David Bowie, Ziggy Stardust and me

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“’E’s a bloody bender, inne?”

Such was the typical reaction among many of my peers at my all-boys north London comprehensive school to any mention of David Bowie. It was the early 1970s, when the star was breaking through from the fringes of pop to the Six O’Clock News. Bowie’s androgynous personae, his avowed bisexuality, his use of make-up, his genderless stage costumes and his sheer strangeness in an era of denim and mullets (he had no eyebrows, for goodness’ sake) — all this was grist to the homophobic, weirdophobic, other-phobic mill of the times.

I was drawn to Bowie, hooked initially by his appearance singing “Starman” on the BBC’s Top of the Pops in 1972 (a proper “moment” in cultural history), then by his Ziggy Stardust album. Its story of an alien rock star who came to Earth was exciting enough for a 14-year-old boy with an inquiring mind, but the clincher was that it came wrapped in so many fantastic tunes. And Bowie could really, really sing.

I shared my (initially somewhat furtive) Bowiephilia with one other boy at school and in May 1973 we saw him in concert at London’s cavernous Earl’s Court (tickets 50p each). Although we were some distance away from Bowie, a tiny shimmering figure, we were well within range of his aura.

Contrary to today’s financial model for live music, tours at the time were exhaustive, exhausting affairs, often making a loss but aimed at drumming up all-important album sales. Bowie’s 1973 UK tour was typical, taking in towns such as Torquay (two shows in one day) and Doncaster before returning to London for two nights at the Hammersmith Odeon. It became a media caravan: in Brighton, the local newspaper reported that at his show at the Dome, 18 seats were ripped out and four girls fainted. A subheading read: “Wiggled his bottom.” A friend saw him in Birmingham and managed to grab a trophy from the scrum: a stray Bowie earring.

As the tour approached London, I was again sucked in by the gravitational pull of Bowie and bought a ticket for the first Hammersmith concert on July 2. The show hadn’t changed a great deal, although he’d shaken it up a bit with additions such as a blazing cover of “White Light/White Heat” by some group called The Velvet Underground. At school the next day I felt bold enough to rave about what I’d witnessed. Three friends were curious. Astonishingly, after school we were able to phone the venue and reserve four tickets.

And so it was that on the evening of July 3 1973 I once more found myself outside the Hammersmith Odeon, where film crews roamed and a kind of fashion parade of freaks and exotic creatures was taking place: kids in Aladdin Sane-style thunderflash make-up, women in enormous platform shoes, sparkle, glitter. My paltry contribution was to wear a pair of shiny platforms; I felt deeply underdressed, but hadn’t the resources or the courage to zhuzh myself up. Up in our seats in the balcony we spotted some actual stars sitting nearby: Lulu and Ringo Starr. It felt like the centre of the universe.

The show was, again, sublime, Bowie — lithe and sinuous — powering through his songs. An extended instrumental interlude for “The Width of a Circle” gave his cracking band the chance to show off their heavy-rock chops. Strobes! A glitterball for “Space Oddity”! Tame stuff by today’s standards but it seemed overwhelming.

Then came the bombshell: as the night reached its climax, Bowie announced that it would be “the last show that we’ll ever do”. Screams. Then the final number, “Rock ’n’ Roll Suicide”, hands reaching out, fans surging and swilling. It was a shocking statement, but thinking it through afterwards it seemed improbable that a pop star would just stop. In the following days, despite the headlines (“Bowie quits”), it became clear that it was Ziggy, not Bowie, who was retiring (although the singer had neglected to tell drummer Woody Woodmansey and bassist Trevor Bolder that he was breaking up the band).

For many people who were there, the concert was a life-changing event. My friends were instant converts, but history suggests that it was a jumping-off point for many people in what became known as the creative industries: for would-be fashion designers inspired by the exotic costumes created by Kansai Yamamoto, for kids forming bands (and would-be music writers such as myself) who wanted to know more about Lou Reed and Jacques Brel (whose song “My Death” Bowie sang). And those Aladdin Sane thunderflashes painted on faces in the crowd. As the Southbank Centre’s recent exhibition about Aladdin Sane showed, Bowie’s use on the album cover of make-up, photography, even colour separation was at the cutting edge. A pop star on an album sleeve with his eyes closed? Unheard of.

But, more broadly, the show, the tour and the whole Bowie phenomenon marked a turning point in attitudes towards sexuality, gender and the “other”. Archive footage in Brett Morgen’s hypnotic 2022 Bowie documentary Moonage Daydream shows a young man outside one of the Ziggy tour venues saying, “You don’t have to be bent to wear make-up”; the language is problematic by today’s standards, but it was a huge leap forward for its time. And Bowie’s questing odyssey through multiple identities became a focal point for young people unsure of who — or what — they were.

Looking back at that show through the lens of DA Pennebaker’s grainy 1979 Ziggy Stardust documentary, now restored and re-released in UK cinemas, a couple of things strike me. First: it was exactly how I remember it — the noise, the hysteria, the seething, weeping crowd. And second: Bowie really was out there. In 1969 Mick Jagger had caused a stir by wearing a dress on stage for The Rolling Stones’ free concert in Hyde Park, designed by Michael Fish (also responsible for the dress worn by Bowie on the sleeve of his 1970 album The Man Who Sold the World). But Bowie at Hammersmith took it to another level with his asymmetric bodysuit, his shimmering kimono, his minidress. The underground had become the mainstream.

Little of Bowie’s style rubbed off on me, but his influence was to broaden my cultural horizons: through him, I found Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, Man Ray, Brel, Buñuel, minimalism, artists, photographers, musicians, designers. And my Bowiephilia was no longer furtive. It was the done thing in those days to walk to school carrying an album tucked under your arm, its sleeve facing outward for all to see, a badge of honour. Now I felt empowered to carry Bowie with me, as I have carried him in the years since.

‘Ziggy Stardust: The Global Premiere’ takes place at the Hammersmith Apollo on July 3 and will be shown in UK cinemas throughout July