It was my first time setting foot in a nightclub. To be completely fair, I don’t think it was even legal for me to be there.

We hauled our gear inside, after being greeted by Robbie Hallburn, who introduced us to Steve Wallace, the vampire owner of the Underground nightclub. I’d heard about it so many times, from Peter, that I almost knew what to expect from it all: a place where all rock-loving bats could go for their weekend sacrament of sound, a dark womb of an ancient shadow mother.

Steve was nothing short of a gentleman, as he showed us the ropes and told us that, after the show, the drinks would be on the house, except for me, the child who had apparently escaped nursery school. He introduced us to his girlfriend, Pat, who momentarily lifted her eyes from the accounting she was working on at the counter. She was an exquisite sort of beauty that had all the elements of a timeless Persephone.

Steve left us to do our soundcheck, under the hopeful gaze of Robbie Hallburn, who really was hoping to cash in on his bet that we were, in fact, worth at least 500 pounds.

As the boys checked their instruments, all I could envision was that now empty room, soon to be packed with people. I felt a tug in my gut that told me all that was a dreadful idea, and that I should back up as quickly as I could and find a safe spot where I would cower and become an asocial hermit for the rest of my life. That I could do, if I tried hard enough.

I sang a little bit. The sound wasn’t all that bad. Of course, it was no Royal Albert Hall, but we could work with that.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Pat sitting up straight and turning back, her eyebrows furrowed, cocking her head to look at the stage, as if she was trying to pinpoint something. When we were done, the girl got up and graciously waltzed her way to us.

- I’ve heard your voice before, haven’t I? - she asked, looking up.

I could see Simon pursing his lips beside me.

- I don’t think so. It’s our first show, really. So it’s probably just a coincidence – I told her, secretly appreciating that my anonymous voice had some sort of recognizable elements.

- No, I don’t think so, doll. I’m pretty sure I’ve heard you before… But where?… - her face lit up, suddenly – wait. Did you say this was your first show?

I nodded, and I tugged at the sleeves of my holey woollen jumper. I had some sections of it held on by safety pins, trying to get it from fraying any further but it had been my mum’s, so I would not part ways with it.

- I like your look – she smiled, looking at me from top to bottom – very casual, shy, minimalist punk. I really like it. Are you doing your own makeup?

- Uh… I usually end up looking like a raccoon who’s lost a vicious battle with a can of paint, but I will try to make it look like it wasn’t an accident. - I laughed, embarrassed at how inept I really was with all of it. All of it, really, including life in general.

She crossed her arms – Let me do it for you, then. Consider it a break a leg gift, for your debut. I’m really good, I’m a makeup artist by day and accountant by night – she laughed, showing a row of perfect white teeth behind the dark crimson lips.

I agreed to the terms of that makeup Batman and that was how I ended up with a life-long friendship and successful work relationship of many years, with the infinitely talented Patricia. Her inspiration always seemed never-ending and I owe so many of my now iconic looks to her.

I was such a bundle of nerves that I barely recall what the bands that played before us sang. Peter kept saying everything would be fine so many times, that I threatened to strangle him with the microphone cable and end the Collins’ legacy if he said it’s gonna be fine just one more time. That seemed to have done the trick, because he went from there to reminding me to drink some water every five bloody minutes, which may not seem like it, but felt like an improvement at the time.

The crowd was still cheering on the previous band and we were just by the steps that would lead us to the stage. I felt a warm and heavy hand on my shoulder and looked up, to see Steve Wallace, who towered over me.

- There are only two ways to face a stage for the first time – he said, not facing me. It felt like an oracle was about to disclose information I had been seeking, after having sailed the Aegean sea for 10 years – You either face it with terror and fear of exposing your soul, or you see it as an opportunity, every single time you step on it. And you get to make that choice. No one will be choosing for you.

I looked over at the crowd and I nodded. For me, it wasn’t a matter of having a choice. I knew now how to face it.

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- Oh, and another thing – he sounded strangely grounded, all of a sudden – You really can’t be here after you finish your set. I’m sorry, but it’s the law. You’re just too young. - Such a pragmatic man.

Steve took his hand off my shoulder and he himself climbed the steps.

- And now, my night-winged companions, a premiere in our Underground lair. Directly from Highgate, as the crow flies, this is… Eleanora’s Sundown.

I truly had thought that, the moment one stepped on stage, everything around you would just fade away but that could not be farther from the truth. In fact, just about the opposite happened: nothing faded away, everything was amplified tenfold. It was as if the world had been put under the most potent microscope Man had ever built and I could see every single little detail it had to offer. I felt like a deer in headlights. Maybe a deer in limelights would be more accurate, if deer had any tendency to step on stages.

I felt my trembly legs, as I walked the few steps to the centre of the stage, heart beating like a wild drum in the jungle that was my chest. I heard each new breath coming in and out of my nose and felt the little atoms of oxygen mixed with the smoke of what smelled like a thousand cigarettes.

My teeth were clattering against each other, as if I had just stepped outside on the coldest winter day only in my pyjamas, and my arms weighed a ton, as I lowered the mic stand.

- This is Lost – I said softly, my voice coming out of the sound system all the way to the back of those dark walls.

Freddie played the first lonely chords, followed suit by Simon’s distinctive bassline. I really had no notion that you could see the audience so well, up on a stage and I felt a little rush when I saw confused looks being darted all around. Those people really had heard Lost before.

Alfie’s drums came in, as well as Martin’s keys and, soon enough, my own instrument was looking for a place in the metaphorical sun. I closed my eyes, trying to focus solely on the sounds that emanated from behind me and not on the faces of the people who stood in front of me, but I could feel that shift in the air that any musician can pinpoint: the moment when you realise that people know your music and, even better, that they enjoy it.

The crown of glory of that night of firsts came in the form of applause. A bit shy, sure, but that was meant for us, for all of us and it felt better than a million pounds.

The other songs came out naturally. Whispered echoes unfolded, taking away some of the pent-up energy I had that made me tremble. Fleeting, wild and unstoppable, making the audience dance. All those hours working so hard had been worth it.

I could see what Steve meant, as I managed to choose the opportunity and cast away the fear.

We told the twisted and thorny tale in Beyond the Veil and we were more than halfway there. No turning back now.

We let the simple, yet pungent arrangement in The Man Who Sold the World shine through. I could see, from the corner of my eye, as Steve Wallace sang along with me and that was confirmation enough that we were doing a good job. I would never dishonour Bowie’s legacy in my life and, if I only had one good music in my setlist, let it be the one to shine.

We ended up hammering it all with Rebel Yell and it sounded like we wanted to bring the house down. With all that adrenaline pumping, it felt like we could.

I felt the sweat running down my back as I took two steps back, trying to tell up from down. I took a bow and made my first exit stage left as the musicians were wrapping up their ends of things.

I had to lean against a wall, to keep from crumbling and I could see Robbie Hallburn spilling his beer everywhere, as he tried to get to us as fast as he could, pushing people as he went by.

- What the fuck was that?! - he was beaming and slurring his loud words – Fucking hell! I knew I was right. You razed this fucking place to the ground.

Peter came by as well and hugged me – That was mental, Ellie!

The rest of the guys came down from the stage and Hallburn was all over them, showering them with praises that were both clearly deserved and needed. They had worked very hard those past few days.

- I knew I’d heard your voice before, doll – Pat came up with Steve in tow, her long bell sleeves waving as she talked excitedly – I knew it.

- That Bowie cover was… - Wallace kissed the tips of his fingers – Wonderful job, really.

The rest of the band would be, justifiably, celebrating that victory but I needed to head home, so Peter hailed a taxi to take us to New House. Leaving after such an emotional moment left a sour taste in my mouth, but I had no other choice, so we stood there, waiting for our ride, on the pavement, in front of the club.

A tall, thin boy, a little older than Peter was hanging about as well, smoking a cigarette and he nodded, when we passed him by.

- Your music was great – he said, and I thanked him, with a smile. He pulled out his packet of cigarettes and offered it to Peter, who gladly took one – I’d heard it before. Is that really your song, Lost, I mean?

I told him that, yes, that really was my song. A small claim to a small fame.

- Wicked sound, yeah… - he tossed the butt of his cigarette on the ground and stepped on it, turning around to make his way back inside. But he hesitated for a moment, as he looked at the flyer sellotaped to the door and, in a slick motion, he ripped it off – Can I get an autograph? When you’re famous, I’ll sell it for a buttload – he laughed.

- Ah, shit – Peter laughed, as he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and took out a pen, which he handed to me – I don’t get to have the first autograph.

I signed Eleanora and wrote 05/94 – I hope you do and I will want to know for how much – I told him as our ride pulled over. He gave me a little salute and went back inside, neatly putting the piece of paper in the inner pocket of his vinyl coat.

So, boy-now-man probably well into your 40s, if you are reading this and if you did sell that first autograph, reach out and keep your end of the deal. Tell me how much it was worth, even if it was just a simple trade for a kebab in a hazy, late-night somewhere.

A few years later, a tape of that first performance came into my possession. I had no idea they taped the performances and when I got to watch it from an outside perspective for the first time, it was surprising how all the emotions resurfaced. And we were all so young and green, it was actually endearing.

I had it digitalised, posted on YouTube and now we can all cringe together, as it has been widely shared.

But, truth be told, for first-timers, we weren’t all that bad.