Ouija Board Interview: 2
By Declan, Haunted Music Department
Summoning the Wrong Spirits
It should have worked this time.
Pentagram? Drawn. Candles? Black-market, supposedly blessed by a New Orleans priestess. Bourbon? Poured. I even wiped the Ouija board down with an old copy of Creem Magazine, just to be sure. I pressed my fingers to the planchette.
“L-E-S-T-E-R B-A-N-G-S.”
The air crackled. The candles flickered. Somewhere, I swear I heard the Yackety Sax theme warping through spacetime. Then, a cloud of cigar smoke. A raucous cackle. A whistling noise, followed by a slap.
And sitting across from me, manifesting in spectral form, were Redd Foxx (chain-smoking, grumbling, and already pissed off about something) and Benny Hill (grinning like a man who just walked into a strip club that serves free breakfast). I stared. They stared back. Then Benny Hill reached over and honks my nose.
BENNY HILL: “Blimey! You weren’t expectin’ us, were ya?” (eyebrows all waggling and eyes electric)
REDD FOXX: (puffing smoke) “Shit, I wasn’t expectin’ you, either.” (to me) “Boy, who the hell are you supposed to be?”
Attempt at a Music Review
DARBALU: This- this is a mistake. I was trying to summon Lester Bangs to review The Smile’s new album, Cutouts—”
BENNY HILL: (grinning) “The Smile? What is this, a dentist’s band?”
(Cue comedic slide whistle sound from an unknown spectral source.)
REDD FOXX: (groans) “Ah, man. This ain’t no mistake. This is bullshit.“
DARBALU: It’s Thom Yorke’s band.
REDD FOXX: (squints) “Ain’t he that squinty eyed fella from that band always soundin’ like a robot fallin’ down a flight of stairs? I bet you put a corn cob pipe in his mouth and a sailor hat on his head, he’d look like Popeye”
BENNY HILL: (nodding enthusiastically) “Ahh, Radiohead! That’s the one! All gloomy, innit? Every song sounds like he just got kicked in the bollocks by Jesus.“
(Benny clutches his chest, wails dramatically, doing a horrific Thom Yorke impression.)
BENNY HILL (singing, overly dramatic): “Ohhh noooo! My shoe is untieeeeeed! Life is meaninglesssssss!”
(He flails his arms, trips over nothing, and lands on his ghostly ass. Redd Foxx just shakes his head.)
REDD FOXX: “Boy, if you don’t sit your pasty white ass down…” (mutters) “I ain’t never seen a white man waste that much talent cryin’ and muttering about computers.“
Track-by-Track (That Fails Miserably)
Track 1: “Wall of Eyes”
DARBALU: Alright, lets go… first track is “Wall of Eyes.” It’s haunting, atmospheric, layered–
BENNY HILL: (grinning) “Ah, Wall of Eyes! Name sounds like my ex-missus watchin’ me from across the pub.“
(Cue mystical honking noise from the void.)
REDD FOXX: (snaps) “Boy, what the hell are you even talkin’ about?! Ain’t no damn groove in this? Ain’t no horn section? You call that music?”
(Puffs his cigar, looking entirely disgusted.)
Track 2: “Bending Hectic”
DARBALU: Alright, aliright, “Bending Hectic” builds this incredible, mounting tension–
BENNY HILL: (leans forward) “Oi, Bending Hectic, is it? More like ‘Bleeding Heck’. Sounds like me back late after a night at the club!”
(He elbows Redd Foxx in the ribs. Redd looks like he’s regretting being summoned.)
REDD FOXX: (grumbles) “I’m too old for this shit.”
(He starts fading in and out like a bad radio signal.)
The Lester Bangs Malfunction
Suddenly—a blast of static. The board glitches, the planchette pirouettes above the surface. The specters fade in and out of focus. A deep, raspy voice screams from the void.
LESTER BANGS (distant, distorted): “HEY! YOU IDIOTS! GET OFF THE LINE—THIS IS MY REVIEW!”
(Through the crackling noise, I hear what sounds like a fistfight. Another voice, furious: Miles Davis.)
MILES DAVIS (muffled, pissed off): “You motherfucker, you ain’t never known shit about jazz in your goddamn life… or afterlife!”
LOU REED (also from the void, snide): “Yeah, Lester, you wrote like a coked-up raccoon on a typewriter, I read your bullshit about Metal Machine Music.”
LESTER BANGS (furious, distant): “I STAND BY IT!”
(A loud crash. The sounds of spectral violence. Then—silence.)
The Aftermath: Another Wasted Interview
I sat there, staring at the board. The air smelled like cheap cigars and disappointment. Benny Hill was halfway through some frenetic afterlife slapstick routine. Redd Foxx was… done. He took one last ghostly drag of his cigarette, sighed, and vanished into the void with a final complaint: “If I wanted to sit through a bunch of white boy sadness, I’d go to the liquor store and watch ‘em cry over the IPA selection.”
The interview was ruined.
I poured another drink. Then, suddenly, the Ouija board twitched.
A final message spelled out: “S-u-c-k-a-h-! S-h-o-u-l-d-d-a S-t-u-c-k T-o J-a-z-z-!
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