I cut class nearly every day, spending a ridiculous amount of money on cheap clothes at H&M and on admission to art museums, hoping to find something to break my hopelessness for more than a moment. In the process I bought a ticket to see my favorite band, the Dandy Warhols, at the Olympiahalle stadium. The fact that they were opening for David Bowie was a happy bonus, but I was going for the Warhols. Their album Welcome to the Monkey House was one of the few things keeping me sane.
On October 27 I dressed with unusual care, pinning my dark hair into a fauxhawk and slipping my bruised wrists into fishnet gloves. I'd lost a lot of weight in the past two months, so my legs were slim in limited-edition black Levi's I'd bought in Berlin. I put my concert ticket in my back pocket and tucked a disposable camera between my breasts - cell phones and cameras were prohibited in concerts, and pat-downs not uncommon, so smuggling was necessary if I wanted any pictures. As an American I was accustomed to flaunting the rules in a way Germans were not, and I was the only person I saw at the concert with a camera of any kind. The other concertgoers were so polite that I walked right to the front without having to push; I assume there was an unspoken rule about time of arrival and rightful place that I wasn't aware of. I was pressed against the stage. I doubt I would ever have gotten so close in another country. I got my camera ready.
That night I loved the Warhols - I even managed to catch Courtney Taylor-Taylor's attention and have a brief shouted conversation about our shared city of origin.
Then Bowie came on.
From my journal entry of October 28, 2003:
"Warhols are hot.
Bowie is SEXY.
Tight black jeans with an exposed front zipper, brown
leather belt with the end tab flopping around in a rather suggestive manner,
tight white t-shirt, red neckscarf with a pearl pin, and a red and white
pinstriped old-fashioned waistcoat to DIE for.
And he strutted.
And he struck poses.
And he led us on and we loved him for it.
Kept saying “Merry Christmas” and demonstrated a catwalk
walk.
Knelt on the stage…held long notes, was so hot.
And he played so many great songs!
Fame, Fashion, Ashes to Ashes, China Girl, Heroes, Hallo
Spaceboy, Afraid of Americans, oh man it was so cool. I freaked out and
daaaaaanced and screamed. Like a wee Beatlemaniac I was.
Love, love, love."
I left the stadium with my eyes full of tears. A week later I got on a plane, cutting my year abroad short by ten months. I never did finish that year of college, but I managed to scrape through the next few months and later to conquer more than I ever thought I could. In the time since, I've learned to cradle my heart in my hands and care for it when it starts to crumble again.
Thinking of that time, of Bowie and his art, touches on my darkest days and shines a little light.
