The record spoke of octofish as it spun at 45 revolutions per minute. I looked at the album cover on the floor. It was a man with a carp for a face and a top hat. I cocked my head at the beautiful strange melodies. Each tune flowing out of the speakers was more demented and genius than the last.
Fast and bulbous I’m told about this or that.
She walked in the room and asked what the fuck I was listening to. I looked up at her. Her hair was in a ponytail and she had her glasses on. She was also not wearing pants which seemed to add to the absurdity of the music somehow. Her shirt was a white baseball jersey with “Carp” written on the front. My eyes widened and I looked from her to the album cover then back to here.
“Where did you get that shirt?”
She looked down and fanned out the bottom of the jersey, which after I had thoroughly examined it with my eyes, was discovered to not be buttoned up right. “I got it in Japan. I think it was the city’s baseball team. I liked it because it seemed like a strange word to be written on a shirt. In cursive too. That and the other jersey said ‘Swallows’ and yeah I know it’s a bird, but come on. I can’t walk around with a swallows shirt on. I’m no prude, but I don’t really want to advertise either.”
“Again, what the fuck is this music, and why is it so loud, I can feel the floor vibrating with the beat, or I think that’s the beat, whatever vibration is coming out of the speakers is shaking the floor.”
“It’s a trippy album from the ‘60s.”
“Trippy, no shit.”
“Sit and smoke a bowl with me. It’s wild once you get into it. It sounds like some crazy cacophony, but it’s actually amazing. The creativity is through the roof. Every one of those odd sounds is precise and planned. That and it was all made on 60’s technology, reel to reel and 8 track recorders. It’s fantastic.”
“Not gonna lie this sounds really fucking weird.”
“Oh for sure, but weird in all the right ways. Like a trip that goes a little too deep, but not so deep that it’s bad, just really fucking strange. It usually feels weird, a bit uncomfortable, perhaps even scary to a small degree, but upon reflection after the trip is over, it’s always my favorite part. This record is like that. I actually have a hit or two in my desk if you wanna drop some and see how the two line up. I was planning on doing it in the next few days, and I guess there’s no time like the present.”
She looked at me with her hand on her hip. Her face started stern, then turned to a smile. “You’re fucking weird, almost as weird as this fucking record. And no, I’m not dropping acid with you at noon on a Tuesday, I have shit to do today. But you do you. She laughed again. I would say turn it down, but I’m gonna go to the supermarket, so fuck, rock out dude. I will take you up on that bowl when I get home.”
“Shit dude, I think you’re the one that needs to be safe when tripping.”