Shane is right. Everyone and his brother are wandering around Trafalgar. We clean up on the busking.
“Where to next, Boss?” Shane knows the score.
“I gotta practice the high wire with Bowie,” I announce. Mike looks bored.
“Let’s hang out at the venue,” MacGowan recognizes busking opportunities.
We hop the turnstiles at the Picadilly Circle Underground stop and ride to Earl’s Court. After two days in the City, I feel right at home. We set up the card table and posters and bring out the box of Boss Band 45s.
“How come there’s no B-side,” MacGowan complains.
“We only have one song,” I answer.
“Tell that old producer to record my songs. You guys can back me up on the recording. It can be the new A-side.”
“You think you’re better than us?”
“Just not as bad as you guys,” is his repartee.
We are arguing and laughing when Jack walks up, our new rhythm guitarist.
“Where have you been?” he asks. “You left me a Bowie’s.”
“We met MacGowan busking in Leicester Square. Did you solve the Freddie and Elton dilemma?”
“Freddie agreed not to prosecute Reid if he lets Queen out of their management contract,” Jack sounds like he did all the negotiating.
“So, they made up?”
“All but Reid, who is pissed at Elron for caving.”
“Better than going to jail.”
“Like all criminals, he really believes he’s innocent,” Jack has Reid’s number. “Elton says hi.”
I ignore that comment. Will he ever learn. What a bozo.
“We dragged Shane to church and ended up singing Danny Boy’ to the crowd in Trafalgar Square,” Mike describes our morning.
“Tim was always dragging heathens to church,” Jack remains clueless.
“Stop it,” I order a startled Jack. “You promised not to bring up my past.”
“But, but..”
“Don’t argue with me. You are messing with my doctor’s orders,” I tell him. “If I go back into a coma, my friends will know who to look for.”
I stomp off to find Bowie for high wire rehearsal.
Shane tells Jack they can hustle the crowd to buy the Boss Band single outside Earl’s Court. He needs something to do.
Mike comes with me.
“Why are you so hard on the kid? He’s a decent guitarist. Should we dump him for MacGowan?”
“Hell, no. Shane’s a derelict. Jack needs to be trained like a dog to forget who I was and figure out where he now fits in.”
Mike knows better than to ask about how Jack fit into my forgotten past.
“I like you just the way you are,” Mike hugs me.
Bowie walks up.
“You boys need a room?”
“We both think each other is too ugly,” I kiss Mike on the cheek. He looks unhappy.
Bowie thinks we are funny.
“Let’s get hooked up and fly above our problems,” he suggests.
Good attitude. Mike goes back to our ‘sales booth.’
I explain to the wire operator, my puppet master, the changes we plan this evening. He shows me how to indicate when I am ready to be manipulated and to follow his lead, not fight it. He promises to coordinate with Bowie’s handler. They will make our guitar battle look like an electrical storm. The flash pot guy says he can simulate thunder and lightning (‘very, very frightening’).
Once hooked up we practice flying around each other. The operators quickly anticipate our next moves. All I need do is nod my head in the direction I want to go. He already understands the premise of the aerial battle over who is Ziggy. Today’s practice is much better than yesterday’s show, where all we did was go up and down and ended entangled with each other’s wires. Once the guitar battle is complete, I will give my man the thumbs up to be hauled into the rafters.
Going back outside, we find a crowd surrounding our sales table. MacGowan is regaling the fans with his tales of Irish heroics while Mike teaches anyone interested in moonwalking. Most of the crowd is young, probably not even ticket holders. Adult ticket holders would not be this early for the first show. I even spot the Bromley Contingent, evil looks dressed to kill.
Knowing trouble must not be far behind, I spot Danny Martin, traitor from the NME, lurking about. All he wants is gossip; he thinks he is a music critic.
There’s a disturbance at the card table. MacGowan is drunk and fighting with a Bromley, who has Shane in his grasp.
“Give me back my money,” the bleached blond punk shouts. “It’s a ripoff. Only one side.”
“Fuchoff,” Shane still taunts him, even knowing he is about to be fucked up.
I arrive just in time to collar the blond as he launches his killer punch. Flat on his back, my foot holds him down.
“Bully Boi, take your complaint to security so we can watch them kick your ass.”
Two screeching harpies come rescue him. I kick him in the balls and let him go.
“Satisfied?” I address the girls.
“Ew. A butch boi,” the uglier one snarls.
‘Oh, a New Rose,’ and I start singing the Damned’s ‘New Rose’
Mike is banging on the table. Jack hides behind MacGowan who hands Jack an electric guitar, while keeping up with Mike. I scream the lyrics at the two dollies
‘I got a feeling inside of me
It’s kind of strange like a stormy sea
I don’t know why I don’t know why
I guess these things have got to be
I gotta new rose I got it good
Guess I knew that I always would
I can’t stop to mess around
I got a brand new rose in town’
Songwriters: Brian James
New Rose lyrics © Rock Music Co. Ltd.
“Don’t think I’m your new rose,” the dark hair chick with heavy mascara taunts me.
“Only if you come up and sing with me,” I challenge her.
She joins me. She is Siouxsie Sioux.
“What are we singing?”
“Y’all’s Sex Pistols clones, right?”
“Yeah. So what? And you’re a bloody Yank.”
“So, we need to sing the British national anthem to get this party started?”
“As if you know it.”
“I know this version,” as I start the Sex Pistols’ ode to the monarchy.
‘God save the queen
The fascist regime
They made you a moron
A potential H bomb
God save the queen
She’ ain’t a human being
and There’s no future
And England’s dreaming
Don’t be told what you want
Don’t be told what you need
There’s no future
No future
No future for you…
God save the queen
We mean it man
There’s no future
In England’s dreaming God save the queen….
No future
No future
No future for you
No future
No future
No future for me
No future
No future
No future for you’
Songwriters: Glen Matlock / Johnny Rotten / Paul Thomas Cook / Stephen Philip Jones
Siouxsie Sioux and I sing well together.
“You want to do another song? What do you like?” I ask.
“Let do the Sham Oi anthem, ‘Kids United,” Siouxsie suggests.
“Is that a soccer team”?
“Football, ya bloody, Yank. Just follow my lead.”
‘For once in my life I’ve got something to say
I want to say it now for now is today
A love has been given so why not enjoy
So let’s all grab and let’s all enjoy
If the kids are united then we’ll never be divided
If the kids are united then we’ll never be divided
Just take a look around you
What do you see
Kids with feelings like you and me
Understand him, he’ll understand you
For you are him, and he is you’
Jack and Shane have picked up the tune on guitars. We all join in the chorus
If the kids are united then we’ll never be divided
If the kids are united then we’ll never be divided ‘
Siouxie does the verses
‘I don’t want to be rejected
I don’t want to be denied
Then its not my misfortune
That I’ve opened up your eyes
Freedom is given
Speak how you feel
I have no freedom
How do you feel
They can lie to my face
But not to my heart
If we all stand together
It will just be the start’
Everyone in the crowd joins in the chorus
‘If the kids are united then we’ll never be divided
If the kids are united then we’ll never be divided’
Songwriters: David Michael John Parsons / James Timothy Pursey
If the Kids Are United lyrics © Cacophony Limite
Everyone is bouncing around, pushing and shoving or hanging on to each other. It is mostly just thrashing.
Unfortunately, security takes our song as an excuse to shut down the outdoor performance. There is a short melee before most of the kids run away. We escape into the venue followed by the Bromley Contingent, including the blond bully. Jack stays at the card table to save our box of 45s and the accumulated cash. Bowie explains that we are, ‘part of the show.’ Security respectfully tells him to keep the show inside.
“What have you got against Danny Martin?” Siouxsie asks
“He came to Switzerland to dig up dirt on Bowie and Mercury. He tried to create gossip, claiming he works for the NME.”
“That’s what he tells us, the twat. But what are you hiding?”
“Some of the Queen roadies went to a gay bar. He freaked out when we dragged him into the club and guys hit on him.”
“Good. He never gets laid,” Siouxsie reveals. “But why does Bowie like you?”
“I’m the new Ziggy Stardust.” I preen. “Bowie has aged out. We do dueling Ziggy hits and I win the role.”
“What does Bowie do?”
“He has his new hits like ‘Heroes.’ He sings ‘Prettiest Star’ to his 7-year-old son.”
“Sounds like soap opera.”
“Bowie is spotlighting his new single, ‘Yassassin.’ It tells us to be nice to Muslims.”
“Pakis?”
“All immigrants. We come from Switzerland. Our singer is a Sufi Muslim, Bowie’s mother is Irish. Michael’s African-American. Bowie’s band is all Turks from Berlin.”
“A right UN y’are. So your drummer is Michael Jackson?”
“Too many stars. He’s my age and got stuck in the Boss Band.”
“Why’s he playing drums?”
“Black’s got rhythm.”
“That’s racist.”
“But it’s true. I can’t do that dance move he’s teaching.”
“And MacGowan’s in the band?”
“Nah. He just thinks so.”
One of the reasons Security cleared the plaza is the arrival of actual ticket holders for the first show. The other reason is Security likes to hassle defenseless kids. We (the Boss Band and the Bromley Contingent) move to the Green Room. Our new frenemies spot the catering and make quick work of the bottles of lager and wine. The Knobs walk into the Green Room and see their treats disappearing with interlopers. Their inner-roadie snaps to attention and prepares to eject the punks.
“They’re part of the show,” I tell Billy. “We’re going let them play with the Boss Band after I descend as Starman.”
“And I thought you couldn’t get any lower,” Jock snarks.
“Tell Henri we need more catering,” I order Billy and Jock.
“And hurry up,” Blond Bully orders. How quickly the underclass acts entitled.
Ignoring the bully boi, I suggest we check out the trapeze setup
“I do a flying battle with Bowie on who does his old hits the best.”
“You’re on a wire, like Peter Pan?” Siouxie asks.
“Wanna try it? You can be Wendy”
She looks startled and then pleased. She loves adventures.
“I’ll be Peter Pan,” Siouxsie demands.
“Okay. I’ll be Wendy.”
She laughs, “I knew you were flawed.”
“For wanting to be like you?”
“Boys should be boys. Only girls can be both.”
“How old fashioned of the Bromley crew.”
We wander backstage to where the wire crew, our puppet masters, are waiting for the show to start.
“My friends want to do a Peter Pan departure to Never Neverland,” I approach the guys. They have been pretty accommodating so far.
“You wanna get hooked up?” my puppeteer laughs.
“Yeah, shoot me up right here,” I scoff.
“Okay,” he agrees,” but let me get the cameraman who’s been shooting Bowie.
I laugh at the thought of shooting Bowie, like putting down an old horse. Perfect for our parable of me replacing Ziggy Stardust. I’m putting him out of his misery of never growing up. Maybe we can use the video to create an animated short like Pink Floyd always does. Why do I know that? Well, I am not asking Jack why.
The cameraman joins us with a small hand-held camera, a Sony Beta-Max. Soon four of us are wired. The puppet masters have interns to man the Darling boys’ wires. Next, Bully Boi demands he get a role.
“How about Tinkerbell, dispensing the fairy dust to make us fly/” I goof on him.
“No way. I ain’t no fairy,” he complains.
“Then you can be Nana, the dog, trying to keep up.”
Soon we’re all up in the air. The cameraman runs around, trying to capture everyone in his one frame, I hope he has good editing software. Is there software in 1978? I have to be in makeup soon but before leaving I see the raw footage. The Beta-Max is incredible. Its microphone even catches Bully Boi barking as he tries to keep up. He gets his licks in by mocking me for wearing makeup. Thinking I am gone, he attacks Jack to get at the cash Jack is guarding from the sale of 45s. Before I can turn around to save the Yank, Jack attacks the bully to maintain his honor. Later he tells me he learned to fight when he boarded at a Catholic Seminary in Montreux. That’s a coincidence.
I sit with Bowie in the dressing room. When the makeup artist is finished, Bowie looks a lot more like me than I look like him. I understand why Bowie feels trapped in a teenage body; he is thirty-two. Duncan is there, insisting he get makeup. He still looks seven.
“Do you like it when your dad sings to you?” I ask our youngest player.
“It’s okay. He always sang that song when I was young,” he answers. “I like Sufi dancing the best.
I toss him up and catch him.
“Don’t mess up my makeup,” he complains.
The show is set to open. Mike sits with me at the MOOG, as I prepare to smooth out any mistakes by the Knobs. They are doing so well, Mike asks if he could man the MOOG. We’ll play it together.
The Knobs open with ‘Smoke on the Water.’
No one complains when Billy announces that they are from Montreux. Their English accents betray this exaggeration, but no one claims they are defaming Deep Purple. Ripping off other musicians is an English tradition. The effects man has the smoke machine cranking out authenticity.
The audience settles back as the Knobs continue with their favorite hits. No T Rex tonight. Mott the Hopple’s Ian Hunter is still alive; no one complains.
‘All the way to Memphis.’
The Knobs’ long hair and 60s dress mirrrors the audience.
Mike plays keyboards like a pro on the MOOG. I let him go solo and run backstage where Shane and the Bromleys are finishing off the restocked bar.
“Why are you here? The Knobs need you out front to whip up excitement,” I cry.
“They’re just old hippies,” Siouxsie’s screeching friend counters.
“Well, if you want to play with us during Bowie, you need to be out front and making a name for yerselves. You can jump up on stage when I call for you.”
Shane downs the dregs of his beer and leads them down the side stairs into the auditorium.
I run to find Henri to advise Security that the punks will be jumping on stage to play with us during ‘Starman.’”
“Merdre, Laz. You’re always changing things.”
“Just adding to the fun.”
“Hah Hah,” Henri is not pleased.
I run back to the Moog on stage. Mike looks ecstatic with its sound and is really into Bob Marley’s ‘One Love.’
With me back on the MOOG, Mike joins Billy singing as a duet. I see George Martin standing with Claude Nobs. A surprise is Paul McCartney standing with them, blowing into a kazoo. A brain fart tells me to have him sing ‘Let ‘em In’ twice, once after this set by the Knobs and at the grand finale with Freddie and David. Wings is ‘Band on the Run;’ I have the bands on the run. My motto: ‘chaos will ensue.’
Now I have to run to be wired up, ready to descend on stage playing ‘Starman.’
As I pass Paul, George and Claude, I address Paul, “Now that you’re in this band, please sing ‘Let ‘em In’ with them as well as with Freddie and David at the end?’
“Sure, Boss,” Paul is a trouper.
Sitting in the rafters, I adjust my Ziggy outfit I hate that there are no trousers, and my ass is hanging out under the short skirt. Well, anything for show business. I am definitely showing too much.
Paul is singing his song as Bowie waves to me from his perch before he is lowered to do Major Tom. I am ready to be Ground Control in the rafters. Bowie flies from his perch and is slowly lowered to the stage
I sing the Ground Control lyrics. Mike does the countdown 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
‘Ground Control to Major Tom
Ground Control to Major Tom
Take your protein pills and put your helmet on
Ground Control to Major Tom (ten, nine, eight, seven, six)
Commencing countdown, engines on (five, four, three)
Check ignition and may God’s love be with you (two, one, liftoff)’
Bowie is lifted off the stage.
‘This is Ground Control to Major Tom
You’ve really made the grade
And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear
Now it’s time to leave the capsule if you dare’’This is Ground Control to Major Tom
You’ve really made the grade
And the papers want to know whose shirts you wear
Now it’s time to leave the capsule if you dare’
It is my cue to fly. Out I go chasing Bowie above the stage. The crowd’s amazement builds as the audience claps, cheers, stomps and yells as we fly above the band playing the song. Both of us are singing and playing guitar, thanks to wireless tech. Bowie sings
‘”This is Major Tom to Ground Control
I’m stepping through the door
And I’m floating in a most peculiar way
And the stars look very different today
For here
Am I sitting in my tin can
Far above the world
Planet Earth is blue
And there’s nothing I can do’
I fly up to the rafters, as Bowie takes over the vocals
‘Though I’m past one hundred thousand miles
I’m feeling very still
And I think my spaceship knows which way to go
Tell my wife I love her very much’
Mike is again Ground Control
‘Ground Control to Major Tom
Your circuit’s dead, there’s something wrong
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you hear me, Major Tom?
Can you…’
Mike cuts off his mic. Just I sing
‘”Here am I floating ’round my tin can
Far above the moon
Planet Earth is blue
And there’s nothing I can do”
Songwriters: David Bowie
Space Oddity lyrics © T.R.O. Inc.
Bowie flies upwards; we meet high above the middle of the stage. The fireworks go off and roman candles burst behind us. Bowie flies to his rafter perch as I slowly descend. The Knobs start playing the intro to ‘Starman’
‘Hey now, now
Oh, oh, oh
Didn’t know what time it was, the lights were low
I leaned back on my radio
Some cat was laying down some rock ‘n’ roll
“Lotta soul,” he said
Then the loud sound did seem to fade
Came back like a slow voice on a wave of phase
That weren’t no DJ, that was hazy cosmic jive’
I am floating about 10 feet above the stage, playing guitar and singing as the Boss Band stands back, ready to play on the Knobs’ instruments. The lights spotlight only me.
‘There’s a starman waiting in the sky
He’d like to come and meet us
But he thinks he’d blow our minds
There’s a starman waiting in the sky
He’s told us not to blow it
‘Cause he knows it’s all worthwhile’
I swing out to the front of the stage as the Boss Band gets ready. There I sing
‘He told me
Let the children lose it
Let the children use it
Let all the children boogie’
I keep singing while Jack, Emile and Mike play and Amar sings
La, la, la, la-la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la-la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la-la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la-la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la-la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la-la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la-la, la, la, la
La, la, la, la-la, la, la, la
I am lowered to the stage and stare wild-eyed at the crowd. The Bromleys shout I am copying Johnny Rotten. I shout back,
‘You ain’t the boss of me.”
The lights picks out the new band as Jack hits the opening bars and Amar sings the line again and continues into our one song
‘You ain’t the boss of me
I’m not who you see
To be what I can be
I need to feel free
Nah, nah nah, na nah, na na, na nah
You tell me when to come or go
I toss me to and fro
Listen to all your rules
I’m not one of your tools
Nah, nah nah, na nah, na na, na nah
You say ‘your house, your rules
My way or the highway’
I’ll see you when I can
This is when it all began
Nah, nah nah, na nah, na na, na nah
Miss me, hah
Need me, nah
Love me, hah
Rid of me, nah
Nah na na na nan
Nan na nan na nan na’
Copyright MIB 2021 Tar Larner
Emile, Jack and I are at the edge of the stage, egging on the Bromleys, who sing the chant back at us. Bowie’s band takes the stage as the Boss Band jumps into the crowd below the stage.
Suddenly I fly up high above the stage. I start ‘Jean Genie’ on guitar and am supported by the Berlin Turks
‘A small Jean Genie snuck off to the city
Strung out on lasers and slash back plazas
And ate all your razors while pullin’ the waiters
Talking bout Monroe and walkin’ on snow white
New York’s a go-go and everything tastes right
Poor little Greene
Ohh
Hoo, ooo, ooo
Give up now’
I fly into the rafters as Bowie floats down playing guitar and singing the salacious parts to the song. The crowd cheers his return.
‘Sits like a man but smiles like a reptile
She love him, she love him but just for a short while
So, scratch in the sand won’t let go his hand
He says he’s a beautician and sells you nutrition
Keeps all your dead hair for making up underwear
Poor little Greenie
Hoo, ooo, ooo
I fly halfway to the stage and Bowie rises to meet me. We duel the rest of the song in the air with only spotlights tracing us. The stage is darkened.
Me:
‘Jean Genie lives on his back
The Jean Genie loves chimney stacks
He’s outrageous
(Jean Genie)
He screams and he bawls
Jean Genie, let yourself go
Ooo, oww
So simple minded he can’t drive his module
He bites on the neon and sleeps in the capsule
(Aah)
Loves to be loved
(Aah)
Loves to be loved’
Bowie:
‘Aaa, ooo
Jean Genie lives on his back
The Jean Genie loves chimney stacks
He’s outrageous
(Jean Genie)
He screams and he bawls
Jean Genie, let yourself go
Ooo, oww
Go, go’
We both sing and play together:
Jean Genie lives on his back
The Jean Genie loves chimney stacks
He’s outrageous
(Jean Genie)
He screams and he bawls
Jean Genie let yourself go
Ooo, oww
Go, go, go’
Songwriters: Bowie David
The Jean Genie lyrics © Chrysalis Music Ltd., Tintoretto Music, Chrysalis Music Ltd, Rzo Music Ltd
I fly into the rafters. The spotlight is off, with Bowie on stage. The spotlight turns on him as he starts singing ‘Fame.’ I fly halfway down so Bowie can point at me every time he sings “Fame”. The spotlight catches me playing guitar and flying back and forth to Bowie’s taunts of ‘Fame’
‘Is it any wonder I reject you first
Fame (fame) fame fame
Is it any wonder you are too cool to fool
Fame (fame)
Fame bully for you chilly for me
Got to get a rain check on pain
(Pain)
Fame
Fame fame fame fame fame
Fame fame fame fame fame
Fame fame fame fame fame
Fame fame fame fame fame
Fame fame fame
Fame
What’s your name?
What’s your name?
What’s your name?…’
Songwriters: John Lennon / David Bowie / Carlos Alomar
Fame lyrics © Chrysalis Music Ltd., Tintoretto Music, Jones Music America, Unitunes Music, Emi Affiliated Catalog Inc., Lenono Music, Chrysalis Music Ltd
I fly down to the stage where we play guitar and sing ‘Rebel Rebel’ to each other
‘You’ve got your mother in a whirl
She’s not sure if you’re a boy or a girl
Hey babe, your hair’s alright
Hey babe, let’s go out tonight
You like me, and I like it all
We like dancing and we look divine
You love bands when they’re playing hard
You want more and you want it fast
They put you down, they say I’m wrong
You tacky thing, you put them on
Rebel rebel, you’ve torn your dress
Rebel rebel, your face is a mess
Rebel rebel, how could they know?
Hot tramp, I love you so!’
I let David do the singing as I sashay across the stage, striking poses and playing guitar
‘You’ve torn your dress, your face is a mess
You can’t get enough, but enough ain’t the test
You’ve got your transmission and your live wire
You got your cue line and a handful of ludes
You wanna be there when they count up the dudes
And I love your dress
You’re a juvenile success
Because your face is a mess
So how could they know?
I said, how could they know?
So what you wanna know
Calamity’s child, chi-chi, chi-chi
Where’d you wanna go?
What can I do for you? Looks like you’ve been there too
‘Cause you’ve torn your dress
And your face is a mess
Ooh, your face is a mess
Ooh, ooh, so how could they know?
Eh, eh, how could they know?
Eh, eh’
We both fly above the stage and play a dueling ‘Ziggy Stardust’ battle
Me:
‘Ziggy played guitar
Jamming good with Weird and Gilly
And the Spiders from Mars
He played it left hand
But made it too far
Became the special man
Then we were Ziggy’s band
Ziggy really sang
Screwed-up eyes and screwed-down hairdo
Like some cat from Japan
He could lick ’em by smiling
He could leave ’em to hang
They came on so loaded, man
Well-hung and snow-white tan’
David:
‘So where were the spiders
While the fly tried to break our bones?
With just the beer light to guide us
So we bitched about his fans
And should we crush his sweet hands?
Oh’
Me:
‘Ziggy played for time
Jiving us that we were voodoo
The kids were just crass
He was the nazz
With God-given ass
He took it all too far
But, boy, could he play guitar’
David:
‘Making love with his ego
Ziggy sucked up into his mind, ah
Like a leper messiah
When the kids had killed the man
I had to break up the band’
Me:
‘Oh, yeah
Ooh’
David bows to me:
‘Ziggy plays guitar’
Songwriters: David Bowie
Ziggy Stardust lyrics © Chrysalis Music Ltd., Tintoretto Music, Chrysalis Music Ltd, Rzo Music Ltd
After he bows, Bowie flies all the way to the rafters. It is my stage, me, Ziggy Stardust. I walk to the edge of the stage. I spot Bully Boi. Pointing at him I start sing ‘Watch That Man’
‘Watch that man!
Oh honey, watch that man
He talks like a jerk but he could eat you with a fork and spoon
Watch that man!
Oh honey, watch that man
He walks like a jerk but he’s only taking care of the room
Must be in tune‘
Produced By David Bowie & Ken Scott
Written By David Bowie
The kids respond with frenzied jumping up and down. The audience is stunned, unable to believe whether it is Bowie singing or me. At the song’s end, I sing “watch that man,’ and spin around, flipping up my bum flap at the crowd. I pick up an acoustic guitar and start playing ‘Five Years’
“I never thought I’d need so many people’
“I kiss you, you’re beautiful, I want you to walk
We’ve got five years, stuck on my eyes
Five years, what a surprise
We’ve got five years, my brain hurts a lot
Five years, that’s all we’ve got’
Produced By David Bowie & Ken Scott
Written By David Bowie
The sad song is not a hit but I get a decent hand of applause.
I run over to the stage’s edge to tell Mike, the band and the Bromleys to get up on stage.
“You play any song you want,” I tell Suzie.
“Sure, Boss,” as she scrambles to climb on stage. Security was warned.
I stand at center stage, playing ‘Starman’ as I slowly rise on the wire and hang above the Boss Band plus Suzie
There’s a starman waiting in the sky
He’d like to come and meet us
But he thinks he’d blow our minds
There’s a starman waiting in the sky
He’s told us not to blow it
‘Cause he knows it’s all worthwhile
He told me
Let the children lose it
Let the children use it
Let all the children boogie
Below me, the ragamuffins are ready. Siouxie starts to sing ‘Hong Kong Garden’
Mike is on drums, Jack picks up the melody, while I play from above. Steven Severin helps with the bass part from the MOOG. Emile stands there fully confident he is doing it all by himself.
‘Harmful elements in the air
Symbols clashing everywhere
Reaps the fields of rice and reeds
While the population feeds
Junk floats on polluted water
An old custom to sell your daughter
Would you like number twenty three?
Leave your yens on the counter please
Ho-oh, ho-oh-oh-oh
Hong Kong Garden
Ho-oh, ho-oh-oh-oh
Hong Kong Garden
Oh oh, oh oh
Tourists swarm to see your face
Confucius has a puzzling grace
Disoriented you enter in
Unleashing scent of wild jasmine
Slanted eyes meet a new sunrise
A race of bodies small in size
Chicken Chow Mein and Chop Suey
Hong Kong Garden takeaway
La la la, la la la la la
Ho-oh, ho-oh-oh-oh
Hong Kong Garden
Ho-oh, ho-oh-oh-oh’
Songwriters: Morris Kenneth Ian / John Gareth Mckay / Siouxsie Sioux / Steven Severin
Hong Kong Garden lyrics © BMG Rights Management, Domino Publishing Company
Again, the audience is caught off-guard. This is not your old rock and roll. In all that mascara Siouxie looks Chinese. They forgive the racial comments. The power of the song brings a loud response of applause from the crowd. MacGowan looks like he is staggering to the mic. I signal ‘CUT’ and the stage goes black and the power is cut to the amps and sound boards. The audience is uneasy. A spotlight catches Duncan, a small boy looking up into the rafters. His father quickly appears. Time for the new Bowie.
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Tim at Swim 