1972: The Year an Alien Changed Rock Forever

It’s impossible to fully understand the phenomenon of The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars without knowing the historical context that preceded it. When David Bowie released this album in 1972, alongside his inseparable partner Mick Ronson, rock had just lost its gods: Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, and Jim Morrison. In just a couple of years, the hippie movement had collapsed, and its icons fell one by one, creating a myth that cemented the “rock star” as a nearly divine… and doomed figure.

Bowie, always one step ahead, with a sharp mind and magnetic stage presence, understood that music could no longer go on the same way. So, he decided to create his own myth: an alien who came to Earth, half messiah, half rock star, to save us, drive us mad… and self-destruct. Ziggy Stardust was born from that chaos and shaped after several real-life figures: Vince Taylor, the deranged fallen idol; Little Richard, the king of excess; Iggy Pop, the raw fury of the Stooges; Marc Bolan, glam rock personified; and, of course, Syd Barrett, the tragic genius of Pink Floyd whose mind was consumed by acid. Barrett’s cosmic vision — and earlier, Brian Wilson’s with The Beach Boys — had deeply influenced Bowie since his Space Oddity days. Ziggy was the evolution of that “star man.”

When the album came out, Bowie wasn’t a superstar yet. But his concept — stardom itself — became a self-fulfilling prophecy. In the UK, the phenomenon was immediate; in contrast, conservative America remained hesitant. The androgynous Bowie was unsettling, much like Lou Reed had been a few years earlier with The Velvet Underground, by introducing themes of non-normative sexuality. But that discomfort was part of the plan. Bowie didn’t want to please. He wanted to unsettle. To shake things up. To fascinate. Ziggy Stardust was glam rock with a punk heart, a space opera woven from makeup, electric guitars, and sexual ambiguity.

Musically, the album opens with a gem: Five Years. A simple drum beat gives way to a dramatic crescendo that announces the apocalypse with stunning beauty. With this opening track, Bowie leaves behind his folkier, more mature phase to embrace youth with a narrative of death and rebirth, likely inspired by Jacques Brel or Scott Walker.

Soul Love is one of my personal favorites. Its rhythm, its backing vocals, ooze the direct influence of Marc Bolan, Bowie’s old friend and later his main rival. Both, by the way, would share producer Tony Visconti — a key witness and player in that creative rivalry. Then comes Moonage Daydream, a delightful blend of acoustic and electric guitars where Bowie and Ronson shine with near-epic sensitivity. The result is a sound that, for its time, feels dangerously modern.

Starman, another absolute favorite, is a pop miracle. Its rhythm is infectious, but what truly mesmerizes is how Bowie inhabits Ziggy: an alien narrator, prophetic, charming, and dark at the same time. And yes, though he was still openly borrowing from Bolan’s legacy, it was already clear here that Bowie had taken off on his own path.

The aggressive piano and propulsive drums in Star clearly show the influence of The Velvet Underground. The idea of the “rock star” as the core of the narrative is presented with no filter. That aesthetic would later be adopted — almost literally — by Paul Stanley of Kiss, who painted a star over his eye as a tribute — or blatant theft.

In Hang On to Yourself, channeling The Stooges, Bowie prophetically anticipates punk with uncanny precision. Listening to that track today is like discovering a secret Ramones demo before they even existed.

The climax comes with Ziggy Stardust, the song. Here’s everything: the rise, the glory, the fall. The story of rock told in three minutes. A prima opera that could easily have been inspired by The Who’s rock operas. And like any great character, Ziggy would make a comeback years later — resurrected by Bauhaus in a deliciously dark cover version.

Suffragette City is pure energy. Ronson lets loose on guitar and makes it clear why legends like Lou Reed and even Morrissey would later call on him to produce their albums. And finally, the breath-stealing finale: Rock ’n’ Roll Suicide. Bowie drops the curtain brutally. His character doesn’t fade — he explodes. The song would later become the piece with which Bowie killed off Ziggy live during a historic concert. It was there that he announced to a stunned audience that it would be the last show they would ever play as Ziggy Stardust.

And with that gesture, he invented something that now feels commonplace: reinvention. Bowie didn’t just bury Ziggy. He freed himself from him. He allowed himself to evolve — something artists like Prince, Madonna, Bono, and Marilyn Manson would later emulate. But Bowie did it first. And, like almost everything he did, he did it with style.