By Darbalu, The Underground Mirror: April, 2025
David Bowie Reviews Moreish Idols
I found the Ouija board at a garage sale wedged between a stack of VHS tapes and a taxidermized squirrel. It seemed different than the generic Parker Brothers mass produced ones. Real wood, aged and worn. Lettered in strange fonts. Must have gotten it custom on Etsy. The old hag who sold it to me gave a warning I immediately ignored, except for the part where she said, “Please take it… help me.” I thought it weird at the time but it was prophetic.
So naturally, I took it home and did the only sensible thing: I drew a pentagram on the floor, set out a table and chair inside it, lit some candles, poured a drink, and prepared to interview the dead.
The board hums with static energy as I spell out his name. The candles flicker. The scent of ozone and European cigarettes. Somewhere, a synthesizer (or maybe a saxophone?) plays a note that doesn’t exist.
And then- “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” a voice mutters.
Yessss…. ladies and gentlemen, David Bowie is here.
What Does Bowie Miss Most?
DARBALU: David, welcome to The Underground Mirror. First question—what do you miss most about being alive?
(He exhales, slow, like a cigarette that isn’t there.)
BOWIE: “Get a load of this sad dump… Okay kid, I’ll indulge you. What do I miss? Other than Iman and my kids, I guess the simple things, really. Matches. The sound of a kettle just before it boils. That first sip of black coffee when it’s too hot but you drink it anyway.”
DARBALU: Nothing bigger? Recording? Art? Life itself?
BOWIE: (smirks) “Oh, no, none of that. You can’t imagine this place I’m at now, it lacks for nothing and yet it lacks everything. But, I do miss cigarettes, chips, and a nice fat brick of cocaine.”
(The candles flicker and the flames dances above their wicks.)
DARBALU: Not the answer I was expecting.
BOWIE: (shrugs, amused) “No one ever expects the right answers.”
Introducing Moreish Idols
DARBALU: Alright, let’s get to it. I need help. I summoned you here to review a band, ‘Moreish Idols’. Ever heard of them?
BOWIE: (sighs, tilts head, considering) “Are they dead?”
DARBALU: Not yet.
BOWIE: (grins) “Then, no.”
DARBALU: Right. Well, here’s the rundown: they are a London-based band. Angular, restless, always shifting. They started in Cornwall as a bedroom project, mutated into sort of a full-band art-rock anomaly. They’re influenced by Jazz, post-punk, krautrock, Talking Heads, Beefheart (?) but they refuse to be pinned down. Their live shows are like they’re teetering between precision and a nervous breakdown.
(Bowie nods, eyes glinting.)
BOWIE: “Mmm. Sounds like a band that knows how to disappear in plain sight.”
Track-by-Track Review
DARBALU: Okay, I thought you’d like this track, “Dream Pixel.”
BOWIE: (eyes closed, listening to something only he can hear) “Ahh, yes. I’ve listened to the whole album now. Not bad, not bad at all. That’s the one that sounds like a half-remembered dream on a cheap television. Like a Betamax tape dissolving in the sun.”
DARBALU: Amazing, perfectly said. That’s… exactly it. Wait, how did you listen to the whole album in two seconds?
BOWIE: “Look, where I’m at… there is no time. It’s yesterday, tomorrow and today at the same time. It’s before the Big Bang and after the Great Whimper. I have already seen their births, deaths and listened to every recording session they had, are having and will have. But, you wouldn’t understand if you tried.”
DABALU: Umm, okay. Back to the song…
BOWIE: “Eno and I once wired a synth through a broken radio transmitter, let it play on a loop, and left the room for three hours. When we came back, it was making the most beautiful, impossibly atmospheric sound.”
DARBALU: What happened to the tape?
(A grin. A glint in his eye.)
BOWIE: “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.”
DARBALU: Next up—‘ACID.’
BOWIE: (leans back, weightless) “Oh, now… this is rather good, isn’t it? A bit of ‘Scary Monsters’ DNA in there. That wonderful, nervous tension. Like someone walking home alone at 3 AM, but they’re not sure if they’re the one being followed.”
DARBALU: BTW, which Bowie are you?
(The room tightens. The light warps. His face glitches, like a VHS on fast-forward.)
For a moment, I see them all- blurred and transparent. Ziggy Stardust, Halloween Jack, Ramona Stone, Nathan Adler, staring past me into the void. The Thin White Duke, adjusting his cuffs, unimpressed. Aladdin Sane, grinning like a man who’s seen the end of the world. The Blind Prophet, watching, waiting. Something else, older than all of them, wearing his skin like a memory.
BOWIE: “I contain multitudes upon multitudes, Darbalu. But tell me—who do you think you’re talking to?”
(The temperature drops in the room. A low thick cloud of fog spills out around his chair)
DARBALU: (nervously) Okay, how about this track- ‘Slouch.’
BOWIE: (relaxes, suddenly casual) “Ah, yes. That groove. That’s lean and precise. It’s got the shape of a man standing in a doorway, smoking, just outside the streetlamp’s glow. Nice saxophone. Not bad, mates”
DARBALU: Feels like it’s watching you from a dark corner.
BOWIE: (laughs, taps his nose) “Could be. Or maybe it’s waiting.”
Bowie’s Final Words
BOWIE: (leans in, whispering) “Got to go now. Tell them to record the next one in Berlin. And leave a tape running when they dream.”
(The board convulses. The planchette spells H-E-R-O-E-S before Bowie disappears into the static.)
Conclusion
I pour a drink. The board sits there, silent. Then the planchette moves about the board, spelling one last message: “L-i-s-t-e-n t-o T-r-a-c-k 7 b-a-c-k-w-a-r-d-s.”
I don’t know what Track 7 has in store for me. But I know I’m not sleeping tonight.
Ouija Board Interview: 2
“Lester Bangs Reviews The Smile’s Cutouts (Almost): A Séance Gone to Shit”
By Darbalu, The Underground Mirror
Summoning the Wrong Spirits
It should have worked this time.
Pentagram? Drawn. Candles? Black-market, supposedly blessed by a New Orleans priestess. Bourbon? Poured. I even wiped the Ouija board down with an old copy of Creem Magazine, just to be sure. I pressed my fingers to the planchette.
“L-E-S-T-E-R B-A-N-G-S.”
The air crackled. The candles flickered. Somewhere, I swear I heard the Yackety Sax theme warping through spacetime. Then, a cloud of cigar smoke. A raucous cackle. A whistling noise, followed by a slap.
And sitting across from me, manifesting in spectral form, were Redd Foxx (chain-smoking, grumbling, and already pissed off about something) and Benny Hill (grinning like a man who just walked into a strip club that serves free breakfast). I stared. They stared back. Then Benny Hill reached over and honks my nose.
BENNY HILL: “Blimey! You weren’t expectin’ us, were ya?” (eyebrows all waggling and eyes electric)
REDD FOXX: (puffing smoke) “Shit, I wasn’t expectin’ you, either.” (to me) “Boy, who the hell are you supposed to be?”
Attempt at a Music Review
DARBALU: This- this is a mistake. I was trying to summon Lester Bangs to review The Smile’s new album, Cutouts—”
BENNY HILL: (grinning) “The Smile? What is this, a dentist’s band?”
(Cue comedic slide whistle sound from an unknown spectral source.)
REDD FOXX: (groans) “Ah, man. This ain’t no mistake. This is bullshit.“
DARBALU: It’s Thom Yorke’s band.
REDD FOXX: (squints) “Ain’t he that squinty eyed fella from that band always soundin’ like a robot fallin’ down a flight of stairs? I bet you put a corn cob pipe in his mouth and a sailor hat on his head, he’d look like Popeye”
BENNY HILL: (nodding enthusiastically) “Ahh, Radiohead! That’s the one! All gloomy, innit? Every song sounds like he just got kicked in the bollocks by Jesus.“
(Benny clutches his chest, wails dramatically, doing a horrific Thom Yorke impression.)
BENNY HILL (singing, overly dramatic):
“Ohhh noooo! My shoe is untieeeeeed! Life is meaninglesssssss!”
(He flails his arms, trips over nothing, and lands on his ghostly ass. Redd Foxx just shakes his head.)
REDD FOXX: “Boy, if you don’t sit your pasty white ass down…” (mutters) “I ain’t never seen a white man waste that much talent cryin’ and muttering about computers.“
Track-by-Track (That Fails Miserably)
Track 1: “Wall of Eyes”
DARBALU: Alright, lets go… first track is “Wall of Eyes.” It’s haunting, atmospheric, layered–
BENNY HILL: (grinning) “Ah, Wall of Eyes! Name sounds like my ex-missus watchin’ me from across the pub.“
(Cue mystical honking noise from the void.)
REDD FOXX: (snaps) “Boy, what the hell are you even talkin’ about?! Ain’t no damn groove in this? Ain’t no horn section? You call that music?”
(Puffs his cigar, looking entirely disgusted.)
Track 2: “Bending Hectic”
DARBALU: Alright, aliright, “Bending Hectic” builds this incredible, mounting tension–
BENNY HILL: (leans forward) “Oi, Bending Hectic, is it? More like ‘Bleeding Heck’. Sounds like me back late after a night at the club!”
(He elbows Redd Foxx in the ribs. Redd looks like he’s regretting being summoned.)
REDD FOXX: (grumbles) “I’m too old for this shit.”
(He starts fading in and out like a bad radio signal.)
The Lester Bangs Malfunction
Suddenly—a blast of static. The board glitches, the planchette pirouettes above the surface. The specters fade in and out of focus. A deep, raspy voice screams from the void.
LESTER BANGS (distant, distorted):
“HEY! YOU IDIOTS! GET OFF THE LINE—THIS IS MY REVIEW!”
(Through the crackling noise, I hear what sounds like a fistfight. Another voice, furious: Miles Davis.)
MILES DAVIS (muffled, pissed off): “You motherfucker, you ain’t never known shit about jazz in your goddamn life… or afterlife!”
LOU REED (also from the void, snide): “Yeah, Lester, you wrote like a coked-up raccoon on a typewriter, I read your bullshit about Metal Machine Music.”
LESTER BANGS (furious, distant): “I STAND BY IT!”
(A loud crash. The sounds of spectral violence. Then—silence.)
The Aftermath: Another Wasted Interview
I sat there, staring at the board. The air smelled like cheap cigars and disappointment. Benny Hill was halfway through some frenetic afterlife slapstick routine. Redd Foxx was… done. He took one last ghostly drag of his cigarette, sighed, and vanished into the void with a final complaint: “If I wanted to sit through a bunch of white boy sadness, I’d go to the liquor store and watch ‘em cry over the IPA selection.”
The interview was ruined.
I poured another drink. Then, suddenly, the Ouija board twitched.
A final message spelled out: “S-u-c-k-a-h-! S-h-o-u-l-d-a s-t-u-c-k t-o j-a-z-z.”