything.” It’s this refusal to explain, to provide closure, that has given Bowie’s legacy its endurance–as he sings on the album’s closing track, ‘I Can’t Give Everything Away’. In spite of his death (or perhaps specifically to spite his death), Bowie remains present as an artist who challenges us. For me, with the new discoveries I have yet to make into their work, Bowie and Cohen are artists who have survived this ‘bleak’ year – even if they have not survived it alive.