Sirius listened incredulously until Harry stopped, and then he burst out laughing.
"Oh yeah," he said mockingly. "Could have been the next Weird Sisters, if my manager boyfriend hadn't run off with my cousin girlfriend to dodge a murder rap, and my keyboardist hadn't vanished after leaving my last crush at the altar, and my drummer hadn't out-and-out disappeared.
"And I always start with Bowie," he said, now grinning maniacally at James, "because every time I didn't there was some sort of disaster. The first time, Remus nearly killed me, and the second time, I don't remember what it was, and the third time --" He focused on Harry. "The third time, you showed up and screamed at me about what a fucking loser I was, with my freak clothes and my weird make-up, and my lame old music." The memory had no bite, now, and he couldn't help smiling. "To be fair, you were half-delirious with sickness, and I took you home and put you to bed to incomprehensible apologies, and then you wouldn't let go of me. I had to change to a dog, or sleep in my boots."
James looked doubtful. "And you think you can play?"
Sirius eyed him balefully. "Of course I can play. And sing. I'm brilliant."