"The Funny Thing About Regret Is..."

I've seen the Butthole Surfers live twice, now. Once, when they opened for Nirvana on New Years Eve '93 going on '94; and again last October, when they shared a bill with the Melvins. The more recent show was part of a reunion tour, and to be honest, left me a little cold. They played most of the songs you would expect, and pretty much note for note. All told, it was a decent performance from a band I've been listening to for twenty years. So why didn't I have fun? Several reasons. Firstly, the venue was divided into terraces, and unless you were one of the first couple hundred people to get there, you couldn't get within 25 feet of the stage. Yawn. And, secondly, they played that shit straight as can be, and Gibby spent most of his between song banter complaining about the shitty venue. Well, sorry Gibby, if you weren't booked at a better club, but it's not the audiences fault. To be fair, ten years will grow you up, and turn down the punker antics. Oh, and they looped the theme from The Price Is Right and played it full volume for at least twenty minutes before they went on stage, which ruined every one's buzz. Maybe that was the point. You see, I first read about the Surfers in the seminal book on early DIY/Indie culture, Our Band Could Be Your Life, and I was like, "holy snappers, these cats are cuhrazy!" They took acid everyday, and fingerbanged girls on stage, then set the drum cymbals on fire, etc. So, when I saw them play in '93, I felt prepared. I wasn't. That was and is the craziest show I've seen, and one of the best. Yeah, it was at the Oakland Coliseum, a huge sports arena, but that just meant they could fit more freaks in the building. The Surfers pulled out the usual antics I mentioned before, while standing in front of three projection screens playing different images, sometimes over one another. Gibby sang through the bullhorn, the music was incredibly loud and mostly unintelligible, and the fans were the weirdest people my thirteen year old eyes had ever set upon. There was a cluster of girls wearing black leotards, doing some kind of interpretive dance. A guy in a wheel chair rocking out, then producing and consuming a strip of blotter acid, at least five hits long. Pot smoke thick as maple syrup filled the air. Anyways, if you get the chance, catch them while their still alive and kicking, but don't expect the legend to hold true. And, in the meantime, enjoy this classic album from 1987. Noise rock at its finest, if you ask me. Oh, wait, back then they were calling it "Pigfuck."

Satan! Satan! Satan!