Often, the best tributes aren't those that labor to copy precisely, but those that choose instead to capture some deeper essence of the subject matter. Starman, European entertainer Sven Ratzke's homage to the late David Bowie, debuting in New York with a three night run at Joe's Pub, is a campy, bizarre performance that in sheer fearlessness alone does the Thin White Duke proud.

Over the roughly hour-long run time, Ratzke plays the role of the glamorous, half-serious emcee of a guided meditation, whisking the audience through space, time and reality with utter aplomb. “I’m a falling star… I fell out of the sky,” he insists, establishing the show’s extraterrestrial theme that, in proper Ziggy Stardust fashion, is only as comically lunatic as it is completely serious.

Ratzke winds you down New York alleys that smell of cat-piss and into a darkly lit bar, you spot an androgynous beauty, then he launches into “Rebel Rebel.” Accidentally dumped with a load of fish onto a seafaring vessel, you peel potatoes until visited by an ethereal presence; “Lady Grinning Soul.”

So the show progresses, elaborate stories leading into nine of both Bowie’s hits and deep cuts, punctuated by playful, long-running gags at the expense of audience members sitting close to the stage as the line was blurred between what was rehearsed and what was happening off the cuff.

Were it not for the steady accompaniment of piano player and musical director Charly Zastrau (“the only person I could afford to bring with me on tour”) and New York musicians Canton Boller on bass and David Berger on drums, it would be tempting to imagine that you were witnessing stream of consciousness rambling. Even Ratzke's session players could barely keep up. "Play the noise," he swiveled to the drummer for an underscore to his punchline. "No, not that one."

Ratzke brings Starman to Astor Place after an extensive tour in the Netherlands, Switzerland and Austria, and mentioned as an aside that it was his first time performing the show in English, which added to the absurdity of the evening. There was so much to be lost in translation, and so much that felt specific to Gotham, from run-ins with Andy Warhol to a frenzied, bow-legged impression of New York pedestrians.

But with his skin tight pants and a mostly sheer top, Ratzke was enthralling with his unabashed physicality—something that requires no translation. He wants to – and has no problem – making the audience laugh, both with him and at him, thanks to his quick-wittedness and natural sense of comedic timing.

But to merely call Ratzke a comedian would give him short shrift; he is a gifted storyteller, and somehow finds no trouble commanding an audience in stitches one moment into reverential silence the next. If he can have you drinking champagne and admiring Elizabeth Taylor’s collection of wax figures or engaged in a sexual liaison with a potato, he can also transport you to the roof of the Chelsea Hotel on Christmas Eve, where you stare at the skyline of New York and up at the sky, and remember that one of those stars is David Bowie, without whom, maybe, a person like Ratzke couldn’t exist so fearlessly.

In glancing moments, Starman is what could be deemed a faithful tribute -- in the dimly lit bustle of Joe’s Pub, Ratzke’s voice bears an uncanny resemblance to Bowie’s throaty, distinctive bass. But then he writhes and winks and wags his tongue, and he’s Sven Ratzke again, a fellow larger-than-life persona, who fell to Earth and to feast on our applause.