A little gather after the held quiet—nothing big yet, just the track finding its feet.

There it is: a light, steady bounce with air still around it.

Bowie slips in like a signal more than a stage entrance—low lights, leaning back on the radio.

Some cat laying down rock and roll, then the loud sound seems to fade in the story he's telling.

It comes back like a slow voice on a wave of phase—still riding that compact groove.

That weren't no DJ—hazy cosmic jive. The uncanny lands playful, not solemn.

Melody stretches up on Starman waiting in the sky—theatrical and singable, with the band still holding a friendly count underneath.

He'd like to come and meet us, but he thinks he'd blow our minds—warm lift, not a scare.

Now the instruction: let the children lose it, use it—let all the children boogie. The rhythm was already built for that permission.

A short open break—applause tags and band air—before the next verse grabs the line.

Second verse brings it down to the room: I had to phone someone, so I picked on you.

Hey, that's far out—so you heard him too. Switch on the TV; maybe Channel Two.

Look out your window—I can see his light. If we can sparkle, he may land tonight.

Don't tell your poppa, or he'll get us locked up in fright—still confiding over that same bright pocket.

Chorus back, and we already know the lift. He's not shocking it larger—just gathering us into the timing.

Children lose it / use it again—permission as a repeated hook while the band stays bouncing and controlled.

The title keeps cycling; private astonishment is turning into shared count.

Words thin into la-la—less messenger now, more group signal riding the groove.

Final la-las feel like transmission loss more than a neat bow—then the song cuts after changing the air.