The year is 1981, The subway smelled like rain and cigarette smoke, but up on the stage the lights were a glare that made the whole world feel thin and electric. I stood at the very front, leather skirt clinging, tattered band tee soaked by a night of sweat and adrenaline, high heels digging into the floor as if to anchor me against the surge of bodies. I wasn't screaming or swaying with the manic girls; I held my beer like a talisman and watched him move as if memorizing the edges of a dangerous map. He was a flash of white hair and sneer and light, all angles and motion, but when he scanned the crowd his gaze landed on me and the room rearranged around that single, impossible recognition. In that moment I understood the concert had become a private thing, a direct current humming from him to me.