I got both the Hunky Dory and Ziggy Stardust LPs as Christmas gifts when I was about 16, so Bowie will always represent a kind of cosmic shaman guiding me through the adolescent rites of teenage wildlife -- Santa Starman delivers brightly colored, glitter-drenched orgasms in one finely crafted pop song after another.
Bowie was extremely exotic to a little ol’ gal growing up in West Virginia, not just because of the British accent and his intergalactic tendencies, but also because he reached a very seductive and quite bizarre hand out to us, inviting all who dared to join him on the decadent side of Alice’s looking glass, where many unearthly delights awaited. Plus, Bowie was the perfect rock idol for the teenager interested in the smarter, artier things in life, and to anyone with a love for the theatrical, which, of course, was me. He was the Pied Piper who took us suburban American kids to Disneyland, reimagined as an oversexed, sequined, space-age pleasure dome.
Although I was an extra in Ragtime and had done a couple of very small indie films, The Hunger was my first big movie and, yes, it was extremely surreal. It helped that Mr. Bowie was so friendly and fun-loving, and clearly enjoyed making out as much as I did! Today, that whole experience seems like a "Moonage Daydream" -- I have to occasionally look at the film stills to remind myself it really happened.
Watch a clip of the opening sequence from The Hunger below: