Illegal Foreign Object

“MORRRRREEEE BUTTHOLLLLEEE,” the horn-throwin’, beer-swillin’, American flag bandana-sportin’ grandpa shouted to the heavens from behind us. We craned our necks in shock, only to be peppered with yet another caustic-throated “BUTTHOLE! BUTTHOLE! BUTTHOLE! MORRRREEEE BUTTHOLLLLEEE!”. “More Butthole”? The band hadn’t yet hit the stage. Wouldn’t “some Butthole” have been more appropriate for the moment? This concert was guaranteed to be, if nothing else, different.

All hell broke loose when Butthole Surfers hit the Granada Theater stage on October 23rd, 2008. Well, kinda. 1988 was long gone — this model was a kinder, gentler, more arthritic Butthole Surfers. On this night, there would be no stage diving, no setting fire to equipment, and no fights. Shotguns didn’t get fired over the crowd’s heads, and, believe it or not, I didn’t see one band member urinate on anyone! Still, a swirl of sound and strobe lights bounced off the tiny theater walls, pogoing around, turning the place into a big ol’ goddamn sensory nightmare. I loved it.

Hillbilly acid god and hometown boy Gibby Haynes, who, on his best day, was always more carnival barker than a singer, warbled his way through a 23-song setlist that hit every era of the band’s then-30-year history. Paul Leary contorted his guitar at least as much as he did his face, extracting sounds from it that were, at times, indecipherably pleasing. Animal, vegetable, or mineral, Paul?!

I was most pleased. After the band’s abysmal 2001 record Weird Revolution, I worried that the live show may have also descended into radio-friendly, Rob Cavallo-manipulated sucralose. I’m good with Goo Goo Dolls sounding like Goo Goo Dolls, but I’ll be damned if I need that level of accessibility on a Butthole Surfers record. When I play a Butthole Surfers record, I wanna walk away from it exhausted and slightly confused (if I’m capable of walking away at all). Luckily, the band (mostly) stayed away from the “newer” stuff, sticking to ‘classic’ numbers like the plodding “Pittsburgh To Lebanon”, the jangly “I Saw An X-Ray Of A Girl Passing Gas”, and the boozy Dead Milkmen-esque “Creep In The Cellar”. The band didn’t play a single song from the “Pepper”-fueled “one-hit wonder” album Electric Larryland. It was just like old times, only played by old-timers. We even got a Mr. Peppermint cameo from the balcony when Gibby introduced his dad, Jerry Haynes, to the adoring crowd. Fun fact: Mr. Peppermint was the first local broadcaster to report on the assassination of John F. Kennedy.

After the show, we returned to our car and discovered a parking ticket on the windshield (I swear, we were no more than six inches beyond the designated parking area), but it didn’t make a dent on the night. What’re fifty bucks to a couple of guys who waded around in butthole for two hours?