“★ [Blackstar]” by David Bowie

Programming note: It’s 2010s week! I’m spotlighting some of my favorite records released between 2010 and 2019. Like previous decade-themed newsletter posts, I’ve selected albums that cover multiple genres and deliberately avoided the well-worn titles that top all “best of” lists for this decade. In other words, no blonde, To Pimp a Butterfly, and so on.

Hope you enjoy it!

The Thin White Duke’s swan song, a gripping curtain call on an illustrious career.

I remember the day David Bowie passed away in vivid detail. I was still working in radio, subbing in for the curmudgeon who usually did the morning newscasts and traffic. Though not in keeping with best practices, I led with the story of his passing. As the segment wrapped up and I threw to the commercial break, I queued up Blackstar and proceeded to play it at full volume out of the studio monitors—to the point where I nearly missed my next traffic cut-in.

Released just two days prior, it was a record I was still grappling with. Still trying to figure it out. Somehow, his death put everything into context for me. It was a head-spinning farewell to his fans and what felt like the universe at large. Even as someone who was intimately familiar with his previous work, I was blindsided by the record. I’ve never heard anything like it before or since. Here was a man in his late 60s, knowing his time was almost upon him, with absolutely nothing left to prove to even the most casual fan, who’d managed to chart yet another fascinating sonic course. Rock music’s most talented chameleon had one last transformation in store.

Working with frequent collaborator Tony Visconti, this is Bowie unburdened by any commercial expectations or career retrospective tie-ins. He’s in full experimental mode, and the resulting songs are frequently gripping. The epic title track that opens the album unambiguously wrestles with his death and how he’ll be remembered in the immediate aftermath, while “Tis a Pity She Was a Whore” turns a WWI fantasia into a cautionary tale that expertly escalates the paranoia. “Lazarus” is even more ambitious, attempting to quantify the entirety of a human life into a single track, blurring the lines between this world and the afterlife.

Those highlights aside, I think he saved the best for last with “I Can’t Give Everything Away.” Like on My Back Was A Bridge For You To Cross, Bowie turns repetition into an art form, ensuring the five-word refrain burrows deep into your psyche. It’s a fittingly stylish end to one of the most illustrious artistic careers ever.