Ziggy's Band

Ziggy's Band

"Give us Ziggy," the fans were yelling. But where was Ziggy to be found? We couldn't find where he was to be found 'cos we didn't know which whereabouts he was locating himself in at that particular hour of the time. That's the way it is with cats like Ziggy. One moment they're jamming good, the next they're hitting the highway. Weird thought he might of said something about hightailin' it to Tucson, while Gilly said he had an appointment with the devil, or the dentist, they'd bin jamming so loud he couldn't be sure which.

The Spiders from Mars had built themselves a web in the corner. We had to do something quick before they started eating each other. Weird rolled a joint, which was a start. It was a focal point from which we could radiate out like a storm in a teashop. Like a bull in a china cup, as Gilly put it. Dope always takes him that way. The Spiders played their castanets and eyed each other's soft parts speculative.

We decided to put out an APB like on the cop shows. As soon as we felt the vibe we'd put the speakers on the roof and broadcast a message of hope that Ziggy would stop arsing about and come back before the joint was smoked to a roach, except it already was so we had to roll another. Gilly strummed a few chords on the drums and we giggled about Ziggy's screwed down hair-do. Weird said it was like some cat from Japan. Gilly knew somebody with a Japanese cat and said it wasn't really. The Spiders was getting agitated, looking like they wanted to fly south for the winter. Things was looking bad.

By the time we’d smoked the third joint, things was looking a lot better. The fans was having a riot to express themselves but Ziggy could lick ‘em when he came back, or he could leave them to hang. Cats like Ziggy can… What was I saying? Oh yeah. Cats like Ziggy. They can’t leave him alone. Maybe he smells of fish. Do I really mean that? Anyway, there was these flies trying to break our balls. Or maybe I was just imagining it.

Next thing I knew, Gilly was shaking me awake. Ziggy was back, low hung with a snow-white tan; we had to decide right now whether to crush his sweet hands. He was coming on loaded and pretending to have a cold, but Ziggy had played catarrh for the last time. He thought he was the nazz with God-given ass. He’d soon learn.

Ziggy strode in like he was a leper messiah, jiving us that we were voodoo, just playing for time. Weird hit him with a beer light and he fell to the floor. The Spiders pounced and sucked out his juices, bitchin’ about the fans.

We had to break up the band after that but it was all for the best. He took it all too far, you see, until he sucked up into his mind, and that’s how things were in the heady, Spider-crazed days of Ziggy’s band. But boy, could he play guitar.