OH, DAVID, GIVE ME YOUR HANDS.
“Oh, David, give me your hands.” That’s what I whisper, in my mind, as I set down his Campari and soda. It’s freaky cold in LA, for March, the pink trumpet blossom still nipped in the Valley. He’s touring as this new character, Aladdin Sane, a burnt Ziggy Stardust who’ll trash Ziggy’s band one day, maddened by the violence he’d known in America.
He first visited last fall, laying on a $100,000 performance of playing the Hollywood star, under the green-striped awnings of the Beverley Hill Hotel. Forty-six guests: Scientologists, Iggy Pop, Mick Rock doing headstands. “To eat baba ganoush and be himself, that’s why he comes to us at the Larrabee,” says Russell, the owner. Himself? David laughs goatishly – “har-harhar” – at the idea.
A Capricorn blazing under Saturn, Bowie trains that Black Star on himself like a spotlight. Even his drink is a warning that everything is choreographed, its
