David Bowie and the Media

A WHIFF OF hedonism lingered amid the dense fog of cigarette smoke inside the top floor suite of Detroit's luxurious Ponchartrain hotel. David Bowie sighed, dismissing Iggy with some reluctance, as I set up my cassette recorder on the coffee table, amidst the empty glasses, bottles and ashtrays. There was business to be done; another interview, another confession, or was it to be another stream of carefully prepared inexactitudes that would guarantee another headline. David pulled hard on his Gitane, drank his Michelob straight from the bottle and took a deep breath. "I'm broke," he said, flicking his hand through his blonde hair and sending a stream of ash over his crisp white shirt.