The sky is beginning to look like purple eye shadow smudged into orange glitter. The Vinyl District stands out in the warm night’s air awaiting the limousine sent to collect them by The Hate Eighties. When it arrives the driver oozes courtesy with every move. Bowing politely after, she opens the door.
“Wait,” TVD says, “They do know that this is just a first date question about vinyl. That they didn’t have to imagine some big scenario to go with it, yeah?”
“Why yes, they did.” The driver answers, “but the bosses thought it would be a great opportunity to show you around the world of The Hate Eighties while they discuss their experiences with vinyl.”
With a shrug of their shoulders TVD gets into the limousine which pulls out into the night and into the forests of The Hate Eighties’ twisted imagination.
Soon the recognisable streets are replaced with the strange shanty homes of call centre towns gone feral on the far outskirts of London. A few towering and dilapidated skyscrapers stand as black monoliths on the horizon. Burning braziers on the rooftops light up figures celebrating the end of another eighteen hour day of hard graft. Suddenly rocks clatter against the windscreen.
“Don’t worry,” the driver assures TVD. “The glass is very strong.”
“Why are they attacking us?” TVD asks.
“Brand loyalty runs deep down here. This is an Avsaknad area and this car is a Walton Xi Huang Spirit Stretch.”
The broken and debris strewn road gradually improves. Blazing lights and electronic billboards announce the limousine’s arrival in central London. The streets are wild with people and bustle. The billboards and posters show the names Niedrgier, Tími, Avsaknad, and Walton Xi Huang. Smiling faces and svelte athletic bodies on every wall and surface. A smorgasbord of plastic tat and shiny gizmos behind every shop window. Ashen tired faces. Sagging bodies line the crowded pavements. Stalls jammed against crosswalks selling knock-off watches. Police dragging a body out of an alleyway.
“Mr. Sebastian and Mr. Lucius asked me to take you to the Walton Xi Huang Executive Bistro close to parliament to meet them. They thought that was a good place to consume starters and discuss vinyl,” the driver tells TVD who is starting to feel less sure that this was such a good idea.
As the car approaches the parliament area, the crowds thin. Beyond the massive checkpoint at Birdcage walk, where most other mere mortals are given a strip search and a credit check, it’s all flower fields and amusement rides. At the entrance to the Walton Xi Huang Executive Bistro, six men are waiting. Two plainly dressed guys wave a polite hello and smile, beside them two guys who you could swear were their twins dressed in wife beaters, leather jackets, adorned with silver chains and skip caps sneer as a greeting, behind them two huge bodyguards stare blankly. One of the plainly dressed men stretches out a hand to great TVD.
“Hi, I’m Sebastian and this is Lucius” he says pointing to the other plain dressed man who also shakes TVD’s hand, “and those guys are Bobby Raygun and JP-E. We didn’t invite them, they just turn up from time to time.”
“This place is the s**t” says JP-E, pointing to the huge gold coloured door incrusted with faux jewels being held open by a doorman. Beyond them an elevator awaits.
“So are we going to talk about your experience with vinyl at any point?” TVD asks as the group are elevated to a swanky eatery with a beautiful view of London in the year 1180 after Love and Glory.
“Oh yeah. So sorry.” Lucius says, “Where should we start with that?”
“We just want to know a bit about your experience with vinyl.”
Sebastian nods over at Lucius to start.
“Me? Cool. I was brought up in a house that had this great selection of vinyl that my parents and my older brother and sister had been amassing for years. It covered a whole spectrum ranging from the gorgeous classical music from Beethoven, Mozart, and more contemporary stuff such as Philip Glass, the outrageous prog über drama of King Crimson and Locomotive, if you’ve ever heard of them. David Bowie, Talking Heads. There were all the Beatles albums, Beach Boys, Monkees, all that stuff. We also had a lot of stuff by the old crooners like Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin,” Lucius tells TVD.
The doors of the elevator open and the scents of the bistro hit the group. A warm wave of cologne, leather, and hair product. The venue is split almost perfectly 50/50 between young executives and young white rap stars and their respective entourages. Everyone has perfect hair, a massive jewel encrusted watch, and is somehow conducting two conversations simultaneously with those in the room and with whoever is on the other end of their massive rectangular mobile phones. On the back wall stock market and chart information is displayed on a gold and silver mechanical ticker board.
A waiter leads the group to a large table around which a number of diners are already sitting. Glass screens and small hatches separate the diners from a gold model helicopter atop a stylised oil rig, and a massive hotplate which sits at the centre of the table. Above this bizarre scene is a metal walkway. The waiter explains to us that this is James Merchant, the head chef’s homage to the great oil rig disaster of 1174 and all of the men who lost their lives in it.
“1174?” TVD asks.
“I would spend hours working my way along the shelves of vinyl, there was hundreds of albums, and I would just try one after the other. Led Zeppelin, Yes, T’pau, Elgar,” Lucius says interrupting and as he catches a passing waiter, “I’ll have a Walton 3 times espresso, thanks.”
“Vinyl is the, eh, is like the plastic manifestation of the never-ending cycle of life,” Bobby Raygun says, swigging from a bottle of sparkling wine and riffing loudly.
“Yeah, boy,” JP-E says, nodding in agreement.
A chef appears on the walkway adorned with heavily padded body armour. He is holding the cadaver of what appears to be a lamb in one hand and a container of red liquid in the other. The diners applaud. The blades of the helicopter begin to spin incredibly fast. The chef throws the carcass into the blades and it immediately eviscerated and split into sizzling chunks. The red liquid is added creating a bubbling gravy which automated scrappers push down into troughs from which the diners scoop it into little silver bowls. The whole thing looks like the outcome of some brutal accident, but in spite of that it tastes delicious.
“I’m not going to lie. This is all very weird,” TVD tells the group and tastes a forkful of the meat.
“One of the things that I always loved about listening to vinyl was messing with the speed. That probably sounds really stupid to vinyl enthusiasts, but listening to a single at a slower speed or an album faster was awesome. You could get a whole different experience of the music,” Lucius says holding a hand over his mouth to hide that he is talking and eating at the same time.
“We better start heading to the next place and our next course. We’re already getting close to 1,500 words and we’ve still got a lot of ground to cover,” Sebastian says downing his espresso and heading back towards the elevator.
“Wooft! That espresso stuff is full on,” Sebastian says in the elevator, his eyes widening and then blinking hard. “There’s a whole lot of extra sugar in it, I think.”
The limousine busses the group back to the bustling centre and into one of the city’s many cultureplexes. Sebastian tells TVD that they are heading to a Niedrgier Burger for their main course. The concourse is thrumming with electronic noises, bells and the screams of the visitors. They pass an arcade in which children are playing violent military games while a recruitment officer hands them leaflets and candy. Next to this is a gallery. All of the paintings displayed are different manifestations of the Niedriger logo in different media. Spattered paint on one canvas, coloured card on another. Lucius stares at a huge bank of TV screens flashing a white and red pixelated version of the brand’s logo.
“This reminds me of one of my early vinyl purchases” he says wistfully, “I bought this vinyl called Ambient House, The Compilation. It was released by Dance Floor Corporation in the early 1990s. I loved it. The weird spaced out feel of it. It had the Orb on it and this awesome track by Sueño Latino called “Sueño Latino.” I would spend hours making these trippy colour cycle animations on my older brother’s Atari St. I’d sit listening to that album and watching the colours changing for hours. It was great. You know what? I still have that vinyl.”
“You don’t have a vinyl player, though.” Sebastian reminds him.
In the distance can be seen the flaming buildings of Riot Park where, for only £20 you can take part in a nightly riot to release the tensions of the day. Past some fairground rides stands the entrance to the Niedriger Burger. A large beefy looking plastic statue of a bipedal moose stands to the side of the door, welcoming all who pass with an automated waving hand and a wide unsettling grin.
“That’s Neddy Niedriger, the meat munching moose,” Sebastian tells TVD pointing at the plastic figure. “He’s the mascot for the Niedriger corporation.”
Inside, a wave of heat and the tang of soiled, reused oil hits their nostrils. Plastic surfaces piled high with trays of wrappers and half eaten burgers. Exhausted, resigned parents watch their screaming children attack a staff member in a Neddy suit with sharp plastic fragments of the broken toys they got in their Niedriger KidFunTimeMegaMeals. A group of teenagers who have just finished their shift at the burger restaurant have gathered together at a corner table. Half are changing out of their uniforms into tiny vest tops, sunglasses, shiny beads, and rubbing their skins with fake tan while the other half are quickly wolfing down burgers and fries.
At the end of twenty-two queues, all at least six people deep, till clerks frantically take orders while shouting into headsets and into the pandemonium taking place behind them. Some fry cooks are battling a massive blaze at their end of the kitchen, other staff clamber frantically up ladders to retrieve burgers from microwaves at the top of a stack at least eighteen high. Their striped shirts, dirtied and sweat soaked, patches discolouring their armpits and backs, hair matted, forearms dotted with burn marks from spitting fat.
“We’re going to order you a Slaughterhouse Skyscraper, hope that’s okay?” Sebastian says pushing into the throngs of people, “I know the manager, so I’ll just go round the side.”
“The usual!” JP-E shouts to Sebastian as he disappears.
Some of the customers have noticed Bobby and JP. They crowd around, squealing and shrieking hands stretched to touch or get autographs. The bodyguards have taken up position and are keeping a watchful eye on proceedings.
“I found this cool little vinyl player in a skip when I was a teenager. Yeah, I used to just climb into skips and have a root around when I was younger. You could find all kinds of cool stuff. I think it was a Philips portable set. It had an in-built speaker. The plate only took the little 45 singles,” Lucius says as a tiny girl throws a slice of cheese at his face.
“F**k you,” the little girl says.
“Em. Yeah. My older sister had a lot of 45s and I would listen to most of them. My favourite was probably the Specials AKA. It was the single “Too Much Too Young,” which incidentally was number 1 in the UK charts the day I was born. Killer B-side on that one, a live recording of “Longshot Kick De Bucket,” “Liquidator,” and “Skinhead Moonstomp,” Lucius adds as he peels the cheese from his face.
Sebastian appears from the crowd holding several paper bags full of food. In TVD’s bag is a massive box containing the Slaughterhouse Skyscraper—a mammoth burger containing two beef patties, two chicken breasts, cheese, and bacon. The roll the burger comes in even has lamb mince in it. The whole things seems to be dissolving in its own grease and the saccharine condiments oozing down the side. TVD lifts the bun to examine the contents. All of the meat seems swollen and unnaturally firm.
“I’m not really that hungry,” TVD states feeling a tightness coming to the throat.
“Too meaty for you?” Bobby Raygun says. “I got a triple KidFunTimeMegaMeal,” he adds happily with no hint of irony.
“What toy does it come with?” JP-E asks him slurping on a soda.
Bobby Raygun rifles through his paper sack and pulls out a skipping rope. He looks vaguely disappointed.
“We’re heading to Tími’s next—in any shape, yeah?” JP-E asks flexing a bicep.
In the limousine on the way to the Tími gym and eatery Lucius is telling TVD about some more of his sister’s 45s he would listen to.
“We had this weird compilation of 45s called EARCOM 3, ever heard of it? It had some really cool tracks by artists from the UK, USA, and Germany. There was an amazing song called “Caucasian Guilt” by an all girl punk duo called Noh Mercy. Stupendously narrow-minded lyrics to that one. Another one by a group called From Chorley which was all about a tablecloth for some reason.”
“Have I heard that one?” Sebastian asks.
“Don’t think so.”
“I got some mad wax sent to me from Paul D’veen the other day. He laid some guest vocals on Libby Baron’s latest single,” Bobby Raygun says.
“Yeah, man. That s**t is the realest,” JP-E adds.
“So wait a second,” TVD says, looking a little confused, “Is the EARCOM 3 a real thing or a Hate Eighties thing?”
“It’s a real world thing. It was released in 1979 on Fast Product,” Lucius reassures TVD. “Libby Baron and Paul D’veen are a Hate Eighties thing.”
“The f**k you talking about? How can s**t be released in 1979 when It’s only 1180 now?” JP-E asks, clearly perplexed.
“It’s complicated” Sebastian says to everyone in the limo.
The Tími gym and eatery that The Hate Eighties take TVD to is situated on the second floor of London’s well known business hub called LonBusHub, the twin business hub of NYBusHub in America. The entire second floor is wall to wall exercise equipment. Gym members are cycling on static bikes while simultaneously conducting business deals on large grey computers atop the handle bars. Others are squatting and stretching, lifting vibrating barrels, hanging upside down on racks. A large group of oiled up and muscular men stand in clusters around a group of women doing yoga. The men occasionally nod appreciatively, some curl dumbbells. Another group of men and women in orange overalls are being chased around an assault course by a huge guy in camouflage with a massive black dog on a lead. Along one window is the protein juice and salad bar.
TVD, Lucius, and Sebastian get to the juice bar and Sebastian orders them a round of organic kale, mint, espresso, whey, and glucose shakes. The other two have been accosted by a group of sweaty men and women. Bobby Raygun is performing overly sexual press-ups while JP-E is unleashing a freestyle rap about how badass both of them are. The bodyguards have once again taken up position.
“So why do those guys look like you?” TVD asks. “In fact, a lot of people around here look like you.”
“Em, well. We don’t have a budget for actors so…” Sebastian says with a shrug.
“This is very confusing.”
“Tell us about it.”
“It’s not just about budget, though. It’s sort of a statement.”
“But mainly it’s a budget thing.”
“This is actually really nice,” TVD says sipping the strange thick concoction.
“Aye, I think the lemongrass and glucose really makes it.”
“We were going to take you to an Avsaknad furniture emporium to get some dessert, but you’re looking a bit tired and we’re nearly 3,000 words in.” Sebastian says as a burly man aggressively pushes him out of the way to get to the bar to get a Double Shot.
“Yeah, thanks. I’m struggling. What’s Avsaknad?”
“Just another one of the brands in The Hate Eighties. Furniture is their main thing, though.” Sebastian says.
“And their hotdogs,” Lucius adds.
“Isn’t that a bit obvious?” TVD asks.
“Yup,” Sebastian says, nodding.
The three leave Bobby, JP, and their bodyguards at the gym and the driver takes them back to the real world.
“I still buy vinyl now and again even though I don’t have a player. Over the last couple of years I’ve gotten a few really nice special editions. One was by Vulfpeck…”
“They’re a really awesome funk outfit from LA,” Sebastian interjects.
“…A sadly no longer active Glasgow band called Lapsus Linguae…”
“Yeah, I think they’ve been quite big influence on some of our music.”
“…And I also got this really gorgeous vinyl for the song “Black Sun” by our pal Jo Mango.”
“Aye, double vinyl with laser etched birds on one side. Gorgeous.”
The limousine pulls up at TVD’s front door and the driver holds the door for them.
“Thanks for coming to The Hate Eighties with us. Hope it wasn’t too traumatic,” Sebastian says.
“Yeah. I had, eh, a really nice time, guys,” TVD mumbles unconvincingly. “I’ll maybe give you a call sometime, yeah?”
Sebastian and Lucius wave goodbye and the limousine pulls off into the night. TVD stands for a moment letting out a long sign of relief. “Time for a cup of tea and sit down.”
In the limo Sebastian and Lucius are discussing how the night went.
“I thought that went quite well, don’t you?”
“Oh yeah. That was a lovely night. Well, as far as The Hate Eighties goes. Do you think they will call us?”
“Oh yeah. They’ll call.”
The driver shakes her head as they all vanish into the end of this story.
The Hate Eighties’ debut album, POW is in stores 9th October 2015 via Walton Xi Huang Media.
