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“Ah, yes. Mr. Osterberg.” David spoke as if he hadn’t noticed Iggy were there. He had probably let it slip his mind. He gestured to the air between them, as if giving an interview. Stuck in the mindset of a showman and a liar, but too far gone into the booze to tell a lie to save himself. It was all theatrics. “Mr. Osterberg and I go back some way. We’re partners in the lost dark arts of music. He can be a handful, that’s a certainty, yes, but I’m told, and, I’m assured, that so am I.” Giggling, he spun the stem of his cocktail glass between his fingers. “Jimmy is pure, unadulterated, one-hundred-proof music. Chaos, you know. Music is chaos. Chaos, yeah. He’s discord and anarchy made flesh. I fancy I am, too.”
David stood up to order again, still gesturing and still orating. His “interview” tone had started to slip. “Have you heard Station to Station? I said, have you heard it? That’s what I’m talking about. I’m, ah, talking about — oh, yes. I’m talking about what’s real, what’s visceral. I’m talking Istigkeit, Holy Guardian Angels, that’s what I mean.” He was running on empty now, as far as his monologue was concerned. He had little knowledge of what exactly had been on his latest album, and he hadn’t cared to listen to it. As he got out of his slump in that steel-framed leather armchair, his eyes met Iggy’s. He rambled on, without missing the slightest blink. “Oh, James. The drinks here are marvellous. Would you care for another?”