Spandau Ballet’s recent reflections on David Bowie strike a chord that many artists—and fans—can relate to: the fine line between inspiration and imitation. In a candid moment, the band admitted they once feared Bowie would “nick” their ideas. And, according to them, he did.
It’s a story as old as art itself. The anxiety of creating something fresh, only to watch a giant absorb it and reflect it back with their own iconic twist. Bowie, the ultimate cultural magpie, was notorious for absorbing the underground, the avant-garde, and the just-plain-new, then repackaging it with his unique genius. From glam to soul, electronic to art rock, he had an unparalleled radar for the next wave.
But here’s the thing: Bowie’s “theft” was rarely literal. It was alchemical. He didn’t just copy—he transformed. He took sparks from others, blended them with his vision, and created fires that lit up entire movements.
That doesn’t make the feeling of being “robbed” any less real for those on the receiving end. Spandau Ballet, at their peak, were innovators in the New Romantic scene—pioneers of a sound and style that defined an era. To see elements of that aesthetic pop up in the work of someone as monumental as Bowie must have felt both validating and deeply frustrating.
It raises the question: where do we draw the line between influence and appropriation? Between homage and hijacking? In music, and in all art, everything is built on what came before. But when an artist as powerful as Bowie borrows, it can feel less like a nod and more like a takeover.
Yet perhaps this is simply the nature of legacy. Bowie’s greatness lay in his ability to listen—to the streets, the clubs, the forgotten corners of culture—and echo them back louder, brighter, and more brilliantly. The very fact that Spandau Ballet felt seen (even if “nick-ed”) by Bowie is a testament to their own impact.
In the end, the ones who inspire the inspirers are rarely forgotten. Spandau Ballet’s sound and style are forever embedded in the DNA of Bowie’s ’80s experiments—and that’s a kind of immortality, isn’t it?
What do you think? Is borrowing ever just borrowing? Or is all art, in some way, a conversation—sometimes a negotiation, sometimes a heist?
