Today’s swimming lesson is over. It is two days before the Queen/Bowie Geneva show, outdoors under the stars at La Grange Park. Instead of eating lunch at Freddie Mercury’s Lake House, we walk to the Montreux Casino where the main stage is reserved for our next to last rehearsal. We are the Boss Band, Amar, Emile, Siouxsie, Jack, Mike and me, Laz, owning the streets of Montreux to rehearsal. Henri, the Casino Press Agent/Publicist, escorts us to the restaurant where a luncheon is prepared. I cannot believe we are a six-person band. The addition of Siouxsie is a secret as she primarily plays with her own band, The Banshees, and now, the guest appearance with us to do her version of ‘The Lord’s Prayer.’
Henri has a list of details about the stage set-up and props to spice up our performance. Amar will be wearing his all-white Sufi Whirling Dervish robes. After he sings our first song, ‘You Ain’ the Boss of Me,’ he will join his father’s Dervish dancers on a side-stage, until he sings ‘Yassassin,’ (Long Live), with Bowie near the end of the concert.
The first prop Henri shows is a gizmo that shoots sparks out the neck of our guitars. I can tell that Jack is going to be snotty and complain. I give him my mean look.
“You can play MOOG as much as you want.”
“Whoever plays MOOG will have a psychedelic light show projected onto a screen behind the keyboard,” Henri mollifies Jack. It will only inspire him to create new, dreadful dirges on the electronic organ/synthesizer. God help us. That thought puts a new inspiration in my head.
“Get on the MOOG, Jack, and play one of your chant songs. Let’s see how the light show works,” I tell him.
I pull Siouxsie over; we conspire to use Jack’s dirge-like chords with her ‘Lord’s Prayer’ song.
The kids, Amar and Emile, are running around the stage shooting sparks at each other and Duncan, their seven-year-old foil. Jack is plugging away on the MOOG. Even the artificial light show reflects how dreadful the music is, barely using any colors except grey while the lights move like sludge. Siouxsie is not impressed.
I crank up my guitar at double the tempo that Jack is playing on the MOOG. Mike on drums and Emile on bass follow my tempo. while Jack continues at half our speed. We play two measures for every measure he plays. Siouxsie jumps in with her vocals at Jack’s tempo, shifting suddenly to double speed when she wants. It works perfectly; Siouxsie controls the shifts as she interprets the lyrics to her own creative purposes. Jack doubles his tempo and the lights flash into brilliance. I trust Jack will be suitably inspired.
“Better than with Sid Vicious?” I ask her when she finishes.
“Don’t remind me.”
“Where are the Banshees, maybe we all can play ‘Lord’s Prayer’ together.
“Doubtful. They don’t even want to rehearse, thinking all we are doing is ‘Hong Kong Garden.’”
“Are they taking their methadone?”
“It isn’t doing anything for them. At least they are over being dope sick.”
“It takes time to get straight.”
“They just want the show’s payday to feed their habit once they are back in London.”
“You seem cured.”
“I’m a lightweight.”
I pick her up and spin her around.
“Don’t get fat in the near future.”
“So, you are looking for short term favors?”
Just a sentimental fool, I kiss her.
“Hey, we’re over what happened in London.”
“I like you just the way you are.”
Jack plays keyboard on the MOOG. It really sparks up the light show behind him
“Hey, we’re not performing that. It sucks.”
“I always play to the audience,” as I look around and see all my friends laughing at us.
I tell the Boss Band to be ready to do ‘Lord’s Prayer’ with the Banshees. I think the discordant mix of two bands will only add to the spiritual aura at the end of ‘Starman.’ It will give me time to switch into my Ziggy persona, costume, and makeup.
Next we run through the Ziggy songs I duet with Bowie, culminating in ‘Panic in Detroit,’ where youth vanquishes age. My Ziggy is triumphant. Then I leave Bowie to introduce The Thin White Duke, with ‘Yassassin’ as his answer to racism. Amar joins him singing the title every time it comes up. Mike joins the dervish dancers as he tries using the moonwalk in their whirling. Duncan is their rag doll to toss about.
Queen comes on and runs through their set. Billy is again filling in for Brian May, who stayed in London to be with wife and child, domesticating the rocker. Billy is ecstatic to relive his rock star dreams. Deacy and Taylor seem fine with the substitution. Brian is flying in Friday, so Billy has to make the most of this opportunity to show off his licks. The other Queen members compliment his originality instead of merely mimicking Brian May. The rest of the Knobs are disgruntled, back to just being roadies. Roadies are never happy.
With only the finale to rehearse, we break for dinner. The Banshees have decided they know their one song well enough.
Henri, thank god, has learned that I have Raclette overload. We are all allowed to order from the menu while seated separately in a private dining room. There is even pizza on the menu, which I order as a side dish, not believing Swiss pizza is up to my standards.
“How did you come up with all the props and lighting and other effects? It feels like a Pink Floyd stadium concert with the light show.,” I compliment Henri.
“More like Kiss. I contacted their management company for help.”
“Kiss? They’re a carnival/circus act.”
“Wait ‘til you see what I’ve planned for the finale. It will more than knock your socks off,” he warns us. “Better not load up on too much dessert. You’ll be flying again.”
“What?” I ask.
“Just wait and see,” Henri smiles.
Once the meal service ends, we troop out to the back patio, facing the Lake. The summer sun is still high in the sky. Some sort of clothesline apparatus has been set up, with the line running off the front of the patio, disappearing over the front edge. We all run over and see the line’s terminal at the lake. Several harnesses are waiting for us at the start. Everyone wants to make a run. I hold back and watch as the younger kids go first. They scream all the way to the Lake. An attendant catches them before they fly into the water.
“It’s for ‘Heroes’ as the grand finale,” Henri reveals his plan. “It took all week to erect a much longer run from the concert stage to the jetty in the harbor. It’s called a zip line. They have been used for centuries to move freight but only recently for recreation and tourism in Costa Rica’s Rain Forest. The engineer there was highly enthusiastic when I called about doing it for a concert.”
I inspect the harness, in which I am to sit. It is unacceptable, restricting my ability to play guitar as I slide toward the Geneve Harbor. The engineer has an alternative in which I hang from the harness.
“Will I be able to stop at the end of the line?
“There’s an automatic slowing mechanism as well an emergency hand brake,” Sr Castro, the Costa Rican engineer reassures me.
“Will the zip line be set up by tomorrow, so I can practice playing guitar while flying toward the harbor?”
“We are working as fast as possible. Can you wait to practice on Saturday morning?”
David Bowie comes over to ask what the scheming is all about.
“I’ll be flying from the stage to the harbor,” I gloat.
“I want to do it, too,” Bowie’s youthful risk-taking pops up.
“I’ll add an extra harness, for you Sr Bowie,” Castro promises.
“We’ll be stuck at the Harbor. What if the crowd demands an encore?” I note.
“That’s cool,” David agrees. “Amar on stage can sing the call out ‘Yassassin,’ and I will answer from the Harbor.
“We need to practice,” I insist. “Can you be ready tomorrow?” I ask the engineer.
“Mañana,” Castro promises.
“No way,” I cry. “I know what mañana means, sometime in the dim future.”
“We’ll be ready,” Henri decrees. “We need to test and adjust the wireless mics and guitars, as well as synch the sound mix from two distant sources.”
“How about we have the Knobs set up at the Harbor so they take over once we fly to the water?”
“Who will be roadies, then?”
Who needs cheap labor when we can get roadies to do the heavy lifting?
“Make it work, Henri, “I insist.
He shakes his head, nods and hustles away to hire more stage hands for the second stage.
Mike, Jack and I take turns on the short zip line at the Casino. Someone has to be in the water to stop our flights. Amar, Emile and Duncan insist they need to practice zip-lining, too. We stay out there until the sun finally goes down.
David and the older musicians go back to practice on the main Casino stage. When we finally come in, wet and tired, the Knobs are working with Bowie on their Harbor songs.
“Thanks, Boss,” they all yell, relieved of their roadie duties.
I wave back.
Everyone ends up at the Casino bar. Swiss beer tastes too much like wheat, at least to my unsophisticated taste buds.
The bartender puts a St Pauli Girl in front of me. I take a big swig. Only when I put the bottle down do I notice the Swiss Miss label. I take another two swigs and hand it to Mike. He finishes it. Two more appear. We power down more sweet larger swallows. Mike hands his bottle to Jack, who claims we should be careful not to drink too much. We grab him and make him swig the remains of the two bottles. Three bottles appear. Emile comes over and looks at us to share. The bartender quickly produces cokes for him and Amar. Three more bottles appear in front ofus. By 10 pm we are wasted
“Time to go, boys,” Bowie needs to put Duncan to bed.
“They can stay at my hotel room,” Jack suggests. “It’s nearby.”
Bowie whispers in my ear, “Take him to Taboo. He needs someone to at least like him.”
“Okay,” I shout, totally unaware of how obnoxious I now am. “We’re taking you to Taboo to get laid.”
Jack is shocked and dismayed that I care so little and am not jealous about his love life.
“I cannot just have random, anonymous sex,” he complains.
“You need something to cheer you up,” Mike observes. “We know just the place for gay sex.”
“How and why do you know that?” Jack sees an opening to make his case for abstinence.
“The Knobs are all gay and dragged us there. Freddie even performed one night.”
We are there before there is time for Jack to make more excuses. All three of us enter Taboo arm in arm, happily drunk and ready to throw Jack to the wolves. The regulars recognize Mike and me from past visits when we spurned all offers for backroom sex. Jack is fresh meat.
“Go use that credit card that tells everyone you’re rich and buy us some more of the St Pauli Girl beer,” the Boss (me) orders our lowly guitarist.
Mike and I watch as he navigates the bar. I notice that he speaks French very well, ‘a privileged qualification of the entitled rich.’ I tell Mike.
“You and your New English is just the same, except people want to speak to you because you’re so cute they put up with your entitled ideas.”
“You think I’m cute?” I kiss him on the cheek.
“There you go again, being cheeky,” he laughs.
Jack turns away from the first predator, only to be blocked from the bar by another. He asks Jack if he can buy him a drink. Jack points at us, saying he is buying drinks for our group. Naturally the man buys all of us beers and joins us. Except he totally ignores Mike and me, turning on the charm for only Jack’s benefit. We are in hysterics. Jack is obviously not into it but his perspective partner can care less. Jack mouths “Help” to us.
I step in, “Monsieur, pardonez moi, mais, mon ami est malade avec le GRID, le SID.
His charm disappears, “Pourquoi venez ici?”
“Pour le bier?” I flippantly dismiss him. He hurries away.
Jack is relieved. His pickup technique needs work.
“Anyone you find attractive,” Mike asks.
Most of the patrons are ten or more years older. We are definitely twinks here.
Self-confident men come up to our table, make their pitch, and soon leave, rejected.
I make a final pitch to Jack.
“We think you need to get laid. Just pick someone and take him into the backroom.”
“Here?” he is aghast. “They are having sex in the back?”
“Would you prefer they do it in plain sight.”
“Fuck, no,” he exclaims.
“Well, take him to your hotel room. We’ll sleep at Freddie’s.”
“No. Please come and sleep with me,” he begs.
So much for helping him get over me. Mike laughs. We finish our 7th or 8th beer of the night and pile into a cab. Jack gives the driver the name of his hotel. The driver has no interest in what he considers a three-way about to happen.
Upstairs we collapse unto the double bed. When Jack tries to snuggle in with me, I switch with Mike who gives Jack the long stare to nowhere. We all fall asleep.
I wake up early, as usual. Rolling out of bed I notice Mike’s eyes are open. I jump back into the bed and we roll around on top of each other. Jack wakes up and complains that he needs his sleep. We pounce on him and roll him onto the floor. He sulks.
“Not a morning person?” I kid him. “Before we fell asleep, you were all over me. Revenge is fair play.”
“And what’s that sticking out in your underwear,” Michael points.
He is unaware.
“Go in the bathroom and take care of THAT,” we both shout.
He turns red and disappears.
I call room service and order continental breakfasts for three. Jack is still in the bathroom.
When the food arrives. I bang on the door and tell him, “Food’s here.”
When he comes out, we can tell he was crying.
The tears work on our consciences; we hug and kiss away his tears. He brightens up. The coffee helps. There are only two croissants which we all claim for ourselves, resulting in a food fight and no one gets any. Both croissants are destroyed. We cheer St Pauli Girl for not giving us hangovers.
Swim lessons go well. White D comes without the pod to swim with me.
She tells me they are concerned that Black D will ambush her in the open lake. She could not stay away when she knows I wait for her. We happily click away about the show the next night. She promises the whole pod plans on performing in the Harbor. I explain that the show will start after sunset. She is excited about the glow rings each dolphin will wear behind their head. (Do dolphins have necks?) Time for lunch at the Lake House. Jim has burgers on the grill and fries from the fryer. We are looking forward to afternoon rehearsal, but first go we inspect the concert site in La Grange Parc, Geneve.
It is a beehive of activity. The park is an open, grassy area that runs down toward the Lake. The stage is set at the top of Le Parc des Eauxs Vive (live waters). We hope it does not rain for our show. The stage has three levels; a main stage with enough room for two band setups plus room to move the black platform from which to create the image of ‘Starman’ floating above the stage; a smaller stage for the Sufi Dervish dancers to the right; and, on the left, the zip line takeoff platform raised high above the main stage for Bowie and me to begin our ‘flight’ to the Harbor.
I run to the zip line. It goes for an incredibly long way, to its destination, several hundred yards away and passing over a city street next to the harbor.
Henri tells me it is not ready for use. He asks me to try out the harness I will use while singing and playing guitar. It is a backpack with a coupling to secure me to the hook.
“This is an emergency release in case you need to escape during descent or get hung up before the end,” he instructs me.
“Seriously?” I get concerned about safety.
“Don’t worry,” he tries to reassure me. “There is also an emergency brake cable hanging from the harness, if you need to slow down or stop.”
“Great,” I am not reassured. “Maybe a jet-pack works better?”
“That’s just science fiction, sonny.”
Maybe I should have come back from the dead at a more advanced future.
Several trailers are at the edge of the woods, plus all the sound equipment is stacked under a tarp, to protect it from rain. For setup purposes, a long line runs from the generators which will later power the amps and speakers during the show. Downhill is the sound booth and lighting array set more in the middle of the park. Massive cables run to the stage and also under the zip line to the harbor where the Knobs will play. I cannot believe that everything has been set up in such a short time. Queen’s set will be electrified by pyrotechnics like we had in London. Should I worry about setting the forest behind the stage on fire? I trust Henri has it all under control.
“The crew has been doing outdoor concerts all over Europe,” he assures me. “They are excited about the zip line. It is a first for them.”
It is time to catch the ferry back to Montreux. We do not have rehearsal until 4 pm at the Casino. We plan to eat lunch on the boat.
The Boss Band eats together. Over beer and soda we pledge to hang out together until the Geneva show is done. Amar and Emile relax and do not care that teenage silliness will upset us twenty somethings. I miss Siouxsie who has not come on the trip to the concert site. I figure she is a trouper and does not need to control all aspects of the show (like I do).
After eating we stand along the boat’s railing taking in the Alpine beauty surrounding the Lake. On the right side is France. On the left is Switzerland. This is home to me, the only place I can remember. I am being sentimental.
Suddenly I notice that we are being followed. As soon as I realize it is her, White D flips into the air followed by her pod. They put on a show for all the ferry patrons. We start clicking, chatting about being in the middle of the Lake.
‘This is my home,’ White D knew what I was thinking.
“Me. Too / click click’, I agree. It makes me sad that I’ll be leaving every weekend for concerts throughout Europe.
‘I’ll be sad, too,’ click click click click, she agrees. She comes near enough to the boat for me to rub her nose. I swear she smiles at me, before swimming away and flipping twice in the air.
The other boat patrons applaud the performance. Maybe I can get a job at Sea World.
We go straight to the Montreux Casino where dress rehearsal for the Geneva show is already in progress. Queen is running through its set without the pyrotechnics. Brian May is still a no-show. Our Knobs guitarist Billy (and old Queen roadie) is really putting on a show in Brian’s place. Today he can at least pretend to be in Queen, before reverting to roadie duty. We run down and cheer on his guitar heroics. He already sees himself in Rock n Roll Heaven, the first roadie inductee.
Also present is Siouxsie and her Banshees. I sense a certain resentment from their leader and bassist Steven Severin, sitting with Siouxsie, John McKay (guitarist) and Kenny Morris (drummer). They look bored believing they will only play their hit, ‘Hawaiian Garden’.
Employing my ‘New’ English ploy to encourage mutual understanding I approach them and use my fake London Aussie accent to greet the Bashees, “Oi, mate, welcome to the rock circus.”
“Da not pretend yer locals. We know yas all Yanks,” Steven cuts me down. Siouxsie giggles.
“Jist bein’ friendly, “I ignore the snub. “How’s likin’ Switzerland? Ready for tommora’s show?”
“We da not understand why we havta start after dark.”
“’Cause of all the pyrotechnics for Queen. And Bowie’s band is all Muslims. They won’t play on Saturdays until after sundown.’
“Jesus,” McKay complains.
“No, Muhammed,” I joke.
They continue to sneer.
“We need to talk about the order. We, the Boss Band, want you to open with ‘Hong Kong Garden’ after the first chorus that Bowie sings in ‘Starman.’ “
“We’re the opening band?”
“Naw, Bowie goes first. You play with him.”
“Siouxsie likes that,” Steven laughs at her.
“Yeah, it’s like a duet, except there are three different bands backing him.”
“Why so complicated?”
“Bowie sets it up when he sings, ‘Let all the children boogie.’ “
“So, we’re here just to be children?”
“No. We just not old.”
“We’re here for part of one song?”
“No, we go on the second chorus with our hit and then we all sing and play on Siouxsie’s first song, ‘The Lord’s Prayer.”
“We hate that song,” McKay objects.
“We’ll do it as a jam. That’s why we’re all here for the dress rehearsal. You’ll like it more when you play our version.”
“It’s our song.”
“Right-o, mate, you play normally, while we add Gregorian chants and riffs on what you play. It’ll be great. Wait and see.”
“If we don’t like it, we’ll refuse to let you play it your way.”
“You already don’t like it. Siouxsie told me. See how we spice it up.”
“You’re paying the bills, but don’t expect us to just jam with you Yanks.”
“Think of it as jamming with Jesus.”
“Let get some beer before we have to be on stage,” I suggest.
Amar and Emile are running around with Duncan. There are seven of us who head for the bar.
“Who’s the little kid?” Morris the drummer asks.
“That’s Duncan. He’s Bowie’s son,” Mike explains. “He dances and we throw him around.”
“Is this a family show? Any more kids?” Steven asks.
“Well, Brian May isn’t here yet. He just became a new father.”
The shake their heads.
“It’s all old sods, innit?” Steven notes.
“That explains why both our bands are needed to open the concert and get the fans worked up.”
The bartender comps us more St Pauli Girls while the Banshees get British dark largers. They mock us for drinking girly beer.”
I grab Steven’s pint and take a mighty swallow. It is barely cool and no carbonation. I like the taste.
“I can get used to that.”
We have several more rounds. The Boss Band changes to the English larger. We all stop being so standoffish. Everyone laughs. It is time to jam.
As we walk to the Concert stage, Steve pulls me aside.
“Siouxsie says yer the dude to score some dope for the band. This methadone does nothing for me.”
My reputation betrays my innocence. I know that ‘dope’ in this case means heroin, not pot, but I play up the misunderstanding.
“Well, the Knobs band can hook you up. They always smoke after shows.”
He looks at me and just shakes his head, “eij-it”
Onstage, Siouxsie leads the boys through their hit, ‘Hong Kong Garden.’ Our band stands in front of the stage and cheers them along, moving with Siouxsie as she dances in front of the band.
The Boss Band is set up on the opposite side of the stage. Amar belts out the lyrics to ‘You’re not the Boss of Me,’ while the Banshees laugh and enjoy our attitude and less professional playing style.
“Okay, Jack,” I turn to the gay reject, “time for your MOOG solo.”
He turns on the synthesizer and wails away with gothic chants. I turn the feed almost to zero.
“Okay, Siouxsie, time for ‘The Lord’s Prayer.’
The Banshees moan their dislike of their first song. Only Severin was in the band when they performed it at the 100 Club; he is just the bassist and plays a weird up-picking style, like only single notes played. I slowly turn up Jack’s feed and lower the Banshees. Jack picks out the melody and mixes the MOOG into the output. Siouxsie is singing lines from the Prayer and adding what I term ‘tongues’ from Baptist Rapture prayers. She bounces around the stage. It takes about ten minutes for them to finish the song. No one is excited but Jack is learning the song.
“Now, The Boss Band is going to join in, except we will play at a double time tempo, playing two measures for every Banshee measure.”
They look confused, but Mike and I understand. Emile will follow us. I pull Siouxsie aside.
“You should sing the actual prayer words at the Banshee’s tempo and when you riff whatever inspires you, sing at the Boss Band’s speed.
Jack is confused.
“Just stay with the Banshee’s rhythm and listen to Siouxsie for when she riffs at our speed. You match her so the words thunder with the Moog’s boost. It’s a MOOG mood harmonic.”
He still looks confused, but we start the song again with both bands playing. I am watching Jack as he slides over and appears to be conversing with someone I cannot see.
“What are you talking about?” I whisper. ‘
“Casper is helping me,” he answers. “He’s mad at you.”
Casper? The ghost I called ‘Spirity.’ Well, we may need divine inspiration to make this work.
“Dare I ask why?”
“You never need him anymore. He showed me how to play separate rhythms with each hand. I got lost surrounded by the punk speed while trying to hear the Banshees playing at a standard tempo across the stage.”
“He helps the kids learning guitar with David. Why else would I need him.”
“He misses you.”
“I told you not to talk about my past. I’m expected to socialize with a ghost I can’t remember?”
“At least be nice to him.”
“I’m nice to his dog. You’re hopeless. Just concentrate on the show.” It is not easy to play in two bands at once. I’m impressed. “I don’t want to know it is ‘Casper’ who is doing it.
“He showed me how to do it, then left. It hurts his feelings when you ignore him.”
“Ghosts have feelings?”
“You’re a zombie and you have feelings, especially negative ones about me.”
Siouxsie is in her own head, spinning around and whispering the nonsense words. Amar comes over and starts spinning with her.
Mike, Emile and I start playing at double time. Casper is now sitting next to me at the mixing board. He pushes my fingers to even everyone’s levels into a single melody. It works.
The first round through is still ragged. After playing it several more times, we sound coherent. Amar’s dervish dancing unites us. After the third time through, we stop, and everyone just looks at each other.
“Now that’s a Jesus jam,” I declare.
No one cares about religion, but it is inspired. We just found a new arrangement with a spiritual basis to match the religious words. Siouxsie never stopped moving on stage. She likes the two tempos. Senseless lyrics coupled with a two thousand-year-old prayer make for a stunning contrast. The jam goes on for twenty minutes and only ends when I cut off power to the MOOG. Jack gives me an annoyed look. Siouxsie collapses onto the stage floor. Amar keeps circling her like the angel of death. It is spooky but not moody, due to the faster tempo by the Boss Band.
Severin runs over to Jack’s MOOG and asks to observe how he creates the dual soundtrack. We power up the MOOG again and the two of them jam (at a lower decibel level).
We run through the whole mini set of songs within the song ‘Starman.’ I always wondered what boogie meant, thinking it had to do with the boogieman, a Black stereotype. As the audience starts to dances with us, boogie becomes ‘hot jazz.’
I sit with Bowie as the two bands head back to the bar. Jack tells me to ask David about the previous guitarist Earl Slick.
“Yeah. He replaced Mick Ronson who went off to do his own thing. Slick is not much older than you. His guitar playing was an eclectic mix of folk strumming and other worldly riffs. Mick hated it. Slick played on several tours. He idolizes John Lennon. When he got the chance to play in the ex-Beatle’s Plastic Ono Band, I was left without a guitarist. Then you just appeared after I escaped my drug habits in LA and Berlin.”
“The Turks came aboard when you wrote ‘Yassassin.?”
“I wrote it for them and released the single, which went nowhere. My hope is this tour you envision will get the message out there.”
“That you’re now a Muslim.”
“I’m more mature, that’s all, and respect thousand-year-old religions.”
“Yeah, go Jesus and Mohammed.”
“You sure we should start the concert with me. I haven’t opened for a while,” David is insecure as an opening band.
“Don’t get hung up on status. You’re closing the show as well. I think you should sing ‘Life on Mars,’ to open, instead of starting with ‘Starman.’
“Okay, but I’m glad we are only doing one show Saturday.”
“Yeah. It was crazy in London – four shows over consecutive nights. I ended up in an opium den.”
“How’s your plan to steal Siouxsie away from the junkies.”
“I am starting to like them. I was afraid they wouldn’t do the reworking of ‘The Lord’s Prayer.”
“How did that work?”
“They had hated that song until the Spirit of Rock n Roll inspired Jack to play the MOOG at two tempos simultaneously.”
“Your ghost friend Spirity?”
“Yeah, but Jack says he’s called Casper.”
“From your other life?”
“Yeah, but I’m not asking any questions. It just works.”
Henri tells us that the crew has the stage setup for ‘Starman.”
Bowie tells him about the addition of ‘Life on Mars.’