I had always wanted to see David Bowie perform live. The first coincidence of me being of age and him being in proximity took place on September 28, 1987. It was during my first month of my first semester at college; I was 17. To my surprise, I hadn’t managed to find a group of other students who were making the pilgrimage down to the Capital Center from our suburban Baltimore campus. The beautiful group of rebels, aliens, freaks, and heroes who would become my closest friends would not enter my life for another month or so.

I hadn’t been at school long enough to have made any friends with cars. I had my tickets, though, and I was going to go if I had to walk from Baltimore to DC to do it. A ticket in exchange for a ride to the show, though – how hard could that be? As it turned out, it was almost impossible. Standing in the 16th floor hallway of my freshman dorm, I used the payphone for hours on end, looking for a lift. Most of my friends had moved farther away for college. My calling circle grew wider and wider.

I ended up being saved by an ex-boyfriend still fond enough of me to drive 3 hours round-trip to collect and return me, plus spend several hours at the concert of a musician he didn’t especially like. I had been pretty sure he’d agree, but I still tried everyone else I could think of first. It hadn’t been a particularly good breakup and I literally had not spoken to him in… years? His life had changed pretty dramatically since then, in a manner I’m not sure I’d characterize as “for the better.”

Okay, so not my proudest hour. But he could have said no, right? And, I mean… we’re talking about David Bowie!

I can’t remember a time I did not love David Bowie. His voice called to misfits and outcasts, weirdos and secret rockstars, everyone who wanted to ch-ch-change the world. He told us we were wonderful. That we could wear want we wanted, think what we wanted, be who we wanted to be. He told us we could be heroes.

And I believed him. I’d seen him create and recreate himself so many times. Davy Jones became Ziggy Stardust, Alladin Sane, Major Tom, The Man Who Sold the World, The Man Who Fell to Earth, Screaming Lord Byron, The Thin White Duke… It could be done. All these personae were flawed, but exquisite. Isolated visionaries. Beautiful disasters. They didn’t have to be perfect. The weren’t role models; they were expressions of being. Bowie made characters who knew the pain of being an outsider and told the world it was okay. We were not alone.

Oh no love! you’re not alone
You’re watching yourself but you’re too unfair
You got your head all tangled up but if I could only make you care
Oh no love! you’re not alone
No matter what or who you’ve been
No matter when or where you’ve seen
All the knives seem to lacerate your brain
I’ve had my share, I’ll help you with the pain
– from Rock and Roll Suicide

Bowie was a kind, funny, and very literate songwriter. I loved every album and every song I’d ever heard him sing. Hunky Dory, Ziggy Stardust. Space Odyssey, Scary Monsters… I loved Let’s Dance, despite the incessant radio play of the title track. Modern Love, off that album, was the first song to which I ever learned all the lyrics. I loved his movies. I watched him as a prisoner of war in Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence; as a vampire in The Hunger; and as the heartbreaking alien in The Man Who Fell to Earth. I’m in the distinct minority of Bowie fans for whom Labyrinth is not a favorite, oft-watched film; but I did watch both The Last Temptation of Christ and Basquiat primarily because he had small parts in them.

The concert was amazing. It was The Glass Spider tour – not his most critically well-received venture – but I loved it. I was rapt. I’d never been to a concert like it. As I’d find out later, neither had anyone else. This was the first really gigantic, elaborate theatrical rock and roll tour. Each set alone cost $10 million in 1987 dollars; in 2016 money, it would have been more than twice that. The stage housed at 60-foot-tall, 64-foot-wide spider with legs that changed colors. When Bowie took the stage, he did so be descending from the top of the spider in a chair suspended on spider-silk. He was talking into an antique phone. Bowie was nothing if not spectacular.

There were giant video screens. Film clips. Poetry. Vignettes. Costume changes. These things may be the norm for huge arena shows now, but for the 6 million of us who saw it worldwide in 1987, it was like surreal dream. I was ecstatic, in the religious sense. My senses were overwhelmed, my head spinning, my heart overflowing. I was there, in the same space as David Bowie – a man whose beauty would literally take my breath away – listening to songs I’d loved my whole life. It was dizzying.

My ex wasn’t having the same experience. He looked bored, at best, and annoyed the rest of the time. He had taken pains on the way there to let me know how well he was doing without me by sharing information both creepy and overly personal. I felt a little bad about dragging him there and that he wasn’t enjoying himself, but… David Bowie. At the start of the encore – Time – written during the Ziggy Stardust tour and released on Alladin Sane – my ride wanted to leave. There were a million cars in the parking lot and he wanted to beat the rush so he didn’t have an hour wait before the hour-plus drive to take me back to college and his subsequent hour-plus drive home.

Obviously, I couldn’t argue. I watched Bowie ascend from the top of the spider’s head as we made our way down the stairs; I watched Bowie grow shiny wings behind his outstretched arms as I craned my neck to see through every access portal around the circular stadium until we reached the door; I could still hear Bowie’s voice as we exited to the parking lot. I remember nothing about the ride home. I hope I thanked my ride a million times and told him he was amazing and selfless and fabulous for making that experience possible for me. (If not, James N. – you’re seriously the best for doing that for me. I’m sorry I was an insensitive jerk for asking.)

When I returned to my dorm, I called a bestie at college in another state and, sobbing, tried to explain the past few otherworldly hours. I doubt I made much sense at all. I do recall one thing I told her, though, and it is my stock (and quite genuine) answer whenever anyone asks me what it was like seeing Bowie live: “It was a religious experience.” I apologize if that offends anyone’s sensibilities, but it’s the only way I can think to convey the memory. Don’t judge.

I knew David Bowie was aging. Though I didn’t know about the cancer, I knew he had been unwell for some time. Yet when I heard the news of his death last night, I was still stunned. I wept like I had lost an old friend. I think I’m still in shock. The earth will certainly still spin without David Bowie making music on it, but I suspect it will feel just a bit more alien. I haven’t yet heard Black Star, his 25th studio album, which – knowing his death was near – he released on Friday, his 69th birthday, as a deliberate parting gift to the world. I look forward to it, though, and plan to savor the last words he wanted us to hear from him.

originally published on Medium.