Watch: David Bowie’s "The Stars (Are Out Tonight)"

Bowie releases second song in his mythical comeback with a video starring Tilda Swinton.

It’s fair to say a collective shudder of joy swept round the NS when David Bowie launched his well-hidden comeback last month with the video for Where Are We Now? And the excitement doubles with today’s release of The Stars (Are Out Tonight), a music video/micro film starring avant-garde actress extraordinaire Tilda Swinton. The track is Bowie’s second single off his forthcoming album The Next Day, due out 11 March.

The film: a stylish six minutes with an ambiguous narrative. It's loosely plotted - Bowie and Swinton feature as a pastel-perfect suburban couple whose lives are invaded by a pair of modelish androgyns (played by real-life models Andrej Pejic and Saskia De Brauw) who begin to pull the strings, puppetmaster-like, on the unwitting couple.

The song: a swift moving track with a rippling backbone of reverb guitar - a clear departure from his previous release (which our pop critic Kate Mossman describes as  “elegiac” and “luxuriantly self-reflexive”.) The Telegraph's Neil McCormick called it a return to the more “swaggering” rock 'n' roll days of Ziggy Stardust. I’m most concerned with the sideways fable Bowie seems to hint at with these ominous, poetic lyrics that leave the head spinning: 

The stars are never far away, they watch us from behind their shades - Brigitte, Jack and Kate and Brad. From behind the tinted windows stretch, gleaming like blackened sunshine…

They know just what we do. The way we toss and turn at night. They’re waiting to make their moves on us.

Autobiographical musings on the nature of stardom? A fantastical imagining of the modern celebrity? Bowie’s left us guessing, once again.

 

David Bowie performs in Paris, 2002. (Photo: Getty Images)

Charlotte Simmonds is a writer and blogger living in London. She was formerly an editorial assistant at the New Statesman. You can follow her on Twitter @thesmallgalleon.

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“The Hole-Up”: a poem by Matthew Sweeney

“You could taste the raw / seagull you’d killed and plucked, / the mussels you’d dug from sand, / the jellyfish that wobbled in your / hands as you slobbered it.”

Lying on your mouth and nose
on the hot sand, you recall
a trip in a boat to the island –
the fat rats that skittered about
after god-knows-what dinner,
the chubby seals staring up,
the sudden realisation that a man
on the run had wintered there
while the soldiers scoured
the entire shoreline to no avail –
you knew now you had been him
out there. You could taste the raw
seagull you’d killed and plucked,
the mussels you’d dug from sand,
the jellyfish that wobbled in your
hands as you slobbered it.
You saw again that first flame
those rubbed stones woke in
the driftwood pile, and that rat
you grilled on a spar and found
delicious. Yes, you’d been that man,
and you had to admit now you
missed that time, that life,
though you were very glad you
had no memory of how it ended.


Matthew Sweeney’s Black Moon was shortlisted for the 2007 T S Eliot Prize. His latest collection is Inquisition Lane (Bloodaxe).

This article first appeared in the 21 July 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The English Revolt