Tag Archives: butthole surfers

Cream Corn From The Socket Of Davis & Psychic .. Powerless .. Another Man’s Sac by the Butthole Surfers (Fundamental)

I KNOW I make it seem effortless, but pulling this shit together isn’t half as easy as it looks, y’know.

Yes, I could easily spend a couple of lazy days on the internet, max out the credit cards, order a mountain of vinyl and probably just about manage to get hold of every dusty old record that I’ve somehow conned myself into believing I need to buy again.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a bottomless bank account, and in any case buying music online doesn’t really float my boat. Compared to the thrills and spills of buying vinyl in the real world it’s a clinical, sanitised, altogether less satisfying experience. Where is the thrill of the chase?

There is no journey, no endeavour, no striving. No fun.

Having said all that, the journey, the endeavour and the striving can become tedious. Especially when you find yourself yet again looking through endless racks of punk, rock, psychedelia and US alternative tunes in search of the elusive category in which that particular shop has chosen to file the resolutely uncategorisable Butthole Surfers.

If Buttholes records do ever come into shops like Vinyl Exchange and King Bee, they seem to go out again very quickly.

I’ve been trying to get hold of some of the stuff I write about here for decades and okay, I’ll admit it, sometimes I waver in my bloody-minded if more or less entirely pointless off-line fundamentalism (well, pointless apart from keeping the people who work in record shops in employment that is).

It’s a mixture of fixation and compulsion and naked desire versus an abstract point of principle. And unfortunately, sometimes there’s a gap in your life that only a Buttholes Surfers record can fill. Maybe even two Butthole Surfers records. But you have to do it now. Immediately.

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Filed under hip replacement, post punk

How not to interview the Butthole Surfers

I FIND out about the gig just two days beforehand, by chance. The Butthole Surfers are playing in Manchester on Saturday night.

The Buttholes! Manchester! Saturday night! What the fuck?

As far as I can make out, the band (the same line-up I interviewed in 1987) are only able to do this European tour because of financial assistance from the Paul Green School of Rock, whose young charges Haynes has been tutoring of late. Ahead of the tour, he was asked about gigging with kids by Mojo magazine.

“Well, at the earlier shows I played with them I said some very provocative things which I do not wish to relive,” said Haynes. “Mindbendingly inappropriate. The kids loved it. It’s all about the kids, man! My obligation is to them, not their parents.

“I was privy to an email from the parents after the last set of performances, which said: ‘How much more inappropriate behaviour are we to expect from Gibby?’ I promised to do nothing out of character.”

Trouble is, we’re skint, and despite my best efforts, I absolutely fail to get on the guesty via the tattered remains of my rock’n’roll contacts book. I resolve to work the old fanzine trick of going down on the night, hanging around before the soundcheck and asking for an interview direct – and by the way, could you also stick me on the guest list, plus one?

A couple of kids and an older bloke are throwing a ball against a wall by the side of what looks very much like the Buttholes tour bus. They’re speaking with American accents so I introduce myself and find that the guy is the tour manager. So what do you think? Will they be up for it?

“You need to speak to Tina,” he says and points me at the formidable vision in leopard skin and fuck-me boots teetering round the corner of the university towards us. The woman is fierce. She appraises me coolly as I explain what I want to do.

“It’s really up to Gibby,” she tells me. “But I’ll see what he says.”

Well, I dunno if it makes any difference, I add, knowing how lame it’s going sound even before I say it, but I interviewed them like 20 years ago. I know their stuff. I’m not coming into this cold …

“I’ll ask, okay?”

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Filed under expletive undeleted, features

Butthole Surfers

THIS is an old interview from a fanzine I used to put together in the mid Eighties.

It’s just a crappy little Q&A, and we didn’t really make the most of a rare opportunity to talk to the Buttholes when they were in their wacked-out prime – I think it was around the time they released Locust Abortion Technician – but you know, I like it.

Not that I can actually remember much of what went on, you understand, but it sounds like we had fun.

It’s very much of a time and a place so expect some rather old fashioned ideas and expressions.

* * *

WE CAME, we saw, we blagged into the gig, barged into the dressing room, did the interview and tried to do as much of their rider as possible. The Airstrip posse travel over to the big, bad city of Leeds to talk sex and drugs and rock’n’roll with those Cowboys from the USA, the Butthole Surfers.

You can’t do much with a Buttholes interview apart from get on with it. Those who did most of the talking were: Teresa Taylor (Sheryl Dwyer and drums), Gibby Haynes (Huggy Bear waistcoat and vocals), Jeff Pinkus (‘Twisting-Up’ and bass), Paul Smith (highly amusing Northern accent and Blast First) and the Airstrip Brains Trust (slurring and mumbling).

Jeff: “So we kicked her out, and toured with one drummer from then on.”

That was Teresa?

J: “No, this was King. We have two drummers.”

So King was the smelly one?

J: “No! Don’t let him hear you say that! Teresa isn’t smelly, she’s the other drummer.”

Teresa: “Is someone saying I’m smelly? I only smell sweet, like lilac.”

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Filed under expletive undeleted, interviews