There’s that old sentiment, about being so close to something you cannot see the totality of it—you know, four blind men and an elephant, the forest for the trees. That’s the sense one gets when reading through former Spin staffer Marc Spitz’s otherwise remarkable take on the life and art of David Bowie. The word “thorough” is an understatement, referring to the book’s 400+ pages. So is the word “fanboy.”

Spitz readily admits his “Bowie-ist” nature. The project started off fortuitously enough: Spitz’s agent pitches the idea of a Bowie bio while the writer is in the midst of a near-middle-age crisis; the writer leaves thinking no way until spotting Bowie himself crossing 10th St. He took it as a sign, walking straight by the rocker instead of gushing, confirming with his agent immediately. Bowie was not interviewed for this project, or ever by Spitz, who did talk with (or attempt to talk to) everybody related in any way to the man.

In that sense, Spitz reconstructs the forest around the trees. From Bowie’s early fascinations with Little Richard right through to his electronica a la Trent Reznor and Goldie, Bowie’s life has been one lived in front of the curve, always anticipating, always three steps ahead which, often to his chagrin, meant being too early to capture the elusive fame he declared to be his birthright. No victory without struggle. By the time Ziggy Stardust dreamt moonage daydreams over pre-disco Euro-America, one of the biggest and most flamboyant pop figures of the twentieth century had emerged.

Knowing very little of pre-Ziggy Bowie, Spitz’s keen eye and exhaustive research spins a fascinating yarn. True, his speculations of what Bowie might or must have been thinking or doing gets a bit tiresome—psychoanalysis does not necessarily fill gaps. Then again, given that Bowie has long been an enigmatic and elusive character, Spitz seems to use his best judgment when making declarations, and does admit that they are no more than educated guesses, whether it be about Bowie’s much-discussed sexuality, or the relationships he held/holds with formers: managers, girlfriends and/or boyfriends, and so forth.

The problem? In his introduction Spitz warns the reader of his “interludes,” or “palate cleansers”: personal experiences relating to why Bowie is his god. Normally, I enjoy and invite this sort of journalism. Having written about music for sixteen years, I readily admit that love for music is why I do it; I looked forward to hearing the reasons why Spitz does what he does. But when statements like, “Like losing your virginity, you can really only unleash your inner Bowie once,” emerge, or when reading through his egoistic sprawl concerning his ascension at Spin from glorified intern to cover story writer, the eye quickly tires, the heart loses pace. When keeping the topic Bowie—and disregarding the seraphic status he’s awarded—Spitz has created a wonderful book about one of the more slippery figures in pop music. It certainly made me dig into my Bowie catalog and appreciatively reminisce—the highest honor a music biography can offer its readers.

This review originally ran in Mindful Metropolis.