I was up late on the evening of Sunday 10^th January 2016, listening to David Bowie's fascinating new album Blackstar. I was familiarising myself with his latest work, preparing to write my review the next day, so to awake to the news of his death the following morning seemed even more poignant. On reflection the signs were all there, The Thin White Duke had returned from exile to bring us The Next Day in 2013, but he'd avoided live performance and, truth be told, although his creativity was clearly in full flow, he was looking thinner and whiter than ever in what small glimpses he allowed us. Bowie had retreated from the public eye almost completely after the chest pains he was suffering on tour in 2004 turned out to be a heart problem. Throughout those wilderness years there was, in fact, a steady drip feed of Bowie releases and collaborations for the faithful, but his return with a surprise album of new material for his 66^th birthday felt like a new beginning and a renewed vigour, but perhaps this was an illusion and he knew what was coming all along. The Next Day was followed by an exhibition in the V&A, now on tour this retrospective gave the public a first-time intimate glimpse of artefacts from Bowie's career: handwritten lyrics, costumes, fashion, photography, film, music videos, set designs, his instruments and album artwork. After this Bowie curated a compilation of his entire career across three discs, his own personal choices of career highlights called Nothing Has Changed. Taken in the context of his death it becomes apparent that all this was leading to Blackstar, David's final swan-song to his fans, released on his 69th birthday, 3 days before his own death, he had written his own eulogy, commemorating his fantastic five-decade career in music and giving it a damn good send off.

I could go on and write for hours about everything Bowie brought to the table over the years in terms of art rock, pop, glam and any other genre he tried his hand at. He was one of the true greats and will be long remembered for his constant reinvention and consistently high hit rate – after a struggle for a breakthrough in the 60s, once Bowie had made his mark he was here to stay, rarely setting a foot wrong in an epic career. Blackstar is no exception, in fact it is one of the strongest, musically, in a supreme back catalogue. In Spring 2014 Bowie snuck into Bar 55 in New York's West Village one afternoon to check out a jazz quartet led by saxophonist Donny McCaslin and left without saying a word. Ten days later McCaslin and his drummer Mark Guiliana were called in to the studio to work on 'Sue (Or In A Season Of Crime)' – the version which headed up the aforementioned compilation. Then, in January '15 McCaslin and his whole ensemble were called in to The Magic Shop in New York to work with Bowie along side long-term producer and collaborator Tony Visconti and powerhouse drummer Zack Alford. After these 'demo sessions' Bowie worked on the material in private studio silence for months until it was ready.

Yes, and what an album he has left us with as a final parting gift… the title track 'Blackstar' begins proceedings, just shy of ten minutes it seems to work it's way through two or three suites or musical moods. Beginning with a broken beat, pondering Eastern scales and electronics it eventually shifts into more of a gospel and soul-rock mode, the first chance for the exceptional bass guitar and drumming to shine and they shine throughout this record. It's a testament to Bowie's skill with melody that a ten minute song should contain so many hooks, without ever losing focus. The video is fantastic too, eerie, spooky, culminating in scarecrows gyrating as they are crucified in a cornfield. It's cryptic, visually and lyrically and now, with the knowledge of his death, takes on a deeper meaning for anyone willing to look for one. ''Tis A Pity She Was A Whore' is named for John Ford's controversial tragedy from the 1600's, with themes of incest, duplicity and revenge. Once again the song is driven along by the power-house rhythm section, it never lets up, it's insanely groovey and creates the perfect scaffold for Bowie's fantastic vocal. The melody with it's playful falsetto flourishes, duels with wild freeform jazz sax solo's. Again there are hints of gospel, while the melodies here sound almost like they would fit into Musical or Music-hall territory – which is where Bowie originally imagined his muse would manifest.

'Lazarus' has already got the internet in a tizz, Bowie released the video four days before his death and the biblical figure of Lazarus lay buried for four days before Jesus resurrected him. It's a moody, mournful piece, led by solid bass and more pensive sax playing. “Look up here man I'm in danger / I've got nothing left to lose / I'm so high it makes my brain whirl / drop my cell phone down below,” now sounds like Bowie complaining about being in heaven, dizzied by the height of it, hoping to drop his phone down to us on earth so he can sneak in a chat – if anyone's going to break the rules of death it'll be him. The song builds to a sort of funky-dub, with Bowie's fender-guitar chops marking the passing time, but it's the image from the video of him with a blindfold sewn with buttons for eyes that lingers in the memory and his skinny figure, looking like it could be blown away by the smallest gust, dancing with all the vigour of his youth before retreating into a closet. A symbol perhaps of the costume – the final of many personas this man has worn through his life being hung up for the last time. 'Lazarus' is also the title of an off-broadway musical, now presumably the hottest ticket in town, co-written by Bowie, which is apparently as baffling lyrically as it is gorgeous aesthetically.

'Sue (Or In A Season Of Crime)' is given a tougher rock treatment for this re-recorded album version, with an insistent syncopated groove which the drums rattle endlessly around. Several people have described the experimentalism of this album as being rooted in the avant-garde instrumental jazz of the quartet he recruited to record with, but I find myself reminded of the hard rock progressions of a band like The Mars Volta, partly because I'm a huge fan of them, but largely because there is surely some common ground in the heavy drum and bass taking centre stage and vocal verses duelling with expressive, jazzy, free-playing and sound effects that rise eeriely and ethereally to fill space and stoke mystery.

In one of the strangest moments in an album full of experiments, 'Girl Loves Me' has a strange vocal melody, with the end of each line soaring off in a hiccup of falsetto. That refrain of 'Where the fuck did Monday go?' is hard to figure into a wider context of lyrics that seem to switch from time to time into gibberish language. After the wriggly tension of 'Girl Loves Me' comes 'Dollar Days' which is more of a blissed out ballad, with a prominent acoustic guitar in a percussive role while the drums are at their most understated on the album. The synth strings float off into the ether as Bowie sings prophetically 'I'm dying too', or is that 'I'm dying to,' as in, 'I can't wait'? The lyrics are baffling, but suggest to me a man who is keen for the next adventure, the next world. There's a beautiful sax solo on this song, suited to the relaxed vibe, with the wild jazz histrionics under a greater sense of control – but there's still that freeform expressiveness to the playing, especially as the track grows towards it's blissed out fading crescendo. It's interesting that the saxophone is such a star on this album, often sharing the centre-stage with the phenomenal vocals. The saxophone was actually Bowie's first instrument, learnt in his pre-teens, he once said he wasn't sure whether to become a pop singer or John Coltrane, maybe he got to be a bit of both in the end.

With it's synth pads and strings, married to another busy, funky groove 'I Can't Give Everything Away' closes the album with it's most 80s sounding number. In the hands of the master though none of these tones sound as cheesy as they could. The melody reminds me just a little of 'Soul Love' from 1972's seminal Ziggy Stardust album, and the sonic palette means this song wouldn't have sounded out of place on David Lynch's Twin Peaks soundtrack. “I know something's very wrong / the post returns to prodigal sons” continues in the lyrical vein of the rest of album, baffling, cryptic and full of imagery that people will no doubt be pouring over for years to come.