David Bowie Was a Guitarist’s Songwriter: The Unsung Riffs, Visionary Collaborations, and the Six Strings That Shaped a Starman

We know the shapeshifter. The lyricist. The Star Man. But often lost in the cosmic glare of David Bowie’s legacy is a fundamental truth: he was a formidable guitarist’s songwriter. Before the glam, the soul, the plastic soul, and the Berlin ambient, there was a young Mod in London diligently studying the records of Buddy Guy, poring over the chord shapes of Anthony Newley and Jacques Brel, and developing a unique, rhythmic comping style on a little red acoustic guitar. Bowie didn’t just write songs; he architectured soundscapes with the guitar as a primary load-bearing wall. And when he needed to summon lightning, he partnered with some of the most explosive six-string talents in history, acting not as a passive bandleader, but as a sonic director, a curator of tone, and a fearless provocateur.

This feature isn’t just a roll call of great players. It’s an argument that to understand Bowie’s genius from a guitarist’s perspective, you must hear his own foundational playing and recognise his unparalleled skill in harnessing the specific energies of collaborators like the alchemical Mick Ronson and the volcanic Stevie Ray Vaughan. Their most iconic contributions aren’t just great guitar parts; they are masterclasses in serving a visionary’s song.

Long before Ziggy required a Spider from Mars, David Jones was a dedicated guitar student. His half-brother, Terry Burns, introduced him to jazz and the Beat poetry of Jack Kerouac, but it was the blues that first gripped his fretboard. He’d practice for hours, developing a sharp, percussive right-hand technique. You can hear this foundational style— a direct line from British blues boom to art-rock—throughout his early work.

Listen closely to “The Width of a Circle” from The Man Who Sold the
World (1970). The track’s monstrous, lumbering riffs are pure Tony
Visconti/Mick Ronson heaviness, but in the verses, a distinct, choppy,
almost jazz-blues rhythm guitar locks in with the drums. That’s Bowie.
His playing is economical, harmonic, and deeply rhythmic. It’s the glue.
This approach became a signature. On the timeless “Queen
Bitch” (from Hunky Dory, 1971), it is Bowie who provides the song’s entire backbone: that trebly, chopping, two-chord Velvet Underground-inspired riff. Mick Ronson’s glitter-spray solo is the fireworks, but Bowie’s rhythm track is the launchpad. He famously recorded it on a simple Harmony acoustic with a pick-up, straight into the board, achieving that iconic, brittle, and urgent sound. It was a tone born of necessity and vision, not high-end gear—a lesson in sonic personality. Even in his later, less guitar-centric eras, Bowie’s foundational ideas dictated the texture. The relentless, sequenced arpeggios of the Berlin era often started life as hypnotic patterns he’d sketch on acoustic or his little red Hagstrom. He was, at his core, a composer who thought from the fretboard out.

If Bowie was the architect, then Mick Ronson was the master builder who could also gild the ceilings with breathtaking filigree. Hired from Hull, Ronson was a classically trained musician with a love for Jeff Beck and a Les Paul through a Marshall stack. He was the perfect foil: a virtuoso who lacked Bowie’s conceptual grandiosity but had the technical prowess to realise it. Their partnership was less a delegation and more a chemical reaction. Bowie provided the raw elements—a song structure, a lyrical theme, a feel—and Ronson would transmute them into guitar gold.

Take “Moonage Daydream.” Bowie likely had the swooping, cosmic glam-blues riff sketched. Ronson took it, drenched it in wah-wah, and then, for the solo, constructed a multi-layered masterpiece. Using the studio as an instrument, he employed sound-on-sound recording (a primitive form of overdubbing) to stack soaring lead lines, creating a symphony of guitar that felt like a rocket tearing through the heavens. It wasn’t just a solo; it was a narrative special effect.

But their greatest shared gift to guitarists is the four-chord anthem that has powered a million garage rehearsals: “Rebel Rebel.” The story goes that during the Diamond Dogs sessions, Ronson (though his contributions to the album are debated, his presence on this track is confirmed) was working with Bowie’s open-G tuned guitar. The now- immortal riff—a grinding, androgynous snarl of a thing—emerged. The genius is in its mistake. That slight dissonance, that stubborn, repetitive grind, feels both wrong and irresistible. It is the sound of rebellion itself, carved into a single, endlessly playable riff. For gear-heads, it’s a lesson in how tuning and attitude trump technical complexity. It was likely played on Ronson’s 1971 Les Paul Custom “Ziggy” guitar, but its power comes from its primal simplicity.

A decade later, Bowie performed one of the greatest musical sleights of hand in pop history. For Let’s Dance (1983), an album designed for global pop domination, he didn’t hire a slick session pro. He hired a fiery, blues-purist Texan drowning in debt and substance abuse: Stevie Ray Vaughan. It was a stroke of brutal inspiration. Bowie and producer Nile Rodgers wanted “rock” credibility to underpin the dance-floor sheen, and SRV delivered raw, uncut lightning.

The sessions, however, were a clash of cultures. Vaughan, used to stretching out for 20-minute jams, had to condense his universe into concise pop solos. The legend, verified by Rodgers and engineers, involves the title track. SRV laid down a typically virtuosic, multi-phrased solo. Rodgers and Bowie listened and made a historic request: Simplify it. Make it a statement. What emerged from that directive is one of the most iconic solos of the 1980s. On “Let’s Dance", Vaughan’s solo is a lesson in space and power. He doesn’t play a flurry of notes; he plays phrases. A bent-note cry, a soaring, sustained bend, a tearing descending run—it’s a compact epic. He used his beloved 1959 Stratocaster “Lenny,” through his Dumble Amplifiers and a Tube Screamer, capturing that iconic, singing, violin-like sustain.

His contribution to “China Girl” is even more foundational. That haunting, Eastern-tinged intro riff? That’s SRV, interpreting Bowie’s guide. His solo here is a masterclass in melodic blues, weaving around the vocal line with passionate intensity. He didn’t just add guitar parts; he injected the album with a soulful, human heat that prevented its pristine production from feeling cold. It was the last time a Bowie guitarist so directly defined the commercial sound of an era, and the partnership, though brief and tense, yielded some of the most playable and beloved guitar moments in Bowie's catalogue.

Based on aggregated search data, lesson requests on platforms like Ultimate Guitar, and perennial cover band staples, here are the Bowie tracks featuring Ronson and Vaughan that guitarists most want to master.

1. “Rebel Rebel” (1974)

• Guitarist: David Bowie & Mick Ronson

• Why Guitarists Love It: It’s the ultimate “first cool riff” for budding players. In open G tuning (D G D G B D), it’s a simple four-chord pattern that feels complex and dangerous. Learning it is a rite of passage, teaching the importance of groove and attitude over speed.

• Key to the Sound: That open tuning and heavy, palm-muted downstroke grind. Play it with a slight swing and a sneer.

2. “Ziggy Stardust” (1972)

• Guitarist: Mick Ronson

• Why Guitarists Love It: It’s a mini-suite of iconic guitar moments. The majestic, ascending opening riff (played on a 12-string), the crunchy rhythm chords in the verses, and most of all, the legendary solo—a mix of pentatonic fury and melodic phrasing that is both chaotic and perfect.

• Key to the Sound: Ronson’s use of a 12-string for the intro arpeggios and his Les Paul/Marshall crunch for the solo. The solo’s wild vibrato and controlled feedback are as important as the notes.

3. “Let’s Dance” (1983)

• Guitarist: Stevie Ray Vaughan

• Why Guitarists Love It: It’s a benchmark for blues-rock tone and phrasing in a pop context. Guitarists obsess over capturing that clean-yet-sustaining Dumble-driven tone and the construction of the solo, which is a study in saying more with less.

• Key to the Sound: SRV’s “Lenny” Strat, heavy strings (.013-.058), a Dumble Overdrive Special or Fender amp, and an Ibanez Tube Screamer. The magic is in his powerful, finger-heavy right-hand technique that coaxes endless sustain.

4. “Suffragette City” (1972)

• Guitarist: Mick Ronson

• Why Guitarists Love It: Pure, unadulterated rock and roll energy. The pounding piano-and-guitar chord stomp, the iconic “Wham bam thank you ma’am” stop-start riff, and the chaotic, sax-imitating solo. It’s fast, fun, and exhausting to play correctly.

• Key to the Sound: The tight, distorted staccato chords and the wild, panning solo played with a fierce, trebly attack. It’s punk before punk.

5. “Moonage Daydream” (1972)

• Guitarist: Mick Ronson

• Why Guitarists Love It: It’s the anthem for the aspiring guitar hero.

The main riff is a swaggering, wah-infused statement, but the holy grail is the multi-tracked solo. Learning its components teaches about layering, melody, and creating a “guitar orchestra.”

• Key to the Sound: The wah-wah pedal used as a filter, not just for “cry,” and the pioneering use of studio overdubs to create a cascading, symphonic lead.

David Bowie’s relationship with the guitar was lifelong and profound. He was a competent, inventive rhythm player who understood the instrument’s architectural power in song-craft. But his superpower was his ear for guitar personality. He heard in Mick Ronson the ability to turn camp into grandeur and rock into theatre. He heard in Stevie Ray Vaughan the raw, emotional lightning that could earth a pop album in deep feeling.

He didn’t just hire great players; he placed them in contexts that amplified their strengths and served his ever-morphing vision. He was a conductor, pointing to the spot in the score and saying, “Here, be magnificent here.” For guitarists, diving into Bowie’s catalogue is not just a journey through unforgettable songs, but a masterclass in how the guitar, in all its forms—from a cheap acoustic to a wailing Stratocaster— can be used to build worlds. On the tenth anniversary of his passing, we don’t just celebrate the Starman; we salute the six-string sorcerer who taught us that a riff can be as transformative as a persona.