Released in 1979, the third and final chapter of David Bowie’s Berlin Trilogy has always felt like the outlier of the three. For one, Lodger was actually recorded in Switzerland and New York, and—in contrast to the dichotomous pop/ambient structures of the preceding Low and “Heroes”—the album marks a full-fledged return to focused, guitar-driven songcraft. But Lodger earns its place in the trilogy not only because it employs much of the same supporting cast, including chief collaborator Brian Eno, but because it’s ultimately a by-product of the same feverishly experimental streak that colored the previous installments. It’s just that, instead of trying to push himself outside of the rock lexicon, Bowie reformulates it from within, by turning his words, melodies, and chord progressions inside-out while still working inside the confines of a three-minute pop song. Back on Ziggy Stardust, Bowie assumed the look of a space alien; Lodger sounds like it was actually made by one. Lodger is ultimately distinguished by its loose, playful spirit, which was largely inspired by the vague yet suggestive directions solicited from Eno’s famous Oblique Strategies playing-card set. (The results included, but were not limited to: swapping instrumental roles, writing new songs over old ones being played backwards on tape, and building different tunes out of the same chord patterns played at different speeds.) Where Low and “Heroes” reflected the tension and trauma of post-war Europe, here Bowie takes a more carefree globe-trotting approach. Lodger finds him smashing Middle Eastern folk music into reggae rhythms (“Yassassin”), pairing jungle-rumbling rhythms with absurdist proto-rap vignettes (“African Night Flight”), and reimagining the cool krautrock pulse of Neu! as the soundtrack to swashbuckling, seafaring adventure (“Red Sails”). And while “Heroes” guitar hero Robert Fripp isn’t around this time, Bowie finds a worthy replacement in Frank Zappa associate Adrian Belew, who adds funhouse-mirrored frequencies to the avant-soul stomper “Repetition,” while longtime foil Carlos Alomar brings a furiously funky edge to the manic, sidewinding groove of “Look Back in Anger.” But if Lodger sees Bowie taking up residency on his own planet, at a considerable aesthetic distance from the punk and New Wave pretty things he spawned, it also sees him engaging with the pop world in suitably sardonic fashion. At a time when rockers like The Rolling Stones were angling to get in on the disco gold rush, Bowie was making dance music about dance culture: “D.J.” sees him stepping into the platform shoes of a nightclub record selector buckling under the pressure to be a crowd-pleasing human jukebox, atop a tough funk strut that’s nonetheless tailor-made for getting down on the floor. And with “Boys Keep Swinging,” he takes the macho-man cosplay of the Village People and—thanks to the song’s coy lyrics and drag-themed video—makes the homoeroticism even more overt, to the point where a skittish RCA Records refused to release it as a single in America. In the wake of his fantastic voyage through the 1970s, Lodger finds Bowie far away from the glam-rock boogie he pioneered at the dawn of the decade, and yet still very much in the same place, relishing his role as rock’s foremost provocateur.