I was in third grade. My elementary school was a couple of cities over from where I lived (I attended a freaky cult-like school where kids got extra credit for skipping class to help the principal take potted plants out of her stinky, orange, 1970’s van. Seriously.), and somehow my parents had found another adult that a) lived near us and b) they trusted with their precious cargo. So every morning I’d hop in the back of Mrs. Tuominen’s car with her sons Patrick, who was merely a second-grader and hence a baby, and Ryan, who got dropped off before us at a nursery school. It was in that backseat that I first heard the voice. And time stood still. An eight-year-old doesn’t think in terms of earnestness and remorse-- I remember thinking that he sounded really sorry for something he’d done, and really sad that he wanted to be with this girl he obviously loved but that for some reason he couldn’t be, and maybe he was the reason. Like maybe there was something bigger than both of them: My little China Girl You shouldn't mess with me I'll ruin everything you are I'll give you television I'll give you eyes of blue I'll give you a man who wants to rule the world I remember the little clanging sounds in the song were sweet and sad at the same time, and off-kilter somehow, mirroring the voice. And I remember feeling that he knew what it was like— what what was like? He knew… something. I had no idea what it was. But I was transfixed. I was in love. It wasn’t until four years later, when I was in seventh grade and sporting a bi-level bob and more hairspray than is healthy for anyone that I bought my first Bowie album. Though I wouldn’t have verbalized it then, I thought it was time for me to begin to learn what he knew. But the album was the not-representative-of-his-genius Never Let Me Down, and I was, well, terribly let down. Those songs didn’t tell me anything I needed to know. He seemed distant and aloof. He was singing for someone else. Feeling stupid, I put tape over the cutouts at the top of the cassette and used it to record Depeche Mode and Public Image, Ltd. and Echo and the Bunnymen songs from the radio. But fast-forward another three years and I’m in high school, and one of my friends is a super-glam girl named Aimée, who introduces me to a lot of new music. And she reintroduces me to my old friend David Bowie. I buy ChangesBowie on vinyl but am dorky enough not to realize until years later that this is a best-of collection and not an actual album put together by the artist. No matter. I get it now. I get what he knows, or I think I do, and he gets what’s going on with me, and if no one else understands, well, at least someone older and wiser and much, much cooler has been there before. I play the record constantly. I know where the grooves are by heart; I can put on “Rebel Rebel” without looking, and I do, every time I’m putting on more black eyeliner and dark red lipstick before an all-ages show at the Roxy or the Whisky or the Anti-Club: Hey babe, your hair’s alright Hey babe, let’s go out tonight You like me and I like it all We like dancing and we look divine You love bands when they're playing hard You want more and you want it fast They put you down, they say I'm wrong You tacky thing, you put them on Rebel rebel, you’ve torn your dress… And when I’m feeling melancholy or lonely, I put on “Changes”: And these children that you spit on As they try to change their worlds Are immune to your consultations They're quite aware of what they're going through… There is a song for my every mood on that record. I listen to it incessantly, even after I’ve started buying the albums those songs came from. It makes me feel good, like maybe I wasn’t wrong to have trusted my instinct. Ten years later the record finally died of sheer exhaustion. I still have the cover with that lovely sepia-toned photo on the front. I’ve kept it as a reminder of how powerful a chord music can strike, even among people who have never met. Even if one of those people is just an eight-year-old girl.