There’s a moment at every BLACKSTAR Symphony performance that feels like a portal opening. David Bowie‘s spectral voice is absent, but his presence hovers, stitched into every orchestrated phrase.
When John Cameron Mitchell takes the stage alongside Donny McCaslin’s band—the very ensemble that recorded Blackstar—and a grand orchestra swells behind them, something shifts in the room. The concert isn’t just a tribute; it’s an invocation.
Now, BLACKSTAR Symphony makes its way to San Francisco for two nights at Davies Symphony Hall (Thu/26 and Fri/27), setting the stage for SF Pride weekend.
The Blackstar-studded event celebrates Bowie‘s final album in its entirety, along with some of the late artist’s greatest hits—”Space Oddity,” “Life on Mars,” “Heroes,” and more—performed by a lineup that includes saxophonist McCaslin, vocalist David Poe, longtime Bowie bassist and collaborator Gail Ann Dorsey, and special guest Mitchell, best known for originating the role of Hedwig in Hedwig and the Angry Inch.
Mitchell’s connection to Bowie is equal parts fan devotion, spiritual kinship, and personal history, rooted in the glam-rock icon’s visit to a Hedwig performance at the Jane Street Theatre in the late ’90s.
“I had a limited interaction with Bowie, which was very important to me,” Mitchell tells 48Hills. “He didn’t stay through the whole performance, and I was terrified—I thought he hated it. He didn’t come upstairs to the dressing room either.”
But then Mitchell’s boyfriend, who worked at Bowie’s rehearsal studio, called and said he was at the practice space.
Mitchell ran the 10 blocks to get there, trying to casually smoke outside as if he hadn’t just sprinted. Longtime Bowie photographer Mick Rock, who also shot the Hedwig poster, was there, too.
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Mitchell paints the scene like a memory frozen in glam sepia—Bowie with his dry wit, surrounded by old friends.
“It was great to see those two old, straight queerdos together,” says Mitchell. “I love when straight British guys meet each other like that: ‘Oh darling, you old poof.'”
Then, Mitchell received the stamp of approval that mattered most, since it was no secret that Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust had inspired the Hedwig character.
“Bowie turned to me, smiled, and said, ‘John, you got it right,'” Mitchell remembers.
The visionary artist went on to invest in the L.A. production of Hedwig, incurring a significant financial loss in the process. His people also approached Mitchell about turning Ziggy Stardust into a theater piece. But what might have been a dream collab never materialized.
“That was incredible, but my one regret is that I was too tired and overwhelmed with theatre and Hedwig and rock ‘n’ roll on stage,” says Mitchell. “So I politely declined—if you can imagine turning Bowie down. I really should have done it. But I was wary of jukebox musicals. If you can’t change the lyrics, it can get messy. So maybe I was right.”
It wasn’t until after Bowie died in 2016 that McCaslin approached Mitchell with a second invitation to work with the singer’s music as part of his orchestral project.
They’ve been at it for two years now, backed by prestigious philharmonic orchestras across the country.
Mitchell is one of the project’s three vocalists alongside David Poe and Gail Ann Dorsey (a decades-long collaborator of Bowie’s).
“It feels like a monument to him,” Mitchell says. “A requiem, but with a lot of hope.”
That optimism is threaded with political urgency, especially meaningful in this time of rising fascism —a theme Bowie predicted and explored throughout his career.
The deep resonance of Blackstar—its lyrical mystery, elegiac beauty, and jazz-influenced experimentation—hit Mitchell hard.
“I was afraid to listen to it after he died,” he says. “Many of us were. We saw the stunning ‘Lazarus’ video, but didn’t want to go deeper yet. The record isn’t entirely dark, but mortality is built into it.”
The song he relates to most is “Dollar Days,” with its poignant lyrics about nearing the end. There’s warmth in it, as well as fear. Bowie made his death an art project.
That tension between vulnerability and craft shapes the live experience. It was only after Mitchell joined this show that he delved into the album, and like many critics that year, fell in love with it.
As a performer channeling another’s work, Mitchell is careful to point out that he’s not Bowie, nor does he sound like him. So he lets the words flow through him like a puppet animated by the music legend’s aesthetic.
But after the election, performances became emotional. That line in “Dollar Days”—”Those oligarchs with foaming mouths come. Now and then.”—slaps right now. But the phrase “now and then” reminds listeners that even the most challenging moments pass, too.
For Mitchell, Bowie’s artistry was a lifelong invitation. The shape-shifting icon’s vocal sound was theatrical—vibrato learned from Anthony Newley, Judy Garland, and Scott Walker.
“I wanted the same with Hedwig—drag, punk, Broadway, stand-up, and Gnostic mysticism all coming together,” he says.
Mitchell first encountered Bowie as a young boy in a Scottish boarding school, where the kids were only allowed to watch two programs: “Doctor Who” and “Top of the Pops.”
“I saw him perform ‘Jean Genie,’ and it scared the hell out of me,” says Mitchell. “This androgynous lizard-like creature—not bubblegum like T. Rex. It was serious and decadent.”
Six years later, when Bowie appeared with Klaus Nomi and Joey Arias on “Saturday Night Live,” Mitchell witnessed what he now calls a turning point.
“That sealed the deal for me,” he says. “It was one of the greatest influences that led me down the Hedwig path.”
Today, he continues that trajectory with his new solo project, a show featuring apocalyptic songs from the ’70s, mixed with healing ones. It’s called Queen Bitch, named after the Bowie track—and he says he hopes to bring it to the Bay Area one day.
That would be a return to familiar ground. “I’ve always been drawn to the Bay Area—as all queer people are,” says Mitchell.
His first visit to San Francisco in 1985 introduced him to the radical queer imagination that would shape his worldview.
“I didn’t go to the Castro—I went to dirtier, sexier, darker Polk Street,” Mitchell says.
There he met a guy named Doug who lived in a Radical Faerie house in Berkeley—the House of the Golden Bull. Doug invited Mitchell to a solstice party (a.k.a. an orgy) there, but the latter skipped it, too intimidated by the flying penises on the flyer. The pair went to a movie instead.
“It was right when AIDS hit,” says Mitchell. “A terrifying combination of youthful hope, mortality, and government neglect. That generation fought back.”
That spirit of care stuck with him. “At Doug’s house, whoever got laid first got the nice bedroom and breakfast in bed from the others,” Mitchell says. “That’s OG San Francisco queer.”
He recognizes that the city has changed in the ensuing years, having been crushed by oligarchs and skyrocketing real estate prices that have forced many creatives out. He also mourns the loss of T-shack and its proprietor, one of SF’s brightest stars, Heklina.
So, what does it mean to bring Blackstar back to San Francisco this Pride?
“It’s wonderful,” says Mitchell. “Bowie wasn’t gay, but he was truly queer. He created space for outsiders, especially those who were gender nonconforming. Little Richard tried to, but religion held him back. Janis Joplin had queerness, too. Bowie embraced ambiguity. But he called himself a ‘latent heterosexual’ after coming out as bisexual.”
“I was a little disappointed he wasn’t more like me,” he adds. “But it didn’t matter. He was my guide. He was never a hypocrite—he was a trickster god. He didn’t provide answers. He teased out questions. And I love that.”
BLACKSTAR SYMPHONY: THE MUSIC OF DAVID BOWIE Thu/26 and Fri/27. Davies Symphony Hall, SF. Tickets and more info here.
