Tattoos drained of peacock colors, he’s traded whiskey for prune juice, cocaine for cod liver oil. The vague ringing in his ears becomes a chant. Is this Stockholm? Tokyo? New York?
No, just another flashback from his LSD days, but he’ll give them their encore if it will shut them up for a moment.
He sings the first note – instead of sound, an indigo light pulses from his being and fills the arena. Hippies in bellbottoms morph into yuppies wearing turtlenecks. Their long hair turns gray, grows thinner, falls out. They become dimmer until they vanish and finally fall silent.