Any time you interact with experimental songs, there will always come a moment where you start asking yourself questions. This is a judgment reflex. You do this to see if the part of your brain that can be stimulated by weird sounds is lining up with that other part that actually enjoys listening to them. At the Butthole Surfers show last night, I found myself locked in this reflex, and pondering questions like: "Is this noise for noise's sake?" "Are those diabolical chipmunk sounds a stroke of genius or the over-reach of artistry?" and "Are gory video clips really that subversive anymore?" Most times, you make your judgments and you pull out of the loop. But I stayed with these distractions because there wasn't much in the music that could draw me out of them.
Frankly, I was bored. This is probably because each song ran together and featured a monotonously half-cocked recitation of lyrics from lead singer, Gibby Haynes. Whether this set was of the typical variety or something from a band that came in just to collect a paycheck I can't be certain. I never saw them live in their hey or latter days and only have a minor knowledge of their back catalog. What I do know is that the crowd held up a much bigger pot of love for them than I did. Lyrics were shouted back, bodies bounced in place, and cheers came whenever that rumbling bass dropped out of the air. They were living proof of the band's cult following. I just didn't see what the big deal was.
Wasn't this the group that the Flaming Lips stole some of their antics from? The group that was supposed to conduct destructive, and mayhem-filled sets that many deem as legendary? That's what I had been told, but never saw. Maybe that's what I get for coming into this as a casual observer who was untrained in their songs and mainly looking for a cheap thrill. I think I needed more than breast fondling clips and left field sonics to be pulled on board. And by more, I don't mean more accessible. I appreciate the fact that their music sounds like a stab at the place where your LSD has turned on you. In fact, I love that. Darkness is my favorite direction. I just didn't see where the art school project ended and the songs became worthy of the effort they begged of my brain.
The act before Butthole Surfers was called Thrones. Probably the worst set I've ever seen. Oddly enough, it was performed by somebody that sounded like one of the gentlest people I've ever heard. So I'm going to try and be nice. The problem I had with it was that it felt like a never-ending sludge rock jam that also never went anywhere. No structure, just heavy-as-fuck notes. Heavy-as-fuck is quite welcome in my world, and when this lone soul started playing I was fully on his team, but in the long run, this performance was 3 correct notes above me coming home blacked out, picking up my guitar, and pretending to be in an even more narcotized version of Pantera. I would fail under those circumstances, and this performance did too.
Dirty Ghosts featured a lead singer that had the look and attitude of a future icon. You could almost imagine her in some famous picture getting thrown out of seedy New York bar, kicking at the air and devilishly smiling because she noticed a camera was there watching. The music didn't carry such an enviable stature. The imagery was embedded, but the songs were still like transients without a map. Maybe that was the theme of the night, a bunch of acts that had some of the right elements but never knew where to take them. Of the bunch, I liked Dirty Ghosts the best. Their music was the sound of a big city at night, but in the dirty part of town. It was dark and driving, and framed by words that sounded kind of pissed at you. Like you offended their general sensibilities and they were this close to breaking the top off a beer bottle and leaving a mark on you with it. That's a great attitude for any song to project, and in time, I hope that an eternal melody finds its way to them.
