From 23 floors up, São Paulo looks like a crazed concrete Lego set pieced together by a restless toddler god. Nearby tower blocks topped with triangular steel constructs that resemble 1930s radio transmitters give way to an endless spread of grey and white buildings of all shapes and sizes, peppered by vivid splashes of greenery and crawling, multi-coloured streams of tiny cars. Somewhere in this vast, fantastic hive of humanity, 12 million souls are busy living, working, eating, sleeping, screwing and, in some cases, dying.
But Bruce Dickinson is oblivious to the spectacular view and everything in it. Right now, his mind is… elsewhere. “I think there’s a question mark over the nature of the universe,” he’s saying. “Is it scientific? Is it poetic? Of course, it’s scientific, but science can’t measure emotion. The meditations caused by poetry can connect you with the emotions that may be expressed by alternate realities and other dimensions. Time travel is only possible in your head. In your head, you can travel back in time.”
