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2004-04-05

My Bowie experience was everything I�d hoped it would be (including �not too loud.� Yes!). For starters, the Polyphonic Spree were as adorable as a plateful of puppies. There were about a dozen of them, and they bounded onstage wearing white choir robes and brandishing orchestral instruments (including french horns, flutes, a harp, and � of course! � a theremin). They marched in place like a squadron of scruffy indie-rock angels, belting out anthemic, nonsensical blasts of distilled pop exuberance, like Flaming Lips songs as rendered by the Moscow Youth Orchestra. Brill! I [heart] Polyphonic Spree!

And I bow before Bowie. Say what you will about the man � some things are inviolable facts: 1) Dude knows how to dress. The guy�s fashion sense is off the charts. And he�s married to Iman � with the two of them in such close proximity, I�m surprised the hyper-concentrated style vibes don�t open a vortex to an alternate dimension where it rains Dolce & Gabbana handbags, or something. He looked fantastic. Oh, those jackets! 2) Dude knows on which side his bread is buttered. David Bowie is a rock star. David Bowie has never pretended to be anything but a fame-generating rock machine. He wants your attention, and he wants your money. And he does what it takes to get it, without resorting to childish prima donna paparazzi-courting antics. In other words, when he�s on stage, he�s there to put on a fucking show, motherfuckers. He engaged in witty banter with the audience! He said complimentary things about Canada! He played �Changes,� much to the delight of the bellowing, ambulatory side of beef drunkenly waving a lighter three rows ahead of me! And � oh God � at the end of the super-hyper-extended encore, as he struck the final chord to �Ziggy Stardust,� he planted his feet apart and thrust a fist in the air as the word �BOWIE� flashed in eight-foot-high letters on the screen behind him. Need I say more? I thought not.

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