Warm rain fell the entire concert but no-one left. Out of our heads came glam gargoyles, but what we saw were colonnades of white fluorescent, cool lime. The Berlin Period was brought to the cricket pitch of wet Melbourne. We were close but, like every performance, his superlative contrivances of sound and vision kept at arm’s length, us. The chorus of ‘Fame’ changed to “Rain-rain-rain-rain-rain-rain-rain-rain” as if there were empathy with the drenched. Astounding guitarists were let loose. Was it January 1978? November, never that close again. We walked home soaking through Jolimont’s midnight rain, to warm baths, warm beds.