EP: Wrote for Luck by the Happy Mondays
1989 Elektra 0-66714
Favorite Track: Wrote for Luck (Dance Mix)
[An artist is drawing me while I write this: art creating art]
The Warlock was hung over. It was bad. His frontal lobe slide across the plate of his skull like mashed potatoes. Trying to find balance enough to stand, gross liquids sloshed around the inside of his body bag or skin or whatever kids were calling it these days. He should pass out again seeking refuge in the darkness.
But today was the Hellville Record Fair. He had to be there in fifteen minutes to get in early and, hopefully, find the last ten records he needed to complete the Ultimate Collection. This was his name for the silliest of his dreams: collecting all 750 Fall Bikini Division albums, including all fifteen color-variant editions of Grotesque Ocean. He still needed the taupe and neon black editions.
Warlock fumbled into his cape, found his staff behind the loveseat (when has he last sat on that?! when he mouth-kissed the Very Wicked Witch of Philadelphia?) and started down the war-torn road toward Hangman’s Hill, a diverse neighborhood of ghoulies and toad-lovers. The wind was fiery as ever for Wintmmer weather. Smoke drifted from the shriveling grass. A hemlock was on fire in the graveyard, the tongues licking the bottom of low-hanging charcoal clouds. Warlock gather his cape about him and sped up.
The Record Fair was held in the Hellville Town Hall of Mutilation and Torture. It was an inside joke. Everyone who lived in Hellville was mutilated and the Record Fair prices were torture. Warlock met Whiney Wizard taking money at a small brown table with promotional flyers on it.
“How are you doing, Warlock? Yet again trying to find those Fall Bikini Division albums?”
“Oh stop being a ghoulie,” Warlock paid his entrance fee.
“I’m a troll,” Whiney stamped his hand with the branding iron, “Remind me to invite you over to drink scum and look at my goat collection.”
“Maybe after the hellidays.”
There were more vendors this year including a pie-throwing booth. Pies were sacred objects in Hellville and the more thrown, the better their soulless bodies would be devoured by the worms and tombstone roaches. Warlock quickly went to his friend Dirk Deadbread. Just a disappointing collection of that A.D. fad, Gargoyle Pop. At the next booth, he spotted an original pressing of Lady Lazareth’s Space Flight of the Beetlebum but there was an inauspicious hole in the cover. Two booths later and Warlock still had found nothing.
At Bloodorb Records booth, he found a 7-inch split between Fall Bikini Division and The Chocolate Pistols. Almost an hour in, ten pickles to get in, and just one lousy record? thought Warlock bitterly. His hangover was not helping. Each brightly-colored sleeve made his eyes shut and his brain throb. Why did he decided to play the 23 wine bottle challenge last night with the Even More Wicked Witch of Carson City? Now he kind of remembered the last time his sat on his loveseat. Well, sitting isn’t the proper word, but just what is the word for being splayed half on the couch and half inside…
More vendors were piling in with crates, caskets, and weather balloons. Three girls shrieked when one of them found the picture disc of FrankenFabio. Then Warlock saw a punky skeleton of a kid walk by and almost collide with him. In his hands was the taupe version of Grotesque Moon. If Warlock was drunk and not hungover, he would have fought him on the spot. Nobody in Hellville had as many Fall Bikini Division albums as himself. Nobody even liked Fall Bikini Division but himself. Who was this stranger? An outsider? Not too many people Ion Jump to Hellville, let alone for a record fair.
“Hey you! What do you have in your hands?” a gruffy low-lipped, four-eyed bubble of plasmaorgans oozed from a metal mouth, “Are you into that hot glue shit?”
Hot glue was zombie-punk for Hotwave music. Fall Bikini Division were the pioneers of the genre. Lead singer Mark Hanna Curtis penned the term “hot glue” during the after party of their first 7-inch release when s/he disappointed a room full of groupies but not being able to open he/r pants.
Warlock approach the booth. Fourteen crates were crammed with 7-inches, 12-inches, and a couple of those comical 42-inch LaserVinyls that existed when Warlock was a Weelock. He flipped past the dull reggae-baroque hybrid bands and the Vampire Twee until the unholy grail was in his hands before his inebriated brain figured out just what he was holding.
The Neon Black edition of Grotesque Moon. One of five hundred printed. Back on Earth when that was a thing. Warlock wanted to feel more than the screaming of his brain and the dying of his organs for water. Instead he just trembled a bit.
“How much?” He hoped he had enough pickles.
Warlock almost said it should be worth a hundred. But, for the first time of the day, his brain worked and he handed over the pickles.
As Warlock was leaving, he saw the punk skeleton again now carrying around the invisible copy of Invisible Hand Steals Your Money. Did he not buy the neon black edition? Does that mean he always owns one? Warlock was befuddled but apathetic enough to crawl back toward his bed.
He would sleep better now.