Whitesnake

You are sitting at a music awards ceremony talking to a man with an enormous hairstyle. It could be the Grammys or the VMAs, you’re not quite sure which. On the stage, a set has been constructed resembling moon rock, while at the back, an enormous drum kit sits inside a cage of steel tubing, with dozens of cymbals suspended on poles from above. A man in a long shiny coat comes onstage and tells the audience to make some noise. Others join him, carrying guitars. All of them have blonde hair down to their shoulders. If you could just slip to the bathroom for some more Bolivian Marching Powder, as everyone in the room has been doing all night, maybe things would become clear. But then again maybe not.