If Tripping Balls were a musical genre, the Butthole Surfers* would be its Beatles.
While I’ve never dropped acid, I imagine the experience would be similar to the one I had when I first saw the band perform during the 1991 Lollapalooza tour. In an act of either pure genius or absolute lunacy (or perhaps both – 'sup, Perry?), the Butthole Surfers’ set followed (get this) Rollins Band.
Naturally, the juxtaposition was glorious. As soon as Henry and Co. wrapped up their set of Avant-garde Jazz-meets-adrenalized Nuge Rock angst anthems, the Surfers – singer Gibby Haynes, guitarist Paul Leary, bassist Jeff Pinkus, and drummer King Coffey – hit the stage with a performance that left audience members either utterly dumbstruck or convinced they had just witnessed one of the greatest, most surreally perfect gigs they’ll ever see. (I’m writing about these fuckers 35 years later. You tell me which camp has my membership card.) On that day, the Surfers were sonically adventurous and atmospherically shambolic – enough to make one envision Don Preston giving them a respectful nod and the late Nik Turner suggesting they may want to tone down the drug use a bit.
Fast-forward to last spring, and the band issues its latest live collection, this time recorded in … fuck knows. According to legend (or at least the accompanying press release), nobody seems to know for sure when and where the 21 songs that comprise Live at the Leather Fly were recorded for posterity – a mystery made even murkier considering no venue called the Leather Fly exists.
"Back in the ‘80s, Gibby used to fantasize about a nightclub called the Leather Fly,” Leary explains. “He wanted it to have a stuffed leather fly hanging in front of it.”
Uh huh. Very Gibby.
Considering the track listing, it’s fair to conclude that Live at the Leather Fly was recorded at some point during the band’s brief dalliance as MTV darlings of the let’s throw everything against the wall and see what sells era of mainstream Alternative music circa 1993’s Independent Worm Saloon.
So, does a Butthole Surfers live album culled from decades-old recordings have any relevance whatsoever in the here and now, especially without the benefit of a visual component presenting the band’s trademark crazed onstage histrionics? Oh, hell yes!
Here’s the thing: Bands don’t survive more than four decades on schtick alone, and the glorious goofiness heard throughout Live at the Leather Fly doesn’t hide the stellar musicianship within. Leary’s guitar work doesn’t once let up, Coffey’s masterful playing somehow manages to anchor the cacophony surrounding him, Pinkus easily strikes fear in the hearts of bassists the world over (particularly on “Bong Song” and “Dancing Fool”), and Gibby is … Gibby (which is always more than enough).
Highlights, you ask? My votes are for “Gary Floyd” (off 1984’s Psychic ... Powerless ... Another Man's Sac and featuring Leary taking a turn at the mic while gargling a mouthful of Biafra-flavored Jello); “P.S.Y.” (off 1991’s piouhgd), “Booze, Tobacco, Dope, Pussy, Cars” (off 1989’s Widowermaker! EP); and the Black Mothers of Sabbath Invention freakout of the Independent Worm Saloon track “Alcohol.”
Yes, the band’s moniker is juvenile. Yes, they always come off as total wackjobs. But the Butthole Surfers have always been smarter than they act, and they’re an infinitely more innovative band than they get credit for. If you need proof, give Live at the Leather Fly a listen. Doing so with a tab on your tongue is entirely up to you.
For more insight into the crazed world of the Butthole Surfers, check out the book Let's Go To Hell: Scattered Memories of the Butthole Surfers by James Burns, available through DiWulf Publishing House.
*Is it Butthole Surfers or The Butthole Surfers? The answer is quite hazy (because of course it is). The “The”** is missing from album covers and the press release that accompanied this album, but some folks (including King Coffey himself) call the band The Butthole Surfers. I elected to split the difference, keeping “the” lowercase to make it slightly less definitive. Yes, this is the sort of thing that keeps writers up at night. (**Matt Johnson and Johnny Marr were unavailable for comment.)
