Music really was better in the old days.

Tampa Stadium, 1974. David Bowie, was doing his thing. Wailing away at the microphone. Graphic behind the stage of a burned out city. Nuked, like London in "1984." And this was the 1984 tour, so that kind of made sense. 

Feedback, dissonance, screaming crowd. So much for “Diamond Dogs.”

Another feedback squeal. Bowie’s voice.

“Ladies and gentlemen … I sincerely apologize for the technical difficulties.”

Crowd scream.

“We’ll have it sorted out in a minute.”

Crowd scream. 

Then his stomach felt like, you know, like that thing when you’re on a roller coaster? When it drops?

Wait. What? Huh?

Yeah. Like that.

Then a man and a woman were standing behind him. They both kinda looked like David Bowie. Blonde hair, cheekbones, really skinny. Like ... what was the word? Androgynous? Yeah. And wearing these? Silver jump suits with big lapels like that guy in that movie. “The Day the Earth … Something.”

He turned around and looked at the two posers. Like, not out of the corner of his eye? Like, looking at them right in the eye? And then he laughed at them. High out of his mind. As usual.

He had a suspicion. It was so fucking stupid. But he had to ask.

“Are you … Are you guys …”

They both smiled, patiently waiting for him to complete his thought.

“Are you, like, from the future?

“Yes,” the man (or maybe the woman) said. “We are.”

“No shit?”

“No shit,” said the woman (or maybe the man).

“Aw. Aw. Hey …ahhhh. Come on. No, no, no. You’re fucking with me … right?”

“No,” said the whatever. “I assure you, we are not.”

“Uh-huh. So what’s the future look like, then?”

“Like that,” said the other whatever. 

While pointing at the painting of the blasted city behind David Bowie. Who was now doing his level best not to have a fit while a sweaty engineer messed with various wires connected leading from the amplifiers to the massive speaker column.

A cute girl in a sequined, studded REBEL REBEL leather jacket bit her lip and squealed. But he didn’t let it distract him. From the question, right? The question he was going to ask these future people. 

“So, OK,” he said. “Sorry. But … like … Why are you here?”

They both laughed. 

The future person on the left spoke first.

“Logically … If time travel existed, where would the time travelers travel to?”

The future person on the right answered the question.

“To rock concerts,” of course.

“Bowie.”

“Cream.”

“Woodstock.”

“Monterey Pop Festival.”

“Etcetera, etcetera. The menu is long.” 

The guitarist whanged out a chord.

“Well, that’s better.”

“Hang on. No, no. That doesn’t make sense. Don’t you have, like, better music in the future?”

“No,” said the future person on the left. 

“Music in the future sucks,” said the future person on the left.

“Why?”

“Intellectual property …. your primitive mind wouldn’t understand.”

“Fuck you, OK?”

They laughed again. Laughed at him. It pissed him off.

“This is bullshit,” he said. “I know you’re fucking with me. Time travel’s impossible because …”

Think, think, think …

“Because you’d like fuck with history and shit.”

The future people laughed a final time.

“Nah. We’re in a causal bubble, you tit.”

“Once we vanish, you won’t remember a thing.”

Then the future people vanished.

A D-minor chord rattled the cage of his brain. There were more chords to come.

Bowie’s band went into “1984.” The crowd screamed.

And he didn’t remember a thing.