Bowie went out on his own terms. Until the very end of his life, he was stylish, provocative, and engaging; in short, he was a pop artist of the highest order. Although dying of cancer without fanfare, he recorded a brilliant album that fiercely wrestled with his own mortality. His boundless curiosity pushed him to numerous aesthetic transformations over the course of his career, and Blackstar was a fitting sendoff, another chameleon musical effort, this time conjuring up the dark arts of jazz fusion.
Released on his 69th birthday, Blackstar was a knowing farewell. Bowie died two days later. On the towering "Lazarus," Bowie opens with the following 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
The song's nocturnal guitars and downcast saxophones transition into a flurry of defiance, resisting any notion that Bowie, up against the universal change, will be anything other than wholly himself: "Oh, I'll be free / Just like that bluebird / Oh, I'll be free / Ain't that just like me?"
On "I Can't Give Everything Away," Bowie hints at the limitations of mortality against a glorious backdrop of free jazz.
Seeing more and feeling less
Saying no but meaning yes
This is all I ever meant
That's the message that I sent
The song--like "Lazarus" and the title track--is as stunning as any in the Bowie catalog, a grand good-bye to the things of this world with a sweeping, heart-felt gesture to our short-lived season. The chorus is a question, a declaration, and a resignation.
Recorded in secret at New York City's Magic Shop, Blackstar was Bowie's 25th studio album and the only one to top the Billboard 200 in the United States. He tapped long-time producer and collaborator Tony Visconti to helm the project, and their best decision was recruiting a local jazz combo led by Donny McCaslin's brilliant saxophone. (Bowie's long affection for the instrument started when he first learned to play it as a young boy). The experimental exercises give the record a restless feel, as the instruments ricochet and spiral throughout the tracks, sometimes in bewildering paths, as if striving to find some foothold in the waning light. All the while, Bowie's pictorial, cryptic, and trippy writing sends his voice into the gloom, relentlessly emotive and majestic.
The ultimate irony is that this last record reawakened the public's appreciation for Bowie's grand myth-making. Blackstar provided an opportunity for many to explore and reexamine his illustrious output, which is still, to this day, so resoundingly alive. It was the perfect capstone for the narrative arc of his career, a final reassurance that all of his artistry and style was truly the sort of genius seemingly hailed from the great beyond. As the public poured through his life in the immediate aftermath, I was deeply struck by these photos taken by his long-time photographer shortly before his death. He looked rakish and impish in a gloriously cut suit, almost as if his joyful poses were an act of rebellion to father time. What a way to go.
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
The song's nocturnal guitars and downcast saxophones transition into a flurry of defiance, resisting any notion that Bowie, up against the universal change, will be anything other than wholly himself: "Oh, I'll be free / Just like that bluebird / Oh, I'll be free / Ain't that just like me?"
On "I Can't Give Everything Away," Bowie hints at the limitations of mortality against a glorious backdrop of free jazz.
Seeing more and feeling less
Saying no but meaning yes
This is all I ever meant
That's the message that I sent
The song--like "Lazarus" and the title track--is as stunning as any in the Bowie catalog, a grand good-bye to the things of this world with a sweeping, heart-felt gesture to our short-lived season. The chorus is a question, a declaration, and a resignation.
Recorded in secret at New York City's Magic Shop, Blackstar was Bowie's 25th studio album and the only one to top the Billboard 200 in the United States. He tapped long-time producer and collaborator Tony Visconti to helm the project, and their best decision was recruiting a local jazz combo led by Donny McCaslin's brilliant saxophone. (Bowie's long affection for the instrument started when he first learned to play it as a young boy). The experimental exercises give the record a restless feel, as the instruments ricochet and spiral throughout the tracks, sometimes in bewildering paths, as if striving to find some foothold in the waning light. All the while, Bowie's pictorial, cryptic, and trippy writing sends his voice into the gloom, relentlessly emotive and majestic.
The ultimate irony is that this last record reawakened the public's appreciation for Bowie's grand myth-making. Blackstar provided an opportunity for many to explore and reexamine his illustrious output, which is still, to this day, so resoundingly alive. It was the perfect capstone for the narrative arc of his career, a final reassurance that all of his artistry and style was truly the sort of genius seemingly hailed from the great beyond. As the public poured through his life in the immediate aftermath, I was deeply struck by these photos taken by his long-time photographer shortly before his death. He looked rakish and impish in a gloriously cut suit, almost as if his joyful poses were an act of rebellion to father time. What a way to go.
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