I N 1967, WHEN DAVID Bowie was a scuffling 20-year-old folk singer, he got his first letter from an American fan and sent a thoughtful reply. “I made my first movie last week,” he wrote. “Just a 15-minute short, but it gave me some good experience for a full-length deal I have starting in January.” Even before he had secured a foothold in one medium, he was planning his conquest of others. “I was trying to be a one-man revolution,” he later said.
Bowie was an enthusiast who loved to disclose and champion his interests: Andy Warhol, German Expressionism, The Velvet Underground, wallpaper, Neu, cocaine, mime, androgyny, George Orwell, Scott Walker, Philly soul, Genet, henna, Brecht, Fritz Lang, William S. Burroughs, Alexander McQueen, saxophones, Mott the Hoople, Anthony Burgess, women,…