The concept: I give myself two weeks to find out as much as I can about a band. I immerse myself in their records. Then I review their work. You can decide for yourself whether or not my conclusions are valid for you.
In this issue I decide to learn all about The Butthole Surfers. I have always been a fan of psychedelic punk, especially early Flaming Lips and Meat Puppets, but for some reason I never gave the Buttholes much attention. Maybe it was the comic book name or the bizzare-o album titles (Locust Abortion Technician, Brown Reason to Live etc.), but something about their initial image jarred with me. Anyway, having reviewed Orange Juice and TV Personalities, I thought it was time for something a bit different.
The Butthole Surfers grew from the brains of Gibby Haynes and Paul Leary, freshly released from the University of San Antonio and disaffected by conventional life. Haynes, a college basketball star and high-flying student, was fired from his first job as an accountant for distributing a medical ailment zine (really). Leary dropped out just before graduating, followed Gibby to Southern California and back, and so began the Butthole Surfers. The lineup varied as much as the output, though the classic pairing involved two drummers who looked like twins but weren’t (King Cofey and Teresa Nervosa) along with an idiot bassist (Jeff Pinkus) and a naked dancer who didn’t play with anything except the audience.
Their early albums combined an ear for tunes with a deranged mindset. Later they mellowed, gained some critical and commercial success, and generally ceased to be interesting. Their live career followed a similar arc; in the early years they generated a full-on assault, combining burning percussion, screaming, amps at 10, naked dancers, videos of surgery, and simultaneous drummers, a style that has since been imitated – in family friendly fashion – by bands like the Flaming Lips. The Buttholes still play live shows, though they appear pale by comparison.
It all started innocuously enough. The Butthole Surfers EP – or Brown Reason To Live as it is now known – has neither the edge nor the perversity of subsequent releases. The standout element is the cover, portraying a badly photocopied image of someone suffering from elephantitis. The song titles are pretty nifty too: 'The Shah Sleeps In Lee Harvey’s Grave', 'Bar-B-Q Pope' and 'The Revenge of Anus Presley'. At this point the band was a bad a joke, albeit an occasionally funny one. The blueprint was there, though: moronic drums, Gibby’s whine (often heavily processed), and overlayed feedback with found-sounds.
One of the great things about the music industry is that occasionally a band that has no right to ever be signed gets signed, and then abuses that position. The Butthole Surfers were such a band, and they delivered an absolute classic right out of the blocks with Psychic Powerless…Another Man’s Sac. They went into a studio, took drugs, made a horrible record, and somehow avoided sounding indulgent. Post-punk is a broad brush, but it could describe the more listener friendly moments like 'Negro Observer'. The soundscapes are now not so much comical as creepy. The first track 'Concubine' sounds like a pervert with a drum machine drinking and making music late into the night. 'Dum Du' would have genuine radio play potential if not for the total lack of professionalism in the execution and production. Needless to say it’s a classic.
As I delved into the world of the Buttholes I found that, at least with their early releases, they became progressively less commercially viable. This is rare, and to be treasured. Their second album, Rembrandt Pussyhorse, demonstrates finer studio finesse and playing, but those gains are washed away by a tidal wave of absurd song structures, obtuse lyrics and grizzly noise. Opener 'Creep In The Cellar' is an utterly horrid ballad, making ample use of backwards fiddle and piano (apparently they were recording over an old country track and they didn’t know how to remove the fiddle). It is a captivating mess. 'Waiting For Jimmy To Kick' is not only a brilliant song title, but also an excellent example of how even a totally crap song can be made great, in this case by deploying shitty drum machines, two note piano and screams.
Often cited as the definitive Buttholes album, Locust Abortion Technician has two songs that you can almost sing along to: 'Human Cannonball' and 'Sweat Loaf'. The whole feel of this album is sludgier, with a greater focus on repetitive bass and drum riffs. The result is darker than before, because unlike Rembrandt and Psychic, it seems genuine. Aside from the song titles ('Kuntz', 'Sweat Loaf') the humour has been cut away, darkness filling the void. As a result, the playful charm of the previous two albums is lost. 'Human Cannonball', though – what a song! This really could have been a hit! It even features an almost romantic lyric: "it used to be that loving you was easy, unrestrained."
Hairway To Steven shrugs off the shroud of sludge for a more accessible sound, something akin to a real band. This pointed the direction for all the subsequent releases, reversing the trend of each record being more confused and horrific than the one before. In fact, it is the last Butthole Surfers album that I enjoyed all the way through. The silliness is back to the fore and can get rather wearing if you’re not in the right mood. The highlight is 'Ricky', the low point 'Julio Iglesias'.
Things took a turn for the worse in the '90s. Piouhgd, Independent Worm Saloon and Electric Larryland all sound more like conventional rock, using normal instrumentation and production methods. The humour, previously balanced by the disturbed music, is now just irritating. It is depressing to listen to thirty-something men sing songs with titles like 'Chewing George Lucas’ Chocolate'. These later releases, while offering the occasional glimpse of former glory, are best avoided – the glimpses only make you feel sad for what was lost. I choose to ignore these later albums, and to only think about the good times.
Several things about the Butthole Surfers are great. First, they represent all the ugliness and glare that I associate with the worst of the 1980s. And, for some reason, I think that’s a good thing. Secondly, I like it when intelligent people do deliberately stupid things. Thirdly, while they have clear ancestors (Black Sabbath, Throbbing Gristle, The Dicks) they really don’t sound like anyone else. Finally, they had just enough good songs hidden among the weirdness to make them more than a novelty act. I recommend listening to Rembrandt Pussyhorse first, then Powerless or Locust, depending on your tastes – if you skew darker, go with Locust, if you prefer the ineptitude, go with Powerless. Finally, add Brown Reason to Live and Hairway to Steven if you really need more. It’s also worth watching the video of them being interviewed on cable access television, in which they appear under the influence of several drugs.
So, what to make of the Butthole Surfers? I would say that they seem like a brave band that did what most bands can only dream of doing – whatever the hell they wanted. However, I’m not sure they were actually brave, because that would imply that they cared. Having read early interviews with Gibby and Paul, and watched live footage, it appears they genuinely didn’t give a shit. Which is sort of cheating, really.Join me next time as I learn all about The Descendents.