Memoirs of a Teenage Goth: the Thin White Duke

It was love at first sight. A skinny, pale, androgynous man in luminous tights and platform boots; a hero for a skinny, pale teenage girl in black shawls and lace up granny boots. David Bowie was my first musical love and I reckon I would still do him, even if he is about 65 years old! Such an exotic creature was a jewel in the decidedly unexotic suburban stomping ground of my youth. He was a freak and I was a freak; a match made in a smoky lounge located precisely halfway between heaven and hell.

I was in year 10 at high school when the Thin White Duke announced that his Serious Moonlight tour would venture down under and I discovered that he would even grace us with his presence in Radelaide. I knew what I had to do. The long process of begging and grovelling before my parents began. After weeks and weeks of persistent pestering they finally agreed to let me go. None of my other friends were accorded such permission so I would be attending alone, a fact that lead to a set of conditions including being picked up afterward by my dad, a most distasteful option but one that had to be accepted in the end. We eventually designated a meeting place well away from the eyes of any cool people who may have been privy to such an embarrassing rendezvous.

I then began work on the second part of my plan, having the day off school so I could get to Adelaide Oval early and line up. Nothing but serious incapacitation usually merited a day off so it is a testament to my skills in nagging, whingeing and being a downright pain in the arse that I finally got my way. My school friends were well impressed!

When the auspicious day arrived I embarked upon a tight schedule of preparation, commencing with dyeing my hair bright red. After all a gal can't go to her first ever concert with mouse brown hair! But then came the wardrobe dilemma. At the age of 14 I hadn't quite assembled the collection of black velvet, lace and vinyl that I would come to rely upon in my mid teens so I had to cobble together an outfit from the seriously uncool wardrobes of my sister and mother. In the end I managed to round up a pair of black boots, a long black skirt and a khaki raincoat that I thought may pass muster but probably just made me look like a flasher.

I caught the bus in to town and arrived at about 2pm in the afternoon to find that there was already a line up about 100 metres long around the outside of the oval. I had envisaged nothing less than a front row possie so I was a bit miffed. I proceeded to skulk around the entrance being eyed suspiciously by those at the front of the line who had probably been camped out all night. At this point a helpful stranger enlightened me as to the process, 'keep a respectful distance from those at the front of the line but stay close enough to be able to run for the gates when they open.' Thus informed I bided my time, ready to spring at any sign of movement at the gates.

I marvel now at my powers of bladder control because I didn't go to the loo from the moment I got there to the moment I got home, probably about 8 hours. But I didn't give it a second thought at the time. There were more important things to do, like gleaning fashion tips from the queue. This was 1983 so it was the height of high hair, baggy trousers and electric blue; truly dreadful times. Of course back then I thought it was marvellous. I dedicatedly studied the plumage on display and incubated plans for multicoloured mayhem in my parent's bathroom at a later date. What the denizens of cool thought of the child in the raincoat with the drips of red trickling down her neck from freshly dyed hair I will luckily never know.

At about 5pm the pearly gates opened and I made my dash. I made it through the gates with the first bunch of queuers and sprinted across the oval toward the towering stage. I had never seen anything like it before. It was like some monolith we had all come to worship. I was then quickly introduced to the concept of the mosh pit and quickly learned that being 5ft 4 is not a great advantage in such a situation. I was about three rows from the front and my feet weren't even touching the ground. I managed to fight off an impending attack of claustrophobia and hold my space. So we waited. And waited. I can remember the sky above and the bodies around and the sense that we were all waiting, waiting, waiting for something incredible to happen. It was the first time I had ever felt anything like it, that sense of excitement and anticipation.

And then the music started and HE strode out on to the stage. He wasn't Ziggy Stardust but the Thin White Duke would have to do. It seemed like 100 metres of white suit were towering above me. The crowd surged forward and the crush began. It felt like my ribs were going to collapse. Luckily I discovered the one advantage of being 5ft 4 and was able to crawl under the arms of those in front and make it to the barrier. And there I stayed for the rest of the show, the breath all but squeezed out of me but blissfully happy just the same.

I can't say that I remember much of the show now, it is more the experience of my first concert that resonates rather than the show itself. At the end of the evening I scurried out of Adelaide Oval and rendezvoused with my father, waiting patiently and not too conspicuously in his car down by the children's hospital. And to this day I still proudly say that my first concert was David Bowie at Adelaide Oval.


* Well I'm afraid that life has triumphed over art for some time now but I have managed to smack that bitch down for a while and look forward to continuing the Gothic memoirs in the weeks to come...