It Just Sounds Better On Vinyl
Fiction by Ben Fitts
I’m very excited. I just got the new record by Capra Coven from Light Side Records downtown. I haven’t heard them yet but my friend Jack says these Englishmen are the best heavy metal band ever. He told me that they’re heavier than Venom, Bathory and Mercyful Fate all put together.
As if that wasn’t enough of a selling point on its own, the local preacher came to our high school to warn us not to listen to Capra Coven. He said they were Satanists and would corrupt our innocent young minds. So like pretty much every other kid crammed into that gymnasium, my reaction was sign me up!
I can’t wait to listen to it.
I stare at the drawing of a severed goat head decorating album cover, then slip the black record out of its sleeve, place it on my turntable and drop the needle. The black vinyl spins and the needle traces its way through the grooves, but no music comes out.
Instead a blood red finger reaches out from the twirling record, emerging directly behind the needle as its works its way towards the center of the disc. Soon an entire red hand with hairy knuckles juts out of the record. The hand reaches out from the vinyl grooves and points directly at me. I stare at the extended finger, mesmerized.
The hands grows into a blood red arm, which grows into a hairy red torso, from which eventually sprouts another blood red arm and eventually a black, fury goat head with a pair of twisted horns. The goat-headed torso places its hands on either side of the dresser on which my record player sits and hoist it lower half out of the spinning vinyl, revealing a pair hoofed goat legs whose glossy fur mashes the black of its head.
The goatman climbs out of the record and delicately lifts the needle.
“Are you the devil?” I ask.
The goatman shakes his heads. “I am just a servant of His.”
“What are you doing here?” I ask the goatman.
The goatman looks deep into my eyes. His black pupils fade away into a pair of spinning pentagrams as red as his skin and suddenly I understand everything. Satisfied, the goatman nods to me. He climbs back into my record and vanishes.
There is so much work left to do, but first we must build our army.
I walk out my bedroom door, down the steps and into the living room. My mother calls to me as I pass her, but I don’t respond.
I pick up the telephone on our drawer and dial my friend Jenny’s number. Her dad answers.
“Hi Mr. Goldstein, is Jenny home?”
“I’ll put her on.”
“Hey Mike, what’s up?” asks Jenny on the other end.
“Jenny, have you listen to this band called Capra Coven?” I exclaim.
“No, I haven’t. Are they good?”
“Yeah, I just got their new album. It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard! It’s still on my turntable. You should come over and we’ll listen to it.”
“Sure, I can there in like fifteen minutes?”
“Sounds good. See you soon,” I say and lower the receiver, smiling.
Our army will grow quickly.