A mike, discarded and abandoned, a fish hook swinging in the half light, the subtle gloam of Debrah Harry’s cigarette. The band have scattered like the ashes of the ghoul of Nancy Vicious, she is alone. One hand rubs along a furred belly, whilst one arthritic claw works the controls on a a worn VHS of Karen O’s minimalist masterpiece ‘Maps’, as she mouths ‘Cunt’, ‘Cunt’, ‘Cunt’.
From behind a velvet curtain, a great bloated Bowie begins a deep slow moan. Modern Love indeed.