Post by Dead Bowie on Jul 28, 2009 18:32:54 GMT -8
"You've got your mother all in a whirl 'cause she's
not sure if you're a boy or a girl;
hey babe, your hair's alright -
hey babe, let's stay out tonight --"
[/i]not sure if you're a boy or a girl;
hey babe, your hair's alright -
hey babe, let's stay out tonight --"
The blond-haired figure on stage sung out the lyrics, as if melody was the normal state of his voice, the sound carrying out sharp and loud over the sound of screaming fans below in the large stadium, jumping and screaming and singing along. Shouts of 'rebel, rebel' echoed through the outdoor stadium as the chorus went by, lights illuminating the bowl as if it were daylight.
In one of the back-most seats, leaning back with his feet on a chair, looking between the standing crowd in front of him, Dead Bowie scoffed, rolling his eyes at the display on stage. "Bloody hell, 'e's gettin' old," the man said, crossing his arms in discontempt and obvious irritation in contrast to the people around him. Subconsciously, he ran a hand along his cheek, feeling the smooth skin made cold by the night air and the makeup, giving it an almost unnatural feel to the touch, relieved to find not a single wrinkle invading his facial features. Not that the man on stage had many, either -- but nearly thirty years makes a large difference.
Especially when you're trying to impersonate one of the greatest figures and voices in rock and roll that the United Kingdom had managed to spit out.
That was why he was here. The impersonator -- the man who had taken his name, his music, and his fame and made it his own -- now had just as large -- if not a larger following than he had ever had in his years as Ziggy. 'Neo-clasic Bowie' was what they were calling it. "Fuckin' borin' is more like it, " he shot back at his own thoughts, tapping his foot up and down in time to his song - his! - as it was played my a cheesy impostor on stage. Dead Bowie himself was dressed in a look reminiscent of his old stage getup - skin-tight black pants that clung to him in all the right ways, which he had always been fond of (and apparently, so had his impostor), loose black button-down shirt with an oversized collar, and a wide-shouldered jacket, vibrant blue with a silver scarf circling his neck and hanging down, vibrantly contrasting with the stark red of his hair. Compared to him, the man on stage looked tame a shell of a man who used to be great.
"Bugger'll ge -- this man's not even a bugger, is 'e?" Dead Bowie thought out loud to himself, thinking over what he had followed of the other man's career in the last twenty years. "Bloke's no' a puff. This is wha' you get when you lose the genuine article," he scoffed again. "He'll get wha's commin' to him," he said, reassuring himself with a wide-set smirk, patting the shoulder bag next to him as band on stage started up 'Starman', Dead Bowie unable to keep his feet from tapping. He so loved his own music.
