“I Don’t Understand”: David Bowie’s Conflicted View of Frank Zappa’s Unfulfilled Potential

Without having personally known David Bowie, it’s difficult to say with certainty what he was like behind the scenes. Still, judging from his legacy and public persona, one can infer that the captivating energy he exuded as Ziggy Stardust likely permeated his private life as well. While he may not have been as flamboyant offstage, Bowie seemed to carry an unmistakable intensity that made his presence both magnetic and, at times, intimidating.

This wasn’t because Bowie was intentionally overbearing. Rather, it was the sheer magnitude of his character—at once spectral and vividly immediate—that commanded attention and respect. For many artists, receiving his approval could feel like a rite of passage. But on the flip side, being the subject of his disapproval might have felt nothing short of daunting.

Such was the unfortunate case for Frank Zappa, a figure who Bowie viewed with a mixture of intrigue and skepticism. Unlike much of the world, which hailed Zappa as a groundbreaking innovator, Bowie seemed to struggle with understanding the man behind the music. It wasn’t that he outright dismissed Zappa’s work—far from it. He acknowledged the promise in some of it. But it was the complexity of Zappa himself that Bowie found off-putting.

In a 1972 interview, Bowie was asked whether any of Zappa’s records particularly resonated with him. He singled out We’re Only in It for the Money, the 1968 satirical album by The Mothers of Invention, as a standout. Bowie said, “I mean, I saw huge potential in that area for Zappa, but I don’t understand Zappa and I’m not that intrigued by him to try to unwrap his problems or try to find out why.”

Though candid, this remark revealed much about Bowie’s artistic filter. At a time when both artists were exploring avant-garde realms, Bowie was already grappling with the overwhelming scale of his own fame and the rapidly shifting cultural tides of the 1970s. Given this backdrop, it’s understandable why he might have opted not to entangle himself with Zappa’s convoluted trajectory.

Indeed, Zappa’s path through the 1970s was marked by volatility. From fraught relations with The Mothers of Invention to solo experiments and a revolving door of side projects, Zappa was a puzzle even to those closest to the scene. His erratic movement between different musical alliances and styles rendered him a uniquely opaque figure. If someone as visionary as Bowie couldn’t make sense of him, it’s no surprise that the broader music world struggled to do so.

To Bowie, Zappa may have seemed like an artist with great potential who was ultimately difficult to decipher—and thus, someone not worth the mental effort. While that may sound harsh, Bowie’s instincts were arguably pragmatic. Immersing himself in Zappa’s artistic chaos might have distracted him from his own complex creative evolution. Still, one cannot ignore the ripple effect such opinions might have had, even indirectly. In a music industry where public and peer recognition holds immense weight, Bowie’s indifference might have influenced others’ perceptions of Zappa’s relevance.

That said, Zappa’s legacy survived without Bowie’s endorsement. He remains a celebrated icon of experimental rock and a symbol of uncompromising artistic vision. But Bowie’s remarks serve as a reminder that even in a world fueled by innovation, recognition from peers—especially from someone as influential as David Bowie—can be both affirming and chilling.

In the end, this interaction between two titans of avant-garde music highlights the complex dynamics of admiration, influence, and misunderstanding that often define relationships in the creative world. While they may have walked parallel paths, Bowie’s decision to keep his distance from Zappa speaks volumes about how even the most visionary minds can struggle to connect.