Psychic, Powerless … Another Man's Sac (1985)

7

Concubine / Eye of the Chicken / Dum Dum / Woly Boly / Negro Observer / Butthole Surfer / Lady Sniff / Cherub / Mexican Caravan / Cowboy Bob / Gary Floyd

Without a shadow of a doubt, The Butthole Surfers were/are one of the most deranged, vulgar, gross, crass and bizarre bands to walk (crawl) the face of the earth. Fortunately, they're also one of the most intriguing and original. Right from the very start - when equally unhinged souls Paul Leary and Gibby Haynes hooked up - the band set out the reach their ultimate goal: do whatever the fuck they wanted, on their own terms. They often said as well that they wanted to make the worst music as they possibly could, and if you're judging that from the average person's statement, it won't be that far from the truth. From the days when they released two EP's (Brown Reason to Live and Live PCPPEP) on Jello Biafra's Alternative Tentacles, the colourful Texans set out to explore the outer fringes or rock 'n' roll by letting their most basic impulses collide and then melt together into this slimy, putridly smelling substance even the rigidly trained hardcore kids at the time wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole. Throughout their early existence and line-ups (and there have been quite some bass players and drummers), The Surfers never indulged in tasteful playing (even though they probably were adequate musicians), preferring to combine their influences and blowing them up to grotesque proportions. There's acid (and lots of it) rock in their sound, there's blues and there's hard rock, as well as hardcore punk and the abrasive post-punk variant, but in the end, it was Butthole Music, a kind of bastard mongrel that walks the line between rock 'n' roll, sick humor, shock tactics and a side show.

Also, they were shitty songwriters. They are probably intelligent people, but so concerned with fucking things up that the journey often became more interesting and important than the destination or end result, making Psychic, Powerless … Another Man's Sac, like the three subsequent albums, unique sonic trips, more than anything else. With a lumbering rhythm section (two drummers) whose playing often suggested they only wanted to turn your intestines upside down, and Paul Leary's array of messy, semi-atonal riffs and sounds, Haynes had the perfect band behind him to spew, howl, moan and holler his vocals to. The voice manipulation is already there, though not as extreme as on later albums. Still, album opener "Concubine" is already a nauseating, nightmarish trip driven by Terence Smart's crude bass, a simple rhythm and Haynes' senseless vocals, part padded cell-guy, part Daffy Duck on speed. Occasionally, the band is more lenient and cops from classic rock 'n' roll (you might wonder whether the bass into to "Dum Dum" refers to Black Sabbath's "Children of the Grave" or the Allman Brothers' "Whipping Post" (least likely)), but even then, they're way too crude and abrasive to impress anyone but extremely tolerant people: "Woly Boly" (only the title seems to be a reference to the similarly-titled 60's classic) is demented roots-rock, "Cowboy Bob" betrays hints of new wave, while "Lady Sniff" is deconstructionist blues, marrying the fractured riffs of Beefheart, Haynes' bizarre Howlin' Wolf-tribute and the pure joy of pissing, barfing, spitting and farting. When the band doesn't focus solely on delivering an almost tuneless mess ("Butthole Surfer") or an almost-traditional song ("Mexican Caravan"?), it's as if they revel in turning contemporary music upside down. "Negro Observer," for instance, almost sounds like The Fall with John Lydon on vocals, "Cherub" is a lengthy drone predicting the wave/industrial trend of a few years later and "Gary Floyd" sounds as if they wanted to ridicule Grant Hart-styled power-pop. All in all, Psychic, Powerless … Another Man's sac is a totally random mess, but as suggested above, the sheer originality, glimpses of 'brilliance' and bullshit-factor turn it into something irresistible if you have a strong stomach and a weakness for stuff that's, like, you know, out there. Also, a band that calls their sixth member (a pitbull bitch) Mark Farner of Grand Funk Railroad just can't be that bad.

Post a comment! - Back to top

Rembrandt Pussyhorse (1985)

6.5

Creep in the Cellar / Sea Ferring / American Woman / Waiting for Jimmy to Kick / Strangers Die Everyday / Perry / Whirling Hall of Knives / Mark Says Alright / In the Cellar

When you give in to one of those spontaneous fits of lunacy and decide to listen your way though The Butthole Surfers' catalogue during a lazy afternoon, one of the things that are likely to pop up in your head is that it doesn't seem to make sense that the album bridging the gap between the tasteless debut Psychic, Powerless… Another Man's Sac and the über-demented Locust Abortion Technician is actually the band's least oppressive album of the 80s. This is not to imply that Rembrandt Pussyhorse is an easy album or that it fits in with the standard fare of the time, but the approach is quite different as the main focus lies on hypnotic rhythms and moods instead of outrageously distorted guitars and excrements. Still as strikingly unique as before, this time around the Surfers concocted a merger of Residents-styled avant-garde, proto-industrial and something that you might call a 'minimal cacophony'. Instead of cramming the songs with decibels, gore and random, fucked-up noise, they're regularly kept to a bare minimum of upfront tribal rhythms with vocals or keyboards added for further embellishment. Originally, Rembrandt Pussyhorse - which was recorded during several sessions in 1985 - was intended as an EP, and this would have been a better idea indeed, as too much material on this 32-minute album doesn't add anything to what its best 4-5 songs didn't already do.

The album starts off almost shockingly restrained, with their two most traditional and controlled songs before Hairway to Steven's rather straightforward classic rock perversions. Propelled by a simple drum rhythm, piano and a backwards fiddle, "Creep in the Cellar" almost sounds like a crossover of Neil Young's "Heart of Gold" and The Mekons' mid-80s country-folk. The fiddle infests the song with something of a haunted atmosphere, but it's Haynes' "normal" singing that actually steals the show here. Shanty "Sea Herring" with its stumbling rhythm would've been a traditional if it weren't for Haynes' frenzied screams and Leary's demented guitar playing, which combines the thin angularity of Beefheart's later work and a perverse kind of 'funkiness' (for lack of a better term). The remainder of the album isn't half as "ordinary" though, as they manage to turn The Guess Who's riff-rock anthem "American Woman" into a proto-industrial dance track, dominated by hypnotizing beats and plastic sheen so that it has more in common with Front 242 and PiL; and steer "Whirling Hall of Knives' towards a relentlessly repetitive, pitch-shifting drone that, because of Haynes' echo-laden gothic vocals, becomes something particularly unsettling. The results aren't always this interesting though, as the few basic ideas of "Waiting for Jimmy to Kick," "Strangers Die Everyday" (a trip through somebody's bowels set to funeral organ) and "Perry" (supposedly based on the TV-theme) just aren't enough to warrant repeated listens. "Whirling Hall of Knives" picks up the momentum, while the growling dog (Mark!) and neo-Dick Dale twangin' of Leary during "Mark Says Alright" would've been a better ending than "In the Cellar," a primitive and annoyingly boring techno-reprise of the opening song. As a result, Rembrandt Pussyhorse is still the only early Surfers album that's a bit under-whelming as a sonic experience, but a four song-EP and a few personnel shifts later (musician/producer/friend Kramer took up bass duties to help the band out for a while, until Jeff Pinkus finally completed the band's classic line-up), they were finally dead set on destruction. For real.

Post a comment! - Back to top

Locust Abortion Technician (1987)

8

Sweat Loaf / Graveyard / Pittsburgh to Lebanon / Weber / Hay / Human Cannonball / U.S.S.A. / The O-Men / Kuntz / Graveyard / 22 Going on 23

Thoroughly sick and tasteless, Locust Abortion Technician unquestionably belongs in the pantheon of "Most Repulsive Albums Ever Committed to Tape" (probably keeping G.G. Allin and Scratch Acid company). Sounding like the soundtrack to the mind of a deranged psychopath and then some more, it's basically an album that shouldn't be dissected song per song, but taken in its gooey entirety. Whereas the previous album, Rembrandt Pussyhorse, dark though it was, meant a step back from the madness of the debut (Psychic…Powerless…Another Man's Sac), the lunacy is actually doubled on this album. During several tracks, Gibby Haynes introduces his "Gibbytronics," a device that allows him to manipulate his vocals, often resulting in deep growling that suggest you're listening at 33 rpm instead of 78. To make matters worse, Paul Leary squeezes the weirdest solos imaginable out of his guitar, often sounding like Jimi Hendrix on a bad acid trip, or a slow motion version of Tony Iommi. To complete it all, the foundation laid down by drummer King Coffey and bass player Jeff Pinkus is most of the times equally heavy, basic and sludgy. The result is a half hour slab of muddy quicksand … up to your neck. The album's probably most known because of their "cover" of Black Sabbath's "Sweat Leaf" (here: "Sweet Loaf") introduced by a hilarious intro ("By the way, if you see your mom this weekend, would you be sure and tell her … SATAN, SATAN, SATAN!"), but there's lots more to discover.

The only other song that could be considered "normal" (to their standard) is "Human Cannonball," a repetitive take on rockabilly (that's how it sounds to me at least) with some cool wailing guitar parts and Haynes' singing poetic lines such as "Pardon me, I'm only bleeding, but you cut me to the bone, my imperfections have reduced you to a lowly animal." The two versions of "Graveyard" are similar slabs of droning sludge, with incomprehensible lyrics, impossibly low and grinding bass and a pace that's terrifyingly slow and only bands like The Melvins dare to employ. Even weirder and possibly the creepiest track on the album, is "U.S.S.A." with its industrial buzzing, monkey screeches by Haynes and the weirdest noises from the other side of sanity. Other examples of the boys mercilessly abusing the widest variety of genres imaginable are "Pittsburgh to Lebanon," basically a Chicago blues played in Surfers-mode and with suitable lyrics ("When I crawled out of my mama, well I was blind as could be, I bought my first shotgun at the age of thirty") and "The O-Men," a ridiculous slab of thrash metal with Haynes sounding as if he's almost vomiting instead of singing and high-pitched baby screams entering and leaving the picture. Tape manipulation and the use of random are used to full effect on "Hay" (lots of backwards played tapes, yelling and low bass), while the unsettling rape-conversation during "22 Going on 23" becomes one a frighteningly effective piece of doom-therapy once the heavy and pounding rhythm section sets in. Finally, there's also "Kuntz" that sounds like some Asian chant (guess which word is repeated over and over again?), while authentic sounding instruments provide an ironic background. Personally, I've always thought of Locust Abortion Technician as a creepy but funny album, although several people are fairly disgusted by the near-apocalyptic heaviness and vocal manipulation of some tracks. In fact, most of these tracks are rather short (seven out of eleven are shorter than three minutes) and would've been even more impressive and effective if they had doubled that length, but maybe then it wouldn't be digestible anymore. While several tracks (the 30 seconds of "Weber," "Hay" and "Kuntz") aren't interesting anymore after the first time you hear it, the rest makes for an entertaining collection of anti-music that I thought became surprisingly infectious after a while. Perhaps I'm just another psycho, but you should at least have heard it, and maybe buy your parents a copy for Christmas.

Post a comment! - Back to top

Hairway to Steven (1988)

8

Jimi / Ricky / I Saw an X-Ray of a Girl Passing Gas / John E. Smokes / Rocky / Julio Iglesias / Backass / Fart Song (a.k.a.: Defecating Pitcher and Pissing Batter / Pissing Horse / Two Naked Women Bending Over / A Cigarette / A Needle / A Defecating Rabbit and a Fish / Defecating Deer and Bird / Rocket Flying to the Moon)

As the alternate song titles above suggest (they refer to the little drawings that replace the titles – I found the “original” titles on The All Music Guide), The Surfers are still as puke-caked and urine-soaked as ever, which made it extra stunning when I read in Michael Azerrad’s book on the indie underground in the ‘80’s, Our Band Could Be Your Life, that the perverted bunch sold out 4,000-seat venues during their European tours. I mean, what the fuck? The opening track may be the most demented track I ever heard, and not because it’s even extremer, sicker, gorier than the bits on Locust Abortion Technician, but because they manage to keep up the insanity FOR TWELVE TOTALLY FUCKED-UP MINUTES!! The rhythm section lays down a mastodon groove that relegates most doom metal-bands to Pop Idol-abrasiveness. In the meantime, you get Haynes’ frightening histrionics – alternately sounding like James Earl Jones at 17RPM or a baby’s maddening screaming, random sounds (chiming clocks, tweeting birds, bleating sheep, etc.) and the best guitar playing Paul Leary ever committed to tape. Or as one music journalist said it: “(…) random blather and white noise or disconnected rock jams sinking in a sea of blood and puke (…) they manage to exude brilliance.”

The remaining seven tracks on the album are considerably less bizarre, but the weirdoes must have been on some drug, that’s for sure. The least conventional of the bunch are found towards the end of the album: while “Backass” is a doom-laden dirge that’s not as distorted as “Jimi,” but led by a nearly as insane groove (and just watch Leary’s fabulous guitar tones), ultra-short album closer “Fart Song” does get the classic Haynes-treatment. In between are a few songs that – if you don’t study the lyrics to closely – sound almost normal. “Ricky” seems to update skewed psychedelica with a healthy dose of rock ‘n roll, while Haynes’ vocals are clearly audible (and passable). “Julio Iglesias,” on the other hand, is an echo-laden rockabilly track, complete with fragmented cool cat-solo, walking bass and rudimentary drumming (The Stray Cats, anyone?). If anything, “I Saw an X-Ray of a Girl Passing Gas” and “John E. Smoke” are even unlikelier songs: the lyrics of the first one (“Ten foot tall and the nurse stuck a needle in my arm, well uncle Doc’s nurse uses a needle with ungodly charm, wo-ow-ow-ow, walkin’ down the hall the dentist loomed through the door, I saw an X-ray of a girl passing gas”) make as much sense as those of “Kuntz,” but otherwise, this song could’ve been recorded by, say, The Pogues after having taken a five ounces of LSD. Then there’s still the hilarious “John E. Smoke,” starting off with a sample of a huge, overjoyed audience, and Haynes playing the role of the obsessed preacher with an already classic introduction: “This here a song, is about John W. Smoke Junior, it's about bein' in love and lovin' the love that's hatin' the love the love and the love and the hate that's lovin with all it's around the love that's hate that's the hate that's the love and the love is the love that is the hate that's hatin' the love, it's lovin' the hate” (yes, I had to look this up). After this, the song evolves into a tale about John, “a little crippled midget lesbian boy but stood ten feet tall with a knife.” More inanity, unlikely guitar excess and kerosene-driven Tex-Mex from hell follows, culminating in a grandiose, ecstatic finale. “Rocky” sounds like a more muted version of “I Saw an X-Ray,” but it’s clear by now: The Surfers were still as weird as ever, even though they weren’t exclusively dabbling in obscene, gross and disgusting material anymore. Still way too sick for the average rock fan, Hairway finds the band’s masturbatory gore slowly becoming less awkward (apart from the brilliant title-track). Shortly after this success, they moved to a major label and evolved further towards mainstream rock in the next years, but contrary to Sonic Youth’s major label-releases, for example, the “appeal” of their music rapidly decreased.

Post a comment! - Back to top

Back to album review index