It’s 1976, and David Bowie is coming apart at the seams. By this point he is one of the most recognizable recording artists in the world.

He is also something of a poster child for the price of success. He has retired twice only to be roped back into the business each time (albeit with fascinating hit albums). He is living in Los Angeles, where cocaine has made itself at home in his brain. His behavior is so erratic that he has attempted to exorcise his swimming pool, and he has fallen so deeply into his Thin White Duke persona he is declaring Britain “ready for a fascist prime minister.”

Years later Bowie will later tell Uncut magazine: