BUTTHOLE SURFERS Locust Abortion Technician (Blast First)
So, I’m mystified. I’ve read wild claims of greatness for Butthole Surfers in general and “Locust Abortion Technician” in particular from many sources of music criticism whose opinion I value (Uncut, All Music Guide, ever-erudite Amazon customer Jason Parkes). Unfortunately I just can’t square it with what I’ve been hearing here, essentially the sound of Gibby Haines’ crew poking around in the squirming, writhing entrails of rock ‘n’ roll.
At least proceedings begin promisingly. “Sweet Loaf” is perhaps their greatest contribution to humanity. Opening with a slow fade-in that would have Eno drumming his fingers with impatience, synth washes give way to some Zappa-esque dialogue about regret famously filched by Orbital on “Satan”, into which slams the Buttholes’ own impression of Black Sabbath’s “Sweet Leaf”.
Unfortunately that’s about as sophisticated as “Locust Abortion Technician” gets, the remainder being less an album than a series of painfully distended barely musical skits. “Graveyard” is all sludgy non-riffs and Darth Vader vocals; “Hay” is substantially the sound of people shouting the title repeatedly; the distorted, flatulent “U.S.S.A.” features lots of indecipherable yelling. “The O-Men” is a nightmare conflagration of yelped vocals, melting guitars and punishing beats; “Kuntz” is predictable juvenilia. “22 Going On 23” finds the album at its most reprehensible (and there’s a great deal of competition for that particular gong) as a disturbed caller to a radio phone-in is submerged under waves of hamfisted stoner rock. “Human Cannonball” at least has some semblance of song structure, sounding like The Dead Kennedys divested of their ferocious political commitment.
I’m happy to accept that I’ve completely misinterpreted this album, and failed to unlock its well-hidden inner worth. But until such time as I’m gifted with a way of doing so, I’m forced to conclude that Butthole Surfers’ music is (thud! tish!) a bunch of arse.
BUTTHOLE SURFERS Hairway To Steven (Blast First)
Perhaps as a cockeyed tribute to the album that provides its titular syllables, the titles of “Hairway To Steven”’s eight tracks are nowhere to be found in its packaging. Instead, they’re denoted on the disc by a series of crude illustrations displaying varying levels of obscenity. Fortunately, the binterweb has provided me with track titles so I don’t have to refer to songs as “two naked women bending over” or “urinating horse”.
“Jimi” makes for a monstrous two-course 13-minute opener. The first section features a duet between a death metal growler and a Chipmunk (Gibby Haynes, both), the band thumping out a sprawling glam-metal groove that sounds like “We Will Rock You” on Mogadon. And then suddenly it becomes a gentle acoustic guitar/bass/percussion/farmyard noises instrumental, like Mogwai out for a Sunday afternoon stroll round country ways. “I Saw An X-Ray Of A Girl Passing Gas” is a big shiny singalong pop thing, with a chorus and everything, “John E. Smokes” a carefully constructed fake-live Latino parody. “Rocky” is another actual song, in the indie guitar rock style. I could find myself enjoying this. “Julio Iglesias” is, as the title probably doesn’t suggest, demented, old-school Cramps-style rock ‘n’ roll, “Backass” doomy, distorted cyclical machine music draped with a pretty convincing John Lydon impersonation.
A model of tuneful clarity compared to the Surfers’ previous opus, “Locust Abortion Technician”, it’s still less an album than a waste of precious time. Still, if you get your entrance fee’s worth of entertainment from the title you can treat the music as a free gift.