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.” Weird.
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? Love? Art? Life itself?
BOWIE: (smirks) “Oh, no, none of that. You can’t imagine this place, 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 violently.)
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: (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, fI 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. 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, Darbalu. But tell me—who do you think you’re talking to?”
(The temperature drops in the room.)
DARBALU: Okay, how about this track—‘Slouch.’
BOWIE: (relaxes, suddenly casual) “Ah, yes. That groove. That lean. 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.
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 it 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.