It’s 1973, and London’s a kaleidoscope of glam, grit, and glitter. David Bowie, fresh off the Ziggy Stardust supernova, is strutting through his Aladdin Sane era—lightning bolt across his face, hair a fiery shock, eyes gleaming like he’s just seen the future. He’s not just a rock star; he’s a shapeshifter, a chameleon who doesn’t cover songs—he devours them, spits them out, and makes them his own. Enter Pin Ups, his love letter to the ‘60s hits that shaped him, a record that’s less about nostalgia and more about Bowie saying, “Watch me make these yours again.” And the crown jewel? His take on Sorrow, a track that started as a scrappy B-side by The McCoys and ended up a glam-rock resurrection.
The McCoys’ 1965 original, tucked behind their cover of “Fever,” is pure mid-‘60s charm—jangly guitars that nod to The Byrds, a hint of Mamas and the Papas’ sweetness, but with a raw, British Invasion edge. It’s a solid tune, the kind you’d hear crackling through a transistor radio in a Liverpool pub. But it lurks, never soars, like a wallflower at the dance. Then Bowie gets his hands on it, and Sorrow doesn’t just step into the spotlight—it owns the damn stage.
From the first sweep of strings, Bowie’s version is a different beast. It’s cinematic, like the opening credits to a film you didn’t know you needed. His voice glides in—smooth yet wounded, tender yet knowing, like a jazz crooner who crash-landed in a glam galaxy. “With your long blonde hair and your eyes of blue,” he sings, and it’s not just a lyric—it’s a spell, cast with a wink and a sigh. This isn’t The McCoys’ scrappy heartbreak; it’s Bowie’s, layered with longing and a touch of cosmic melancholy.
The production is where the magic happens. Mick Ronson’s guitars shimmer, not snarl, weaving a delicate web that holds the song together. A sly saxophone solo—played by Bowie himself—sneaks in, gives a nod to smoky jazz clubs, then slips away like a stranger in the night. The rhythm section, anchored by Trevor Bolder’s bass and Woody Woodmansey’s drums, sways hypnotically, never rushing the vibe. And those vocals? Bowie piles them on, harmonies stacking like velvet curtains, until it feels like you’re getting two, maybe three Bowies for the price of one. “I’m living for a dream that won’t come true,” he croons, and you believe every word, even if you’re not sure why.
What makes Sorrow sing is its balance—glam’s glitter, rock’s grit, and a softness that sneaks up on you. Just when you think it might float off into the ether, it tightens, a slow-burning urgency bubbling under the surface, like a heartbreak you can’t name but feel in your bones. At 2:53, it’s concise for a Bowie track, but it lingers like a half-remembered dream.
Pin Ups was a pivot for Bowie, a pause between the apocalyptic glam of Aladdin Sane and the plastic soul of Young Americans. Recorded in France at Château d’Hérouville, it was his way of tipping his hat to the ‘60s while waving goodbye to Ziggy’s glitter-dusted shadow. Sorrow stood out, not just for its polish but for its alchemy—Bowie didn’t cover the song; he became it. Released as a single, it hit No. 3 in the UK, proof that fans were ready to follow him anywhere, even into someone else’s song.
Walk into any vinyl shop in Camden today, and Sorrow still hums through the crates. At a recent gig at The 100 Club, a 20-something fan in a vintage Bowie tee told me, “It’s like he’s singing about my life, but from outer space.” She’s not wrong. The song’s influence ripples through Morrissey’s mournful croon, Suede’s theatrical swagger, even Arcade Fire’s anthemic ache. Yet it remains a quiet classic, passed from one obsessive listener to another, like a secret whispered in a Soho alley.
Bowie once said he chose Pin Ups tracks because they “stuck in my head like flies.” Sorrow stuck hardest, and in his hands, it’s no longer just a cover—it’s a resurrection, a song reborn under his neon glow. Play it loud, let it haunt you, and thank the stars for a man who could make someone else’s sorrow sound so gloriously his own.