"Who are you...?" A London street is a kaleidoscope swirl. The sharp-edged bob for a new-fashioned girl. Boutique windows, velvet and lace. A bold striped flag on a porcelain face. Hear the sitar hum, feel the four-piece beat. The sound of the future on a cobblestone street. A summer of love, and a mini-skirt flare. With a flower-power crown in your beehive hair. "Who are you...?" "Who are you...?" Spinning wheels on fire, the wheels of the age. Every decade a mask, every street is a stage. Strike a pose in the dust of a red-planet sand. From the sharp-dressed youth to the promised land. "Who are you...?" The modular synth is a beast in the dark. Feathered hair flying through a neon park. Bell-bottoms dragging on the glitter-dust floor. The alien star asks: "Is there any more?" Life on a distant world? A glam-rock dream. Safety pins and satin, a DIY scream. Natural crowns, the beauty is bold. In a world made of denim and shimmering gold. "Who are you...?" "Who are you...?" Look around. Everywhere you turn is a neon light. Shoulder pads high, reaching for the height of the flight. Blue on the eyelid, red on the lip. The power-suit armor, the corporate grip. Mousse in the hair, perms in the air. The dark-clad romantic with a kohl-rimmed stare. Identity is a choice, a digital grace. Find your light, find your frame, find your face. "Who are you...?" "Who are you...?" "Who are you... today?"
