I still don't know what devil my father rode in the summer of 1983. Maybe he noticed how much I liked Bowie's hit "Let's Dance". Maybe he also missed his "Scary Monsters"- and "The Rise And Fall Of Ziggy Stardust And The Spiders From Mars"-LPs, which at the same time became part of my record collection and since then had a strange fascination for me. On the one hand because of the intensity of the music, which had something gloomy and dangerous about it. But also because of Bowie himself, who seemed like a creature from another world. Anyway, my father bought me a ticket for a concert of the "Serious Moonlight"-Tour in June '83, to which he accompanied me (as a 13-year-old at that time).
I didn't get much stuck in my performance at the Ruhrstadion in Bochum, but it was the beginning of a passion that was expressed in the systematic development of Bowie's back catalogue and the first books about his career. There was no Internet, and music was expressed exclusively in the trade press. You haven't been buried with information yet, you've had to find it. Just like singles, T-shirts, buttons, bootlegs or other rarities and fan articles. And to Bowie, it quickly became clear to me, there was too much to really put it all together. At that time he had already released 13 albums as well as dozens of live recordings, soundtracks and compilations; he had worked with friendly musicians like Iggy Pop, Queen, Lou Reed or Mott The Hoople, had taken part in several films and had slipped into ever new characters: at the end of the 60s he was the hippiesque folk musician, then Major Tom, then the Rockalien Ziggy, followed by the androgynous Thin White Duke, the chic Dressman and finally the Spaceboy in the heavy leather coat. Roles he has never taken up again once he has discarded them.
This might have saved him some damage in the course of the 80s and 90s. For David Bowie's entry into the mainstream, for which "Let's Dance" stood for, led to a lack of orientation: he did not know whether he should continue to serve his new pop audience or whether he should tie in with the joy of experimentation that he had still indulged in on "Scary Monsters". He opted for commercial success, suffered an artistically serious shipwreck with "Tonight" and "Never Let Me Down" and virtually dismantled himself with the bloodless "Glass Spider" tour of 1987. In this context, his appearance in Hamburg's Stadtpark is unforgettable: a disastrous gig at which Erasure and Wolfgang Niedecken played the supporting programme - and were rewarded with a screaming whistle concert.
After the failed attempt to launch a rock band with Tin Machine, Bowie pulled the plug with "Sound & Vision": The concert series, initially postulated as a farewell tour, was intended to draw a conciliatory line under his previous career. In the future he wanted to make new, fresh, different music.