Op. 00:00 Climax still climax

A lot has been said over the years about Operation Midnight Climax. Some have called them the saviours of rock music, others have called them evil space demons hell-bent on destroying humanity. I would say there is truth in both those statements.

As I pulled up to Velux Sombrito, OMC’s labyrinthian studio-cum-disco palace, I can feel an overwhelming sense of dread coming over me. “Must be the tacos,” I thought to myself. I was greeted at the door by Mister Pippensworth, OMC’s butler (officially) and spokesman (unofficially). I am told that none of the members of OMC will attend the interview, not because they have forgotten, but simply – as Mister Pippensworth put it – because they “couldn’t give a flying fuck”. I started to wonder whether it was worth staying at all. Pippensworth sat me down on a derelict, silver-stained sofa and left the room. The place was wretched, but also kind of sweet. Pippensworth arrived back with a suspicious-looking purple mojito, stirring it with a rusty spoon. He handed the drink to me. Before I could even taste it, I smelt it. The stench filled my nostrils and I vomited all over my brand new slacks. “Sorry, I had tacos on the way here” I mumbled through my crusty goatee. Pippensworth started to laugh maniacally, and so the interview began.

Mister Pippensworth: They’re not real you know.

Seymour Dicks: I’m sorry?

MP: Operation Midnight Climax. They’re a concept. An ideal. A groove. Not a band.

SD: I see… Tell me more about the groove.

MP: Years ago the plates shifted: this lead to increased magnetism over key hotspots in the Atlantic Ocean. The plan was to use these to re-route the Earth’s inner melody…

SD: “The Earth’s inner melody”? What the hell are you talking about?

MP: It’s everything really. It’s a key. If you can play just the right frequency at the right moment in time, you can literally blow people’s minds.

SD: … And this is what OMC is trying to do?

(Silence)

MP: No, OMC just plays catchy progressive ska. Explosive rock some call it. Personally I think it’s shit.

SD: Don’t be so hard on them, they’re musical geniuses.

MP: You try being their butler for a day, see how much you like it. They did things to me. Horrible, horrible things.

SD: Let’s get back to the topic at hand… OMC have a gig coming up on the 12th November…

MP: Let me interrupt you right there…

SD: No.

MP: Let me interrupt you right there…

SD: Okay.

MP: They prefer the term “séance”.

SD: What?

MP: OMC’s next “séance” is on the 12th November.

SD: Right, yes. At Metric then.

MP: Yes, an age-old favourite. A mature, strong scent. Something vicious.

SD: What do you foresee?

MP: So, so many heads. All of them blown. Like the jackhammer to your watermelon.

SD: That’s hot.

As I spoke the words, my head tilted backwards and my eyes slowly wrapped upon themselves. I woke up the next day in my bed, covered in blood, surrounded by what appeared to be goat entrails. Or genitals. As I searched for the source of the bleeding, I realised the initials O.M.C had been carved into my chest. I brought my right hand closer to my face: I was holding a blood-splattered rusty spoon. “Damn,” I thought. “They’re good”.