It has been ten years since David Bowie died, leaving behind a final album, Blackstar, that felt less like a goodbye and more like a riddle. In the decade since, the industry of “Bowieology” has only accelerated, with exhibitions, documentaries, and archives attempting to pin down the man who made a career out of being unpinnable.

In this week’s podcast, I sat down with author Alexander Larman to discuss his new book, Lazarus. Unlike the countless cradle-to-grave biographies that fixate on the glam rock explosion of the 1970s, Larman focuses on the second half of Bowie’s life—a period often dismissed as a slow decline, but which he argues contains some of his most fascinating work.

The Wilderness Years

The late 1980s were not kind to David Bowie. After the global smash of Let’s Dance (1983), Bowie seemed to lose his nerve. He tried to disappear into a band, Tin Machine, a project that was universally panned. As Larman notes, this period reveals a Bowie who was no longer two steps ahead of the culture, but flailing behind it, desperately trying old tricks that no longer worked.

However, it is precisely this vulnerability that makes the later years so compelling. The 1990s saw a creative renaissance with albums like Outside and The Buddha of Suburbia, where Bowie began to shed the desperate need for commercial approval and return to the experimentalism that defined his best work.

Performance Art in Real Time

One of the central themes of our conversation was the idea of authenticity. Was David Bowie ever “real”? Larman argues that every interview Bowie gave was a form of performance art. He would charm the interviewer, mirror their expectations, and leave them feeling they had unlocked a secret—only to say the exact same thing to the next journalist.

This extends to his politics and sexuality. We discussed his controversial flirtation with fascist imagery in the 1970s (often dismissed as drug-fueled provocation) and his “coming out” as bisexual in 1972—a statement he later walked back. Larman suggests we shouldn’t look for a coherent ideology in Bowie, but rather see him as a prism reflecting the anxieties and obsessions of his time.

The Final Masterpiece

The conversation inevitably turned to Blackstar. Released just days before his death in 2016, it stands alongside Nick Cave’s Skeleton Tree and Leonard Cohen’s You Want It Darker as a profound meditation on mortality.

Larman highlights a recurring theme in Bowie’s later work: the terror of a godless universe. From Heathen (2002) to Blackstar, Bowie grappled with the idea that “God is dead, and we are alone.” It is this philosophical depth, combined with a return to musical innovation, that cements his legacy not just as a pop star, but as a major artist of the 20th and 21st centuries.

The King on the Throne

We ended by discussing a famous photograph from Bob Geldof’s wedding in the mid-80s. In the background stand the titans of 80s pop—Sting, Duran Duran, Spandau Ballet. In the foreground, sitting almost on a throne, is Bowie.

It is a perfect visual metaphor. The stars behind him were all, in some way, his children—artists who had built their careers on the aesthetic and sonic templates Bowie created in the 70s. He defined a generation, and then, in his later years, he redefined what it meant to age as an icon.

Alexander Larman’s book Lazarus is available now.

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Transcript

Nick: Welcome again to the Explaining History podcast.

I’m joined today by Alexander Larman, who has written a new biography of David Bowie, Lazarus.

We are recording this in December, but it is going out closer to the sad anniversary of Bowie’s passing, which in 2026 will mark 10 years since he died. It is a time when conversations about Bowie and his legacy will be at the forefront of many people’s thoughts.

Welcome, Alexander. “Bowieology” is quite a field, isn’t it? How was it navigating this huge canon of work?

Alexander: It’s a massive challenge because people feel very proprietary about him. Because he had so many personae, everyone has their own version of David Bowie. He once said, “I am only the person who as many people believe that I can be.”

I’ve always wanted to write about him, but I needed to find the right approach. There are so many cradle-to-grave biographies, and I didn’t feel I had anything new to say about the 70s. I was born in 1981, so that era was before my time.

The central question I wanted to answer was: Who was David Bowie? I thought looking at the second half of his life—the under-explored period—was the way in. We think we know the Ziggy Stardust era and the Let’s Dance era. But by 1989, he’s doing the Tin Machine project, which was a failure.

We see the idea of Bowie—the man who was always two steps ahead—flailing. He’s behind the curve, trying old tricks that don’t work. To me, that vulnerability was the way into his character.

Nick: That’s interesting because growing up, I liked Bowie, but I saw him as a singles artist who was now making music for people like Sting or Phil Collins fans.

Alexander: Exactly. Researching this was a process of reassessment. It’s been 10 years since he died, so we can now look at the full canon. Blackstar stands as an unarguable masterpiece, but we also have to ask what was going on in his life when he recorded the “bad” albums.

The answer seems to be a long period where he was trying to catch up, trying to be other people. When he finally stops that and falls back into his “David Bowie-ness,” he succeeds again.

It’s an interesting story about a man. I’ve written biographies of Lord Rochester and the Duke of Windsor, and you can make a judgment on them. But with Bowie, he remains elusive.

I was relieved to find out from people who worked with him—like Mike Garson and Reeves Gabrels—that he was a decent person. My daughter’s middle name is Bowie, so I would have been devastated if he turned out to be a monster!

Some early readers have said I’m quite hard on him in the first third of the book. That’s because I’m dealing with a period of decline, and most people aren’t at their best then.

Nick: You mention the Bowie estate. They are notoriously protective, aren’t they?

Alexander: They have never cooperated with a biography and likely never will. But interestingly, the interviewees I approached fell into line quite fast. The book isn’t authorized, but I suspect if the estate wanted to block it, they would have put up more obstacles. The Bowie machine depends on him not being tarred by association. Look at Morrissey—it’s tragic that people feel they can’t listen to The Smiths anymore because of his politics.

Nick: People often bring up Bowie’s flirtation with fascism in the 70s.

Alexander: Yes, he made drug-crazed remarks about Britain needing a strong leader. He never exactly refuted them, just blamed the drugs. It gets harder to dig into the “real” Bowie because there is no sense from the music or interviews of what he actually believed.

What I found fascinating while writing the book is how obsessed he was with a godless world. From the millennium onwards, especially after 9/11, his work is dominated by the idea that we are alone in the universe. Nietzsche was right: God is dead.

He often talked about being depressed in interviews, but every interview was performance art. He would charm the journalist, make them feel they were the only one who understood him, and then say the exact same thing to the next person. He believed what he was saying in the moment, but it was always a performance.

Nick: Bruce Springsteen said something similar recently—that the “Blue Collar Rocker” is as much a character as Ziggy Stardust.

Alexander: Absolutely. Being a musician is an artifice. Bowie just understood that better than anyone else. He cycled through styles—folk, mod, glam—until he found the one that stuck.

Nick: The moment in 1972 on Top of the Pops when he puts his arm around Mick Ronson—it seems innocuous now, but it was seismic then.

Alexander: It was only five years after the partial decriminalization of homosexuality. You didn’t see people doing that on the BBC. Even if Bowie wasn’t “really” bisexual—he later said it was just for publicity—the effect was real. He synthesized Oscar Wilde, Jean Genet, and the underground into something accessible for the mainstream.

His journey through the 70s was incredibly fast. Then, boom—1983, Let’s Dance. It’s a great album, but totally atypical. It made him a global superstar, but alienated the kids who loved Ziggy.

Then we get to Blackstar. It stands alongside Nick Cave’s Skeleton Tree and Leonard Cohen’s You Want It Darker as a masterpiece of mortality. It’s hard to listen to, but I get something new from it every time.

Nick: We have to talk about his film career.

Alexander: I cheated slightly and included The Last Temptation of Christ (1988) in the book because his performance as Pontius Pilate is fantastic. He has three great roles in this later period: Pilate, Andy Warhol in Basquiat, and Tesla in The Prestige.

Nick: There will be a hundred more books about him, won’t there?

Alexander: Yes, especially now that the V&A East archive is open. It wasn’t fully cataloged when I finished the book, but there is so much material there—unrealized projects, notes. It won’t change the basic narrative, but it will add depth for the nerds like us.

There is no definitive David Bowie. He is kaleidoscopic. He shifts depending on your perspective.

Nick: I want to end on that photo from Bob Geldof’s wedding. Bowie is sitting in the front, almost on a throne, while Sting, Duran Duran, and Spandau Ballet stand behind him.

Alexander: They were all his children. They grew up wanting to be him, just as he grew up wanting to be Elvis. His greatest achievement wasn’t just his music, but defining how a generation of pop stars looked and sounded.

Nick: Alexander, thank you so much. Lazarus is out in January 2026 to mark the anniversary.

Alexander: Thank you.

Nick: As always, please buy the book from an independent retailer. Take care, everyone. Bye-bye.