Bowie had vowed never to play his past hits again, so these few were a bonus, even if he did introduce them by laughing, “Let’s do something silly”. Veteran Bowie pianist Mike Garson provided his trademark baroque tumbles; Reeves Gabrels – a survivor of Tin Machine – played a nicely unhinged guitar; and the bald, barefoot Gail-Ann Dorsey’s bass-playing and vocals were as striking as her looks.There were even some oldies, including “Scary Monsters (and Supercreeps)”, “Under Pressure” and “Boys Keep Swinging”. If you can’t stand the beat, get out of the kitchen.The band were of such consistent brilliance that it would be unfair to single out any individuals But I’m going to anyway. except when vocoders turned him into Davros from Dr Who.Because tonight’s music was techno-goth, mutant dance rock, industrial cyberpunk. Those who found it off-putting should have been put off by Outside, so nobody could claim they hadn’t been warned.

True, it’s unlikely to catch on, but the fact that he wasn’t sporting an Armani suit was surely cause for celebration. And he was in tremendous voice, with an accent from the East End of outer space (“waiting so long” becomes “whiting sow long”) and an operatic vibrato … This was the first of his shows in Britain, but he was utterly at ease, his movements grace- ful and fluid, even during his pseudo- flapper dancing. A venerable citizen of that rock ‘n’ roll realm between cool and daft, he wore a kind of black sleeveless shellsuit, smeared with white stripes. A thin, chilly synth chord emanated from somewhere within the smoke, joined by some stark piano clangs and twisting bass notes: the intro to the desolate, ponderous “The Motel”, a hostelry which makes the Bates establishment seem inviting.
Bowie prowled into view.

The stage was layered in beige carpets, rumpled and folded as if designed to trip up an unsuspecting guitarist, and a kitchen table and chair were set centre-stage So far, so eerie and noirish. Two bodies were hanging nearby, their legs protruding from sacks, and a few other shrouded misshapes stood on wooden chairs. Could Bowie recreate it live? And how would Ziggy over there react if he could? All the signs were encouraging

One sign said “OPEN THE DOG”. And in case any French people in the audience were slightly confused, another sign dropped from the roof declaring “OUVREZ LE CHIEN”, to ensure that they were even more confused. This new album is an epic, atmospheric descent into a freaky dystopia, an aural Blade Runner. So I may have been the only person at Wembley Arena on Tuesday who didn’t burst into tears when Bowie left without having played “Jean Genie”, and who had actually been looking forward to the songs from Outside (RCA).

THERE’S one problem with David Bowie, and that’s David Bowie fans. They go on about his being a revolutionary chameleon, but half of them – including, I assume, the man a few seats along from me in a perfect Ziggy Stardust costume – would prefer it if there weren’t any more ch- ch-changes, thank you very much. I, too, want to fall madly in love one day, and breed and make jam and wear long Paisley skirts. But I also like sex (if my mother is reading this, sex is a new pop group) What am supposed to do while I await Mr Right?. But he used them anyway, at the slightest provocation.Few men can handle it if you don’t want to practise writing their surname with your first name.