Butthole Surfers

To fully define the music of the “butthole surfers”, it's enough to name a few ingredients: Captain Beefheart, Chrome, Red Crayola, Flipper, Pere Ubu, Holy Modal Rounders, Sex Pistols, and so on. Obviously, you can mix the doses as you please, the result will always be the same, since the bad boys from San Antonio (Texas) were practically “undefinable”, free from any sloppy pseudo-artistic pigeonholing. They were the malevolent, liberating force of madness applied to the song form; they were the exasperation of the aesthetics of ugliness, the scream against meanness and social squalor.

After a first, self-titled Ep – what you'd call a legendary debut – Gibby Haynes (vocals), Paul Leary (guitar), King Coffey (drums), Teresa Taylor (drums) and Kramer (bass) unleash their absolute masterpiece, “Psychic… Powerless… Another Man’s Sac”. It's 1985. The desecrating intent is evident right from the first seconds of “Concubine”, a homicidal dance woven with demented wails filtered through a megaphone and disturbed by occasional noises. This first seal, along the road leading to the demolition of hardcore's classic stylistic devices, places the band unhesitatingly in particularly “unhealthy” territory: the skill with which Butthole Surfers manage to demolish conventions and beliefs is truly impressive. From this point of view, the following “Eye Of The Chicken”, a track that sends the Chrome into orbit, struck by the most abnormal and sick strain of psychedelia, is another shred of genius. And if you still have doubts, follow closely the evolution of the nursery rhyme “Dum Dum”, left to simmer amid galactic guitar reverbs, solid bass lines and a brazen tribal rhythm, all destabilized by powerful yet irresistible napalm-fueled accelerations. Leary's work on the six-string is halfway between the cosmic visions of Manuel Göttsching and the noise-rock shortcuts of Mayo Thompson. Haynes, for his part, delivers a deranged vocal cross between the brutal hysteria of Lux Interior and the paroxysmal, vitriolic inflections of Captain Beefheart: the result is demonic, unrivaled, uncompromising.

The lesson of the Cramps proves fundamental especially in the relentless “Woly Boly”, while “Negro Observer” lets a wonderfully sinister pop flavor rise to the surface, with a show-off sax pouring further fuel on the fire. Then, like a sudden slap, comes the supersonic hardcore of “Butthole Surfers”, a superb synthesis of idiocy, irony and pure genius.

If you own the original vinyl, you know that at this point you have to flip the side. Once that's done, you're assaulted by the ramshackle, filthy riff of “Lady Sniff”, one of the album's two great masterpieces. Over the R&B pulse of the rhythm section, all sorts of bodily sound effects are set like jewels: burps, farts, spitting, you name it! In short: not exactly what you'd call politically correct… The second masterpiece, “Cherub”, is a cosmic ballad declaimed through a megaphone. The slow, almost tormented evolution of the track gradually loads up with electronic whirls, suspended echoes and furious surges of the most unbridled, lysergic emotion. At this point, everyone's off to buy heroin with “Mexican Caravan”, intoxicated by its possessed rock & roll. Amid such devastation, Leary's insistent, frighteningly dissonant solos stand out, while Haynes stakes his definitive claim as lead voice in the asylum's little orchestra.

Another exercise in relentless, frenzied ferocity, carried through to its most brutal paroxysm, is completed in the following “Cowboy Bob”, admirably backed by the rhythm section along an arduous course. In closing, the tones grow more relaxed, though the country-tinged looseness of “Gary Floyd” keeps intact all the wicked, outrageous traits of their sublime “degenerate” art.

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27/10/2006