No musician understood the power of the image—still, moving, mime, puppets, you name it—better than David Bowie. He was making music videos before MTV would eventually consecrate the form; it can be argued that his emphasis on character, costume, narrative, and personal reinvention helped set the stage for the arrival of music videos as such a crucial artistic medium in the 1980s.
He had a symbiotic relationship with MTV; in the early and mid '80s, the network helped catapult him to new levels of worldwide fame. But that didn't stop him from criticizing the company: Bowie famously chided the VJ Mark Goodman for the network's reluctance to air videos by black artists. And he used his videos not only as the opportunity to develop his radically gender-fluid character, but also, occasionally, to extend more pointed critiques of racial and class injustice.
Mainly, though, he gave us striking and indelible images that are impossible to forget, like his lithe frame silhouetted in the mist, or a rain of white rice tumbling down in slow motion, or a mushroom cloud rising over the Australian outback.
And then, at the end of his life, Bowie returned to the form to create some of the most triumphant work of his entire career, turning his own imminent death into three very different, and profoundly moving, video treatments. He kept us watching, rapt, until the end.
"Space Oddity" (1972)
Bowie is relaxed and resplendent under his orange paintbrush mullet, bathed in reddish light as he strums an acoustic guitar. Directed by Mick Rock, the video is unapologetically bare bones, but oscilloscope pulses, pans across studio mixers, and some judicious shaking of the camera do a surprisingly compelling job of translating the song's zero-G atmosphere.
"Life on Mars?" (1973)
In contrast to the song's vivid descriptions of the dramatic scenes playing out in a darkened cinema, there's nothing to see here but Bowie himself. But his expression and body language are as rich as any wide-screen epic: those blue-shadowed eyes, bobbing in the washed-out frame; the gravity-defying fluff of his hairdo; the perfect curl of his lips in profile. In some shots, his skin tone is so blown out that he seems to merge with the white background, like some pink-lipped Cheshire Cat. Despite the song's cryptic imagery, there's no mistaking the message of the video: Here is a man who understands the power of spectacle.
"Heroes" (1977)
Of all the images that presented Bowie as a man from outer space, the opening shot here, with the singer wreathed in luminous fog, his head tipped slightly to one side, is one of the most elegant. (It seems unlikely that director Stanley Dorfman would have seen Close Encounters of the Third Kind, which was released in December the same year, which makes the similarity with key shots from that film all the more remarkable.) As the camera slowly zooms in on his elven features, he really does look like a creature from another world. A portrait at once intimate and strange.
"Peace on Earth / Little Drummer Boy" (1977)
An unlikely inter-generational summit meeting between Bing Crosby, 73, and Bowie, just 30 years old. Crosby hides a not-unkindly barb or two beneath his avuncular façade; Bowie, tongue firmly in cheek, plays an overconfident young hotshot. It wasn't all an act; behind the scenes, Bowie protested the producers' choice of "Little Drummer Boy." As a solution, the show's musical director and arranger co-wrote "Peace on Earth" with Bowie, giving the world one hell of a Christmas present.
"D.J." (1979)
No fancy concept, no special effects—well, save one minor explosion less than 30 seconds in—just Bowie wreaking havoc in a radio station's DJ booth, getting kissed by passersby on the street, and looking absolutely ravishing in a pink belted jumpsuit and gasmask. (This song paved the way for LCD Soundsystem's very existence, by the way.)
"Ashes to Ashes" (1980)
Early video effects, creepy costumes, Martian landscapes, padded walls, a bulldozer, and Bowie in a creepy Pierrot costume—he and director David Mallet ushered in the new decade in fine, outré fashion.
"Fashion" (1980)
Suiting the song's eerie fusion of disco and new wave, the clip offers the uncomfortable spectacle of Bowie and his band playing for an indifferent nightclub audience—Bowie dancing like a gerbil and making truly awful cocaine faces—interspersed with images of wildly costumed fashionistas waiting in soup lines. It's every bit as abrasive as the song's guitars and deadpan lyrics. And at 1:35, his dancers convulse wildly, a move that he'll reprise, to terrifying effect, in "Blackstar."
"Under Pressure" (1981)
More soup lines, this time from the Depression era, turn up in this montaged clip accompanying Bowie's defiantly euphoric collaboration with Queen. Juxtaposing clips of German expressionist films like Nosferatu with footage of city crowds, imploding buildings, violent demonstrations, and outdoor rock festivals, it plays out a little bit like a cut-and-paste answer to Koyaanisqatsi.
"Let's Dance" (1983)
Bowie's first real smash of the MTV era, the video for "Let's Dance" flipped the song's red shoes, with their hints of Cinderella and The Wizard of Oz, into an unlikely dramatization of the struggles of Australia's Aboriginal people.
"China Girl" (1983)
It's easy to mistake the song's critique of Orientalism as Orientalism itself, and the same goes for the video—that thing Bowie does with the corners of his eyes can be difficult to watch, even understanding that he was playing a character. (Even more difficult to watch: the fake execution of his female lead.) But you've got to respect his unwillingness to be too didactic—and his determination to make the viewer squirm. Among the unforgettable images the video gave us: Bowie standing in the middle of the street, tossing a bowl of rice over his head.
David Bowie & Mick Jagger: "Dancing in the Street" (1985)
Watching these two go head to head is hilarious, and instructive: Where Jagger is antic and unstoppable, Bowie, in comparison, is a model of restraint, even in his billowing white duster and printed jumpsuit—and even though he's acting out in ways he never would in one of his own videos. They shot the video on the same day they recorded the song, a benefit for Live Aid—both recording and video were wrapped up in just 13 hours—and the spontaneity of the affair is palpable.
"Day-In Day-Out" (1987)
Proof that even Bowie wasn't immue to the heavy-handedness of the late '80s, although the video is somewhat redeemed by Bowie's gilding moves on roller skates.
"Never Let Me Down" (1987)
Jean Baptiste Mondino directed this sepia-tinged tribute to the dance marathons of the first half of the 20th century; the drowsy, elegant images suit the song's understated, nostalgic qualities.
Tin Machine: "Under the God" (1989)
Say what you will about Bowie's rock group Tin Machine; here, at least, is a chance to watch Bowie flanked by cage dancers and stage dives. Oh, and bearded, although fortunately that phase didn't last too long.
"I'm Afraid of Americans" (1997)
The song has endured better than you might expect, given its glitchy breakbeats—post-Prodigy, post-Judgment Night, a true artifact of the late '90s—and the video remains even more relevant: Riffing on Taxi Driver, it stars Trent Reznor as the embodiment of America's seething, deep-seated violent tendencies. (Bowie, always ahead of the curve, also anticipates Drake's "Hotline Bling" turtleneck by nearly two decades.)
"The Stars (Are Out Tonight)" (2013)
David Bowie and Tilda Swinton, together at last (plus assorted incubi/succubi). Enough said.
"Blackstar" (2015)
What seemed cryptic just two months ago suddenly becomes crystal clear. Amid fallen spacesuits, bejeweled skulls, strange rituals, convulsive dancers, a girl with a tail, and a total eclipse, Bowie—bandaged and with buttons for eyes—faces down the infinite. It is almost unthinkable: Just months before his own death, he was art-directing his ascension.
"Lazarus" (2016)
Bowie's final video is, frankly, hard to watch. Not because he looks ill, which he was—he comes across as vital as he'd ever been. (My God, just look at him in that woolen jumpsuit, busting out Bob Fosse moves—he looks incredible.) It's what lurks beneath the surface of this otherwise unflinching look into the void. It looks, as he scribbles away with an old-fashioned ink pen, a little bit like terror: He bites his nails, grimaces comically. But it also looks like eagerness—the readiness to just get it all over with, to finally be free. Everybody knows him now, it's true, but as he pulls back into his closet, it's impossible not to feel like he's still one step ahead of all of us.
