We used to drive up this way, along the beach to Santa Barbara, years ago. We’d stop for donuts, see the full moon on the beach, then find a space where turning back and going home made sense. I had remembered that, and you, from the view of the water, the clear sky on the horizon, the sun so close to it, the fast freeway and my hair flying into my eyes. But that was then. Yesterday, I had a good reason to be going up the 101. I was desperately tired and in a bad mood, but then I saw the sea, and I saw you there, and the badness disappeared.
I went to go see David Bowie. This is the third time I have seen the Reality Tour, and I wish I could go again and again, but I am on tour too, and the shows are hard to get to, not as easy as a drive up the coast, but oh, it was sublime. How I wish you’d come. How I wish you still loved me. Then I could tell you this story in person. Perhaps you will read this and be happy for me.
We missed the opening act, Polyphonic Spree, but just in time for “Rebel, Rebel.” This song is such an anthem, the perfect way to explode onto the stage, and recalling the video, where he’s the glam pirate in the red pants, filmed in methodically swirling disco kaleidoscope Amsterdam shots, with his confidently curled lip, poised to hijack the world, I realize I have loved David Bowie for so long because he makes me feel okay that I am myself. I want to wear that same eyepatch and suspenders and long scarf. I long to strut like the dream of the stud he is, and he makes me feel it is possible. He bounds out onto the stage, and Ava says, “He is just – golden.” His hair falls anime-like onto his forehead. I want to draw him, although I am unable to hold a pencil correctly, my warped fingers are a testament to that handicap. We can see his glorious face perfectly from our impossibly good seats. There are many exacting and astute words for beauty, and then there is just a kind of syrupy, ridiculous, girly, idolatry that spews forth, that I wish I could contain, but I just can’t.
I know big words, good words, impressive words, that is my talent, my gift, my fortune, but I lose them when I talk about Bowie, and lots of people understand, because there is something about him, that he makes us lose our religion, our intellect, our wit and wisdom, because he is David Bowie, and that explains it all.
The crowd was bundled up against the cold with sleeping bags and down vests. People who attend outdoor events tend to spend a lot of money on Patagonia. The fog rolled in from the beach and the amphitheatre was chilled like a boxed chardonnay that you’d rather not drink. We were prepared to pay homage to the master, yet stay warm. My friends wore monster white fur coats, and I wore an emperor’s gown I’d bought at the Chinese superstore on Broadway, along with polka dot plastic hot pants and navy knee socks emblazoned with white stars. To pull it all together, I wore my new belt, made out of a real cobra, with the head and long tongue still attached. I am afraid of it, and I think that it might still be alive, but it looks really good with this outfit, so I don’t care if it kills me.
The show was incredible, as it always is, as he always is. As is the booming “Under Pressure,” a duet with the righteous and luminous Gail Ann Dorsey, whose voice is pure Mercury, and whose mercurial talent makes the entire hillside shake in reverie. I love Bowie’s voice in this song, because it pleads with the gods of all things, not only in the lyrics, but in the sadness of his soar, and it makes for a kind of good cop/bad cop diptych, Gail (Freddie) raging to give love one more chance, David – all
reason and asking for mercy, this is our last dance,
this is ourselves.
There are special treats, like “Quicksand,” and the new songs from the Reality album, a new favorite “The Loneliest Guy.” It is almost too much to ask for, the ageless, timeless, faultless, flawless Bowie in a vocal storm of versatility, the heartbreaking nihilistic optimism of “Heroes,” the fantastic noble androgynous machismo of “Suffragette City” – here underneath the stars, where I used to love someone a long time ago, surrounded by the night sky, and Mars is bright and blinking, like there is life there.
Marilyn Manson and his lovely Dita are in front of us, and don’t miss a lyric or a beat. We know all the words too. I introduce myself to the couple backstage. A couple of years ago, I modeled with Dita at the Fetish Ball in Hollywood. They are brightly dressed, but all in black, if that’s possible, but it is them, so it is. They are recently engaged, and beam like stars, which is sweet. I am a great fan of Marilyn Manson. He is handsome and somewhat shy. His personality not at all as I would have imagined it, having seen him in his live shows which are magnificently malevolent, terrifying and jubilant. No one is as they seem, are they?
Ava is convinced someone has torn off her backstage pass, and emerges from the barricades, having found it rolled up and stuck inside her coat.
Gail Ann Dorsey is surprisingly a fan of mine, and we are in mutual admiration as the crowds move through behind the tour buses.
It takes a few minutes to get to the inner sanctum, but we are soon cordially invited in.
I want to keep you in suspense.