On the Butthole Surfers Forum – a website where I’ve lurked for close to a decade – a recent post asked what the seminal Butthole Surfers album was. I gave the question my consideration. Seminal: Psychic … Powerless … Another Man’s Sacs; Original: Locust Abortion Technician; Favorite: Rembrandt Pussyhorse; Finest: Double Live. I thought about responding just like I thought about responding to the post asking “Does anyone here listen to Frank Zappa?” and never did. (My response to the FZ query would’ve been: Only The Mothers of Invention albums.) Remember, I lurk on the forum like the creep in the cellar in the lead-off track of my favorite Butthole Surfers album. I only read the posts related to Butthole Surfers music and concerts – which are rare and often far between : twice the band has been off the road for approximately five years without ever formally disbanding (11/8/96-10/10/01 and 9/7/02-6/24/08) – or those posted by Fortblower or King because they are actual members of The Butthole Surfers. Fortblower is Paul Leary - guitarist extraordinaire and spectacular screamer and co-founding member (though it seems to be his band just like The Beatles was John’s band) – and King is King Coffey – drumming specialist, site administrator and all around good guy from what I can tell.

After the events of Halloween 2009, however, I had not even so much as lurked on the forum for close to a year. The Butthole Surfers’ autumn tour of 2009 ended on Halloween in Austin, Texas - where several Surfers reside - and singer and co-founder Gibby Haynes was quoted that evening as saying: "We played our first show as The Butthole Surfers in Austin. And this may be our last." Now this annoyed me to no end because I had spent weeks deliberating about flying out to Texas for the concert; ultimately deciding that due to debt issues I should be prudent and not tack on another $500 for airfare and a hotel room. And now – thanks to being practical for a change - I had probably missed the final concert ever of one of the five best rock bands of all time! (The other four IMO (and in alphabetical order) are The Beatles, The Clash, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, and The Patti Smith Group.)

The fact is I believed what Gibby was quoted as saying for a number of reasons.

One was that following the 2009 tour, the forum home page no longer had a link to Tour Dates. No matter the fact that it usually said something along the lines of “The Butthole Surfers are currently off the road.” Now it wasn’t even any link at all!

Secondly, I had made it to the second and third dates of the 2009 tour in New Orleans and Atlanta and while the shows were tight, there was something terribly amiss. Gibby seemed even surlier than usual. (He seemed friendly enough the one time my wife asked him for the His Problem set list The Echo Lounge in East Atlanta, but based on what I’ve read he’s got a prickly personality. Don’t get me wrong. I love and admire the man. Improbable as this sounds, for many years in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s, watching Gibby Haynes walk on stage and take off his t-shirt at the beginning of a Buttholes concert was the most exciting moment in rock and roll for me.)

Thirdly, Teresa Nervosa - who comprised the female half of the Surfers dynamic drumming duo during the band’s legendary peak and had been lured back into the fold in 2008 after two decades – quit when she could not get through customs to play two shows in Canada. The 2008 set, while fun, was completely carved from old songs. This was acceptable for the 2008 tour with Paul Green’s School of Rock All Stars when Gibby was seemingly trying to goad Paul Leary into playing again - (caught two shows of that tour too: Philadelphia and New York City: and I have to say - despite the apprehension surrounding the idea of The Butthole Surfers playing with kids, it was as wild any show they gave back in the ‘80s. With the kids, The Butthole Surfers became The Butthole Surfers Orchestra and a memorable time was had by all) – but in 2009 sets of old songs were disappointing.

So image my surprise when out of boredom one day at work, I decided to click on Butthole Surfers Forum and found the following post: Butthole Surfers in Austin at the Scoot Inn Oct 29 and 31. I nearly fell out of my chair. And as I read it got even better: on October 29th ONLY they were playing Locust Abortion Technician in its entirety and on October 31st ONLY The Meat Puppets were the opening band! It was time for this creep in the cellar – I hope you guys know I mean this figuratively – to get his ass up in the air and fly to Austin, Texas.

For my drive down to Hartsfield Jackson Airport, I decided to play Locust Abortion Technician and – at 32:34 (the Buttholes’ shortest elpee) – it was the perfect duration for the ride and for me to think about the recording.

Locust Abortion Technician (hereafter referred to LAT was The Butthole Surfers’ third elpee but the first to be recorded at the band’s home studio in Austin Texas on an 8-track tape recorder, a backwards progression from the previous elpee (Rembrandt Pussyhorse) that had gotten the 16-track treatment. (Part of LAT was also recorded in Georgia.) It was also the first album to feature Gibby Hayne’s Gibbytronix vocal effects. Guitarist Paul Leary’s probably the producer. (He’s gone on to produce some other bands, most memorably Sublime and The Meat Puppets.)

LAT was the first new Butthole Surfers record I bought (at Midnight Music on West 23rd Street, slightly west of - and across the street from - the Chelsea Hotel). That was in March 1987. The cover of two clowns teaching a dog to balance a feather on his nose is such a favorite of mine (by Arthur Sanoff). I’ve often considered getting it as a tattoo.

The first thing I noticed after tearing off the cellophane were the song titles. Many were words or names with a letter or two out of place. U.S.S.R became ‘U.S.S.A.’; The X-Men became ‘The O-Men’’; the opening track ‘Sweat Loaf’ was obviously a play on Black Sabbath’s ‘Sweet Leaf’ (another album opener). (By the way, several Butthole Surfers songs are outgrowths of Black Sabbath riffs and beats: ‘Dum Dum’ has the same rhythm as ‘Children Of The Grave’, ‘Who Was In My Room Last Night’ steals from ‘Paranoid’ (even the gist of the lyrics!), and ‘Sweat Loaf’ is clearly the ‘Sweet Leaf’ riff truncated.)

On record, the intro to LATalways had the feel of The Butthole Surfers mocking U2’s intro to ‘Where The Streets Have No Name’ (though that must be happenstance as The Joshua Tree also was released in March 1987). ‘Sweat Loaf’ was always a fan favorite from its debut at Irving Plaza, NYC on April 19, 1986 and a concert staple until April 26, 1991. (Giving credit where credit’s due, a lot of the info in this feature about when a song was first played and then retired is from The Anal Obsession, a highly recommended website dedicated to documenting The Butthole Surfers’ history). In concert it used to feel like the floor below you was gong to give and we’d all fall into Beelzebub’s clutches (always loved that name: I should give it to a character in some book).

As Butthole Surfers (and Paul McCartney) albums often do, there’s a song that appears twice. (Probably the only thing Paul McCartney and The Butthole Surfers have in common. Besides having someone named Paul in the band, that is.) On LAT that song is Graveyard. The Butthole Surfers of course make classification difficult by naming both versions on LAT ‘Graveyard’. The first ‘Graveyard’ (track number two) sounds like the second version (track number ten) but the tape speed’s been slowed down. Only Paul Leary’s solo sounds like its in real time.

One clueless critic wrote once that the only thing The Butthole Surfers had going for them was sound modulation. It’s a statement that has stuck with me for its erroneousness. The Butthole Surfers live show in the ‘80s and early ‘90s was incomparable (at The Ritz show in NYC in December 1987 the movies were showing, the fog machine spewing, the guitarists doing high-leg kicks, and Kathleen Lynch the dancer was naked in less than five minutes!); Paul Leary is one of the two most original, trail blazing electric guitarists of his era (the other being D. Boon of The Minutemen); Gibby Haynes’ lyrics rival Robyn Hitchcock for open-ended insightfulness; and King Coffey has reinvented and extended his playing numerous times due to line-up changes. In terms of music The Butthole Surfers have unique strains of punk, blues, psychedelia, noise, heavy metal and speed metal. There’s no denying, however, groundbreaking development of sound modulation: it’s the element showcased on LAT and as I drove to the airport, I wondered how they’d ever duplicate certain songs live, such as ‘Hay’, which is LAT’s closing track ‘22 Going On 23’ played backwards. (Like The Clash’s ‘Mensforth Hill’ which is ‘Something About England played backwards.) I was wondering how they were ever going to do that track live as I arrived at the airport and the end of ’22 Going On 23’ was mooing away.

I realized as I was parking I was probably better off thinking about this at the concert.

The Scoot Inn’s on the residential side of I-35 and easy to walk past if you aren’t looking for it. I was and almost did. Good thing I looked up the address. Doors – or the gate as it turned out to be – wasn’t open yet and roadies and bar workers were still setting things up. It was to be an outdoor concert although the venue was considerably smaller than the first time I saw The Buttholes play outdoors: second on the inaugural Lollapalooza bill. I was kicking myself for not having shown up earlier to hear the soundcheck.

Once inside, a black cat ran across the Bier Garden: a good sign on this Halloween weekend. The stage was to my left, diagonally facing railroad crossing signs. You’ve got to like a club that’s a stone’s throw away from an active railroad crossing, even if it’s only a Metro Rail line. A guy wearing green and black face make-up sat at a picnic table drinking water. The space looked right for a wedding but too small for a Butthole Surfers concert.

I stood in my usual spot in front of Paul Leary’s microphone as Dean Martin reminded me that “Everybody loves somebody sometime.” The fully miked, burnt orange drumkit informed me that Teresa Nervosa wasn’t showing up for the reenactment of LAT (This evening’s performance would not be like the album announcing her return to the band after quitting in December 1985.) The squat, HONKY labeled amps did mean Jeffrey Pinkus was playing bass: it looked like it’d be the 1989-1994 line-up playing tonight.

The Cramps played. Lux was a human fly. Couples arrived one by one. (That’s what I liked immediately the first time I saw The Butthole Surfers at NYC’s Cat Club on 13th Street in August 1987: the audience was co-ed.) The black cat ran across the stage. 6:40 and Austin was darkening. I felt kind of stupid being the only one standing in front of the stage but standing there was as good as standing anywhere else. Bedsheet screens were set up behind the instruments and amplifiers and it was dark enough for roadies to begin testing the film projector above the bar across from the stage. Its white light was blinding me so I turned away from the glare. The bells of a passing Metro Rail train reminded of Amsterdam’s trams.

It was a mostly older crowd so far: survivors like me who’d indulged in drug abuse without any permanent scars. They reminded me of my notion of The Butthole Surfers as a fountain of youth. In the past - whenever Butthole Surfer shows were announced – it’s served as an excuse for fans posting recollections of their best Butthole Surfers concerts, which usually involved a fair amount of drug intake as well. I remember the best Butthole concert I ever saw – the same Ritz, NYC, December 1987 mentioned previously– when Stephen Graziano – let real names be proof even if Stephen never was a Minutemen fan – and he dropped a hit of acid and thought he’d seen a naked, purple body carried atop the crowd and that made me really glad I hadn’t dropped that night. I don’t know if I could’ve stomached the sex change operation film while tripping. I remember the silence of the ladies while the Buttholes played on and the guy’s penis was removed. Actually it was the guys who were silent; the ladies were giggling. But I’m rambling. The point I started making is that nowadays whenever a tour’s announced it seems to me an attempt for 50-somethings and 40-somethings to retap their drug induced halcyon daze as they go on how they’re going to be at the show in so or so and they’re going to be on mushrooms or acid or whatever as they recapture their youth. Therefore my impression of The Butthole Surfers as a fountain of youth; admittedly a stretch but I think there’s some truth there too.

A couple of others now approached the stage. “John E. Smoke. Oh shit!” one of them said, noticing something I had not: copies of the set list were already taped to the stage floor. I wrote it down. It sort took the surprise out of the show – which I won’t do for you – but at least I wouldn’t have to write it down later song by song as the band played. Elvis Presley was singing ‘Heartbreak Hotel’. One of the film projectors was working. The guy with the green and black face paint was standing beside me and asked if I minded his taking photos. I didn’t. He pointed out Gibby’s bullhorn. His name was Gabriel: an illustrator from Austin. He was a Ween fan who recommended The Mollusk when asked. This was gong to be his first Butthole Surfers concert. I told him it this was my 25th. (I didn’t tell him that tied them with The Clash for second place on my concert going hit parade.) “The first was in 1987,” I said. “I was born in 1987,” he said. ‘I’ve been going to Butthole Surfers concerts for as long as this kid’s been alive,’ I thought.

I was glad I was wearing my long-sleeved green Alfani shirt. Who’da thought it ever got cold in Texas? There was a line of us against the stage now … but that was about it. So different from the first time I stood in front of Paul Leary at a July 2002 concert at Emo’s on 6th Street. The place was jam packed that night. Sort of brought up the question: why wasn’t Scoot’s Inn packed? “The Butthole Surfers are the ghosts of the Austin music scene,” said Gabriel. I guess that explains it. You don’t draw if you don’t release new material or tour.

Gabriel tapped my shoulder. “What?” “There’s Paul.” “Oh yeah. Maybe they’ll go on earlier than we think.” I forgot to look at my watch but I think it was around 8:00. There wasn’t any opening band and the rumor had been that The Buttholes would play LAT as an opening set and then return to play a full set but I didn’t expect that to really happen. Paul was soon in front of me, kneeling as he tuned a few of the five guitars in his rack. He was wearing a maroon shirt, grey pants, black glasses, stubble. Looked like he’d put on a little weight.

A girl was wearing wings. A guy was dressed as a hangman. The later arrivals looked younger. Always a good sign. The older, early arrivals were probably out-of-towners like me. Young men shouted out: “One two Butthole!!!!” “This album was one of the most influential on me ever,” I overheard a guy say. “Got me through high school.” People were making shadow puppets. “Hurry up!” “We’re waiting!” “We’re all waiting!” It was past nine o’clock now. “I’m ready,” said Gabriel. ‘I’m ready for the concert to warm me up,’ I thought. The crowd was getting louder. Drunker. Yelling. Sounding at times like the mooing heard at the end of ’22 Going On 23’ only sped up if that made any sense. A roadie set up bottles of beer. Stella Atois. Paul got two bottles. Gibby three. “Tell them to hurry.” “Tell them to hurry up!” Another roadie tuned and retuned Pinkus’ bass guitars. The young looking soundboard guy took his spot on the stage. Show time neared. I hoped so. I was cold. ‘Dock Of The Bay’ played. It wouldn’t be long now. 9:40. The lone bouncer was in place behind the barrier. The sped up cows returned. Friends and family of the band members exited across the stage. Looked like it was about to happen.

The first question to be answered would be exactly how will the opening track ‘Sweat Loaf’ open. On record it’s a very long fade-in (1:05 to be precise). When they used to play ‘Sweat Loaf’ live, however, this intro was ditched in favor of a Gibby monologue indebted to Jim Morrison walking down that hallway in ‘The End’ … a conceit carried on by Patti Smith in ‘Land’ (which doubt The Buttholes were aware of) … and carried even further by Gibby as he explored its X-rated possibilities of fathers fucking sisters or worse before declaiming: “And if you see your mother today, be sure to tell her “Satan! SAtan! SATan! SATAn! SATAN!” as his fellow Buttholes let the clipped ‘Sweet Leaf’ riff rip. Back in the ‘80s this was a truly explosive moment in the Butthole’s carny: sort of what it would be like if lions were devouring the lion tamer.

At 9:45 the answer comes: synthetic strings looped as The Butthole Motherfucking Surfers (as they used to kindly refer to themselves) took their time taking the stage. Finally Paul Leary appeared followed by Gibby carrying out four more bottles of beer that he set at the base of his Gibbytronix contraption. Paul hadn’t changed his attire – he usually wears a t-shirt of some sort: Felix The Cat or New York Fucking City – and he knelt down to tune a somewhat beat-up Fender strat. Gibby was ready to let loose but Paul gave him a look that said “I’m still tuning man.” and Gibby smiled. Seems simple but this to me was a significantly good sign. I don’t think Gibby smiled once during the two 2009 shows I saw. He walked over and spoke to the young man behind the soundboard stage right and then walked back. Paul was ready. Gibby twisted his Gibbytronix knobs and modulated his voice, replicating the son-father exchange on LAT, culminating in this bit of twisted wisdom: “The funny thing about regret is that it’s better to do something than not do something. And if you see your mother today, be sure to tell her “Satan! SAtan! SATan! SATAn! SATAN!” and the Butthole Sabbath riff rang out. And with the high kicks too! Like they used to do, Paul and bassist Jeffrey Pinkus kicked whenever playing the first two notes of the riff. The riff’s power is derived somewhat by its eruption, not the way it is sustained. Its presence sturdy as it is gives way - not once, but twice - to a peaceful – dare I say pretty? – passage and an opportunity to display Leary’s tuneful side. But the riff won’t be restrained for long and - with rolling drums gathering - it breaks on through again.

‘Graveyard’’s first live appearance was delayed this evening by Pinkus having to tune his bass guitar (despite it being tuned numerous times before). He’s the youngest member of the band but - with his graying, rabbinical beard – he doesn’t look so young anymore. (He actually hails from Georgia and I once spoke to his bass teacher.) When they did get around to playing ‘Graveyard’, Gibby’s vocals intoned things like “You were born in a graveyard!” and believe it or not I’d never realized how harrowing that opening line was until this night. What was also harrowing was the half-full pitcher of beer floating over our heads like some cheap image in a bad horror film. Some drunk fan was holding it aloft and the way the crowd was pulsating, spillage was not out of the question. Even the bouncer tried to grab for it! Musically, what I noticed about, ‘Graveyard’ tonight was King Coffey pounding his drums and the fact that he mostly rides his kettles. On bootleg recordings, ‘Graveyard’ has often taken a very perverse turn with Gibby describing things like your mom giving Abraham Lincoln blowjobs in the back of the car, something he avoided this evening.

Gibby said: “I shouldn’t really say this but we’re recording ... ” with a devlish grin. He finished that statement with either “this for an album.” or “a new album.” The absence of any new songs led me to believe it was the former, although the flawless playing thus far certainly didn’t reflect a band that hadn’t put in any studio time recently or made any appearances in 363 days.

‘Pittsburgh To Lebanon’ is one of the Buttholes demented blues pieces with lines like “crawling out of my momma” and featuring one of Paul’s rare turns on background vocals as he sometimes mentions a “shotgun.” I don’t remember much about this one. Maybe I was too busy taking blurry photos with my new iPhone. ‘Pittsburgh To Lebanon’ is a staple of concert sets and its earliest known appearance is CBGBs on June 8, 1985.

‘Weber’ was song I was very interested in hearing live. According to The Anal Obsession it had never been played live. On record it’s the band’s shortest - 35 seconds - and mostly a workout for Paul with King pounding behind him. Hearing it live for the first time, one hears its indebtedness to one of LAT’s other leads – i.e., either ‘Sweat Loaf’ or ‘22 Going On 23’ – maybe because they played through it three times like a live loop. It was like they were trying to perfect it and I could see Paul the producer editing and choosing one run-through for the eventual live album.

As mentioned previously ‘Hay’ is really a sound collage. You wouldn’t think this would be the moment for someone surfing the crowd but suddenly a body was resting atop me and Gabriel! Then he was gone. I’ve been through worse. There was that Hüsker Dü concert at The Ritz during The Living End tour where someone came dropping from who knew where – the stacks of amps on the side of the stage? – and nearly broke my glasses. ‘Hay’ had also never been played live before but unlike ‘Weber’ this performance did not bring any insights. Maybe that’s because I was trying to get someone off of my head.

I braced myself for ‘Human Cannonball’, the one true blue rocker on LAT. By now I was used to the bodies pressing on my back and I was expecting the crowd behind me to go wild. Let me say that in the past The Butthole Surfers have used ‘Human Cannonball’ as a set opener but it’s often had the same affect as when The Clash opened with ‘White Riot’: both bands were coming out and shooting for a really spectacular performance and somehow those concerts often felt flat. I don’t know why, but live they have trouble putting this one over.

According to The Anal Obsesson, ‘U.S.S.A.’ hasn’t been played since December 31, 1991. It was the band’s most overt “political” song even if it only consisted of Gibby shrieking “USSA! USSR!” over and over while Paul played chugging chords and King and Teresa pounded away. (Although once – in the Netherlands in 1986 - Gibby did open ‘Sweat Loaf’ with “Hey. These guys heard it on the radio. He’s dead man! They fuckin’ shot hm. He’s fuckin’ dead. They shot Reagan shot Reagan shot Reagan shot Reagan.” I always thought that was cool: equating Reagan with Satan.) On this night it was really fun watching Paul play the chords. Well, there weren’t any chords really. For much of it, its just Paul hitting open strings with the lower ones struck a few times and then the letting higher strings ring out. Very clever! I should say something here about Paul’s stage and facial expressions, which might strike some as weird. He’ll sort of walk goofily or cross his eyes or let his tongue hang out. I think he’s reaching for his inner child and, therefore, pure expression.

I expected the crowd to go wild for ‘The O-Men’ also but they didn’t really so I was able to just enjoy the rarely played number for the anime soundtrack it is. The chorus sounds like a battle scene with high pitched voices shrieking something I never could make out (even if Paul was right in front of me mouthing it) and a deeper voice responding: “Terminate! Terminate!” I’ve seen Gibby modulate his voice many, many times live but it still always surprises me how easy it is for him to do his shit live. According to The Anal Obsession this too had never been played live but I thought it was in some 2009 sets. Maybe I’m confusing it with ‘No Rule’.

‘Kuntz’ to me was always a play on Colonel Kurtz’s name. The song itself isn’t really by The Butthole Surfers. All the Surfers did to the finished product was add a voice saying “cunts” over and over at certain points. According to The Anal Obsession, it’s a: “Tape used in concert to showcase the lovely and talented Ms. Kathleen Lynch. ‘Kuntz’ is from a compilation of Thai folk songs called Thai Shotgun. No info on the artist who recorded it, but it’s a true gem. The song, according to one blogger, is about an “itch” that won’t go away. The word that sounds like Kuntz is actually “itch” in Thai.” This night the band played along to the tape – Paul picking out notes and Pinkus pushing two notes as Gibby smiled impishly and said “cunts” when called for.

The second ‘Graveyard’ on record begins with sounds, including a Yoko Ono-sounding voice (sort of like “You become naked.” on ‘Revolution 9’). In the past it has often been a set opener, which makes a certain sense with its references to birth. (Actually many of the songs on LAT reference birth such as “crawling out of my mama” and may have something to do with the Abortion presence in the album’s title, but probably not. There is, however, a baby’s picture on the back of the album sleeve. It’s a black baby, but baby nonetheless.) I’ve already mentioned the odd turn Gibby’s vocals on this often took in concert on this song so let me mention here Paul’s oddly melodic guitar lead that makes the song. It’s not beautiful, it’s not striking, but it sticks in your head.

’22 Going On 23’ bookends LAT nicely with ‘Sweat Loaf’ as it too has a harrowing half countered by a pretty interlude. A woman’s stolen voice began talking about being “assaulted sex-ually and ever since I’m having trouble sleeping” and the crowd was reenergized and at my back again. I didn’t care as I enjoyed Paul’s guitar playing and Gibby’s echoing voice giving way finally to a bored middle-aged housewife who wants to travel. The sound of mooing cows was looped as the band left the stage and the fog machine belched. It was 10:30. That meant the live reincarnation was about ten minutes longer than the studio version.

Minutes passed. The cows mooed. Eventually you heard the synthetic strings of ‘Sweat Loaf’ return and I wondered if we were about to get LAT in its entirety again, which seemed reasonable if it was being recorded for an album. But when the band came back out we got the only Hairway To Steven(/em> track of the evening - ‘John E. Smoke’ - and Gibby ad-libbed the vocals a bit. I’m not going to do a song by song accounting this part of the show – thank god you’re probably saying – and just relate some highlights/observations. You can read the set list below.

another 45 minutes worth of material. Listening to ‘Hey’ as some fans shoved their way up front to sing possessedly along with Gibby made me aware of how this song for some fans exposes their deepest being. I could empathize. I remember me and my future wife during what we fondly recall our Strawberry Daiquiri Summer taking walks and singing ‘Hey’ together. Hearing Gibby, I heard echoes of that summer just like others heard deep echoes of past moments in their lives.

I was really enjoying ‘Wichita Cathedral’ when some guy took a shortcut across the stage to reclaim his place in the crowd now that he had gotten himself and a buddy (or date) two more beers. He knocked a stage monitor off the stage and jumped atop the crowd before the sole bouncer could grab him. He surfed the crowd somehow without spilling the beer. I don’t understand the need to drink while a band you like plays. At baseball games it makes sense, at concerts it makes no sense at all.

What else to note during the second set? ‘Lady Sniff’ contained a verse of ‘Pepper’. I would’ve liked more actually. It was the only nod to the post-Pinkus incarnations of The Butthole Surfers. ‘Cherub’ was the only song during which I could make out any of the images being shown behind the band. As Paul played his exquisite lead and Gibby used his bullhorn again, I could see Al Gore: his face caught in a loop and being morphed like the band’s photos on the pioughed album cover. At times Al Gore looked like Boris Yeltsin! The second set closed with the shortest rendition of ‘The Shah Sleeps In Lee Harvey’s Grave’ I’ve ever heard, maybe because they were saving a longer version for Sunday night. Or maybe just like the rest of us they couldn’t see because of all the stage smoke and madly strobing white lights. All I know when I could finally see something, all four Buttholes were still standing on stage. As the smoke dissipated so too did the band. Friends and family joined them back stage. It was 11:15. 90 minutes: the typical length of a BHS show. I knew there’d be no encore even before I heard the DJ getting back to work. The crowd didn’t move, hoping to will more by their presence. I knew better and walked back to East 6th Street in Austin where the party looked like it was just beginning. Some young girl standing behind me waiting for a traffic light to change near I-35 was bragging about how cool she was being the only girl out with a bunch of guys. They headed for some club. I headed for my hotel on the corner where O. Henry’s house once stood. I woke up wondering if she was still bragging.

I killed time Saturday walking round Austin, Texas, where souvenirs tell you to keep it weird. Found the best Whole Foods I’ve ever found as well as a good CD store (Waterloo) and book store (Book People) where I bought a used copy of Antony & The Johnson’s I Am A Bird and couldn’t make up my mind about which NYRB imprint to buy. In between I pondered the concert. The fact that King’s drumkit was professionally miked as was Paul’s Marshall amp confirmed the fact that the concert had probably been recorded for posterity and profit. Here’s hoping it’s not an official release that takes months to see light of day. I’d much prefer one of those live CDs that bands sell nowadays after concerts like they did with the show at the Forum in London in July 2008; a CD I think you should buy for the ‘Ulcer Breakout’ performance alone. You can find it sometimes on e-Bay.

I also kinda wondered why they’d rerecord LAT. Hairway To Steven’s the one that needs rerecording. It sounds like it was recorded in a bog patch. That one always disappointed me even if I love just about every track on it, especially ‘Backass’. I’d heard so many songs live before its release that I was really geared up for it when I bought it in that record shop CBGBs had, but the production was murky and I wondered where that instrumental jam went to, the one that became ‘PSY’ and wouldn’t be officially released until 1993 with a much different arrangement. But I’m rambling again.

Other stray Butthole-related thoughts? Not many really. Didn’t find until after 10 PM the tattoo shop where I wanted to get my Butthole Surfers logo tattoo and by then I didn’t feel like spending the cash. Walked along East 6th Street where people were embracing Halloween. I had a slice of overpriced pizza and watched shapely legs in high hi-heels walk by and pondered the unanswerable like why was Gibby still not tacking vocally looped codas to the songs anymore. That used to be one of the best things about the live shows … something reserved for the madcap live madness as it has never been used on any of the studio recordings. I also wondered about the set. It was surprising not to hear ‘Gary Floyd’, especially in Texas seeing as it’s named after an old Texan punk rocker. I think they’ve played that song at every concert I’ve ever seen.

Back in my hotel room there wasn’t much on television about Texas defeating San Francisco 4-2. There were news reports about terrorist plots to bomb Chicagoan synagogues that made me rethink my thoughts that the Department of Homeland Security’s orange alert was more than political propaganda after all. There was also a news report about the discovery of a presumably dead girl’s prosthetic leg and Nancy Grace was worked up about it as usual. The previous night there had been the story of a young woman who shook her infant to death over Facebook time. Heaven help her husband.

I read the NYRB book I had brought with me. Nightmare Alley by William Lindsay Gresham, a book about carny life that was first published in 1946. Seemed like the right reading material for killing time between Butthole Surfers concerts seeing as whenever they came to town in the 1980s it felt like a carny. There’s also the fact that Paul Leary’s other band is named Carny. I can’t improve on the Time quote on the back of the book’s cover – “Nightmare Alley combines the creepy world of Tod Browning’s movie Freaks with the relentless cynicism of a Jim Thompson novel.” – but you might be interested in knowing that the penniless author committed suicide in a Times Square hotel in September 1962. He was 53 just like me.

I went to bed kinda early, having not slept much the past two nights, and dreamt about buying NYRB books. Woke up with a headache.

I never did stroll by The Scoot Inn in hopes of catching the soundcheck, arriving around 6:15. The gate was open and as I bellied up to the stage Neil Young’s ‘Are You Passionate’ played – a favorite track from an otherwise poor album – and made me think of his most recent Le Noise: I can’t call it a return to form because I think in the past decade Greendale and Living With War were both worthy additions to his songbook, but nonetheless it is his best in a long time: the sound it contains is like a hurricane harnessed.

Halloweeners arrived. I could see a witch and a tall Alice and Marie Antoinette and a black and white bumble bee and a male nun with horns and a guy dressed as a toilet but I think I’ll skip the “you are there” recounting except to say that on Halloween I finally met some of the people on the forum. John Not Josh came up to me and wanted to know what it was I had been writing on Friday night. He said I was standing in what his usual spot. That led to me being introduced to Quad Princess and Laygo and Patrnoid and others whose names I didn’t really catch. Fans were there from as faraway as the UK, Spokane WA, and DC but most were from around the Austin area. I found out that my bald patch had been posted along with photos from the October 29th performance. Quad Princess promised to send me photos from both shows for this Rockers Galore piece. King came out, conversed with some of the forumites, and said The Butthole Surfers had to be off by 10:30 PM. It might be Halloween but the Sunday night sound curfew still held.

So that’ll explain The Meat Puppets coming on before eight as The Pogues’ ‘Poor Paddy’ was playing. It was an energetic set that I wish I could do justice to but I never got round to playing very much of the used copy of Classic Puppets I purchased to be better acquainted with their repertoire for this article and I didn’t really remember the material from the albums I used to own like Meat Puppets II and Monsters(my personal favorite) and the two that Paul Leary produced in the mid ‘90s. The Meat Puppets are, of course, survivors of America’s last musical Underground from the ‘80s: a trio led by two brothers (Curt and Cris Kirkwood) from Arizona. Given the Minutemen and Paul Leary connections I’m surprised not more familiar with their music better and that I had never seen them before. (I do think that on early recordings - when Curt sings - he sounds alarmingly like D. Boon). Difficult to classify, cowpunk definitely originates with The Meta Puppets. Live, they rocked and jammed and even threw in a few jazz frills. They did do a version of Michael Jackson’s Ben (with Curt wearing an MJ mask). I suppose the focal point should be Curt - he is a singular sounding guitar player – but it was Cris who fascinated me. You can attribute that perhaps to the fact that he was right in front of me but he was very cool looking. Weathered, but in a good way. I only found out afterwards that he had done jail time for shooting a security guard. A roadie informed Curt there was enough time to play one more and Curt left it to Cris to choose and they played ‘Lake Of Fire’ one of the few songs I remembered well enough to sing along with. Did Nirvana play that on Unplugged? I can’t remember. “Butthole Surfers!” Cris said into his microphone at the set’s end and drummer Shandon Sahm– who looked like he’d had a gas playing – yelled out “40 going on 15!”

Roadies dismantled The Meat Puppets gear fairly quickly and The Butthole Surfers stuff was in its place in no time. Paul’s guitar rack was carried out minus three guitars from Friday night. I guessed he didn’t need some, that some guitars been necessary for the recreation of LAT. A rack with Gibby’s gear – two guitars and his sax – was carried out too, hinting this evening’s set would include the ‘Too Parter’/‘Tornadoes’ medley. How else to explain the guitars? Unless we were going to get ‘PSY’ – probably the one song every die-hard fan longs to hear once more – but that’s never gonna happen. The Undertones were singing ‘Jimmy Jimmy’ when Gibby came out on stage and tested his Gibbytronix, the stand of which was positioned less diagonally than on Friday night. “Gibby, you freak! How you doing?” someone shouted out.

The set was taped to the stage floor and just to be a little different I’ll let you in on the set list before I write about the proceedings.

As you can read, it was considerably different from Friday night’s. The sets from the two nights only shared five songs. I wrote down ‘Dust Devil’ and thought of Gabriel who had said that was the one song he really wanted to hear. You picked the wrong show, bro. I had told him how ‘The Weird Revolution’ was probably the one song I’d really want to hear, not that I like the album named for it – strongly preferring its unreleased forebear Ask The Astronaut, but I always thought it’d sound powerful live and a good vehicle for Gibby to go off and ad-lib on whatever the topics of the day would be for him. “Actually, I’d want them to play ‘Jesus Built My Hot Rod,” I had said. “I heard Gibby did that in one take.” “I’m not surprised. He was really on his game back then. I really thought during the ninety-three tour they’d play that but never did.” “You should call out for it.” “Nah. It’d never happen.”

A little after nine, Gibby’s picked up his sax and ‘Cowboy Bob’ rode on in. The sound was not as pristine as Friday night but there was a happier vibe and it couldn’t be attributed to it being Halloween. Paul was dressed in convict garb and Gibby was in a good mood and goofing around with him, which I’ll get more into later. I recognized the next song’s bassline but not the title until I heard “One hundred million people were dead were dead were dead.” The once rare compilation track is a favorite. (I should explain that when writing down the set list earlier, a monitor obscured the first seven songs.) After ‘Rocky’ Gibby said “I can smell that some of the people here are smoking marijuana. I can’t say there’s anything wrong with that. No, there’s nothing wrong with that.” And sure enough the woman standing next to me was toking on a joint and I was hoping what they said about second-hand smoke was true. Paul took his first incisive solo of the evening during ‘Negro Observer’, Gibby broke out the bullhorn for ‘Bong Song’ and Pinkus was fun to watch during ‘Hey’. The bassline’s really just a lot of open strings. (Something else I noticed about Pinkus’ playing is that he plays a lot of chords.) ‘I Saw An X-Ray Of A Girl Passing Gas’ was playful with Paul handing Gibby a beer and Gibby singing a chordless first verse. Paul was relying on his weathered white Fender Strat. He played it during most songs. During the ‘Too Parter’/’Tornadoes’ medley Gibby forgot a lot of the lyrics to ‘Too Parter’ but who cared? The band was in top form. How can this be I wondered with a band that never tours? On ‘Tornadoes’ my vision was glued on Pinkus: waiting for my favorite Butthole Surfers bass hook … and believe me this is a band with a songbook full of sublime bass hooks. On ‘Dust Devil’ Paul coached Gibby, trying to remind him to sing “Bahhhhhh!!!” at the beginning but Gibby didn’t seem to understand, but later - when Paul’ was wailing away on lead –Gibby was shrieking “Bahhhhhh! In Paul’s direction as if to say: “Look over here. Paaul, look over here! I remember it now!” The crowd behind me up to this point had been less pushy but that all changed with ‘Dust Devil’, which heralded the speed portion of the set. More than more than half of the next seven songs were from Independent Worm Saloon - the speediest of The Butthole Surfers eleven official releases. (At least there weren’t any pitchers of beer floating over my head this evening!) Paul played the opening chords to ‘Some Dispute Over T-Shirt Sales’ only to have Gibby stop him. Gibby apologized and took the blame for the set mishap but in reality it was Paul who’d screwed up. He should’ve been playing ‘Gary Floyd’, one of his vocal vehicles. Paul was in finer form by the way vocally, peaking on ‘Something’, the first song of the encore. I remember Paul posting early during last year’s tour how much he enjoyed singing ‘Something’ – which was the opening song in one of the two sets used throughout the 2009 tour – in front of his wife’s mother. You have to know the lyrics to get the point of that. ‘Fast’ is either ht or miss live and I thought on this evening it missed. ‘Cherub’ was another showcase for Pinkus’ bass playing but then again, it’s really a showcase for the whole band. The bassline carries it but with Paul stretching guitar tones and Gibby using his bullhorn again and King pounding, it was a showcase for the whole band. ‘I Hate My Job’ was the find of the two nights for me. An early track that never made it onto an early recording, it was rescued on the 2002 Humpty Dumpty LSD compilation, where it is obscured by other previously unreleased marvels such as ‘I Love You Peggy’ (where Gibby cannot outshout Paul) and ‘Space 1’. As has been usual since 1990, the set closed with ‘The Shah Sleeps in Lee Harvey’s Grave’. It was a considerably longer workout than the previous show’s – somewhere in the 8-minute range – with Gibby was the last one off of the fog drenched stage.

Walking out I saw that Marie Antoinette was Asian. I also saw Wonder Woman, Green Lantern, Alex DeLarge, and Elvis Presley. Dogs barked. The sidewalks were busier as families were returning from spending Halloween on East 6th Street. I saw a tuxedo cat in a window and it reminded me of my tuxedo cat Miles (for Davis) and I missed him and my punk tortie Bella (my wife was right: we shoud’ve named her Tortney Love) and my wife. Seeing The Butthole Surfers had been worth the trip. The two shows erased that bad taste left from the 2009 shows. It was fun watching Paul and Gibby goofing with one another on the stage. But I knew this wasn’t going to be an annual trip for me like the one I make to NYC every New Year’s Eve to see Patti Smith and Her Band. Halloween’s my wife’s favorite holiday and I appreciate her letting me fly out to Austin for this year’s shows and for texting me and telling to go up front when I was indecisive. So here’s hoping the band records something new and tours next year because if I have any complaint about The Butthole Surfers, it’s that there’s still not any new stuff, which to me remains unfathomable. How can musicians as creative as The Butthole Surfers not have new material after almost a decade? Failing that, at least release the version of ‘Desert’ that they made in 2002 or give us a new cover. I was hoping for The Cramps’ ‘Drug Train’ last year in honor of Lux Interior’s hanging up his rockin’ bones (both Fort and King are on record as being fans) but at this point I’d settle for anything as good as that version of ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida’ from 1988 or the Chrome medley from 2002 or ‘Fuck The Police’ from Roseland 1992. Even better: ‘Jesus Built My Hot Rod’!

The hit song of the summer of 2010 for me is about a crocodile. A five-hundred mile long crocodile. I'm not sure how old the song is myself. I doubt anyone does, but it was one of the songs collected by John and Alan Lomax in the 1920s and it falls into the terrific folk category of a “liar” – an extraordinarily tall tale set to music. Layered with whimsy and theatricality, a nine-minute rendition of the story appears on Missincinatti’s debut self-released album Remove Not the Ancient Landmarks. Their recording is like opening a very specially wrapped gift. There is ambient noise, nature sounds, zippy guitar playing, whistling and perhaps most strikingly, a majestic moment near the climax where the fate of the croc is accompanied to deep cello and crashing cymbals drawing the listener with grave seriousness into what is essentially a practical joke.

This is the power of music at its most charming: the creation of a moment of fun that is not merely entertaining, but one you want to share with others. Missincinatti defines themselves as a "storytelling band" and all of their stories, largely cumulated from old texts, start out, end up or take place entirely on water. You can call them sea shanties but they’re all very different because they’re taking different voyages: the cussing and complaining of soldiers on a destroyer, an ode to being drunk, the confessions of Captain Kidd, and the meeting of a ghost and the cad of a sea captain who deflowered her into suicide ("The coroner's quest was hard with me because I've acted fraily, and Parson Biggs won't bury me though I'm a dead Miss Bailey.") Where all of these songs are at risk to be played forever in that Burl Ives way: a banjo and a hearty robust hardy-har of a delivery, these recordings are filled with experiment and cleverness – mind-blowing samples, multi-dimensional guitar riffs, beautiful cello and percussion work. Miss Bailey gets to plead her case with a groovy guitar line and the soft rocking of the sea represented by drum brushed. The most accomplished song on the album is a song about shipwreck and betrayal called “Red Iron Ore” marked by the harmony vocals of Jessica Catron and Jeremy Drake and the gorgeous soundscapes they create.

Jessica, the cellist and main vocalist, played cello and sang on my favorite album of 2009, Evangelista’s Prince of Truth where she took over for Carla Bozulich as the lead vocalist in the closing track, the ghostly On the Captain’s Side. She has also performed on tour with Spiritualized, has been a member of Moira Smiley’s VOCO and Rebekah Jordan’s band Dreaming Ferns. The guitarist and sampling wizard, Jeremy is related to Jessica by marriage. He is also the guitarist for the amazing Eleni Mandell and the Living Sisters. Corey Fogel, the invaluable percussionist of the group, was a member of the Mae Shi and has worked with artists ranging from Mark Dresser to the Mountain Goats.

Jessica recently answered some questions for me via e-mail. These answers were reviewed and approved by Jeremy so they are the official words of the wedded two-thirds of Missincinatti:


AK: I've heard you say "you must make the sound you wish to hear in the world" How did you decide you wanted to hear Missincinatti?

  

How did Corey come in to the group?

   

What's the Missincinatti process? First, how do you choose the songs from all of the sea songs in the world?

     

Have you heard other recordings of the songs such as Warren Fahey's very, very different version of Wonderful Crocodile? Are there any songs that you hadn't heard performed in any way?

   

The first song I had heard you perform was “Red Iron Ore” and the song is more serious in tone than most of the rest of the recordings. Was that the first song you chose to perform?

   

Without giving away all your secrets, can you talk about some of the sampling? Does a sample ever inspire a choice of song?

   

How difficult or easy is it finding gigs? Have you had a particularly favorite show?

  

Have you ever performed these songs somewhere seemingly completely incongruous to the material?

 

What song is the most fun to play?

   

You're selling your album on your own through a Bandcamp site and iTunes. Do you think this was an easier way to go than to pitch the project to a label?

     

You're touring the Southwest soon. Did you book and plan the tour on your own? If so, what are the pitfalls and the benefits?

 

How hard is it to travel with a cello?

 

After you play sea songs in the desert, will you ever decide to play shows near or in water? Like on a party boat?

 

Can any of you actually sail???

 

Where do you see the project heading?

And in fact, Missincinatti will be in Laramie on August 31 and September 1 to open a tour that will bring them to South Dakota, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and back to California. To make sure you don’t miss them check out the tour dates at http://www.myspace.com/missincinatti and missincinatti.com. Remove Not the Ancient Landmarks can be downloaded at missincinatti.bandcamp.com and at iTunes. If you want a physical copy of the CD, they’re available at the shows.

You never thought Dennis Hopper would ever die and yet, when he did, it was shocking to find out he was only 74. He appeared in so many films that rock fans prefer: Rebel Without A Cause (1955), Easy Rider (1969), Apocalypse Now! (1979), and Blue Velvet (1986). He even has an uncredited appearance in The Monkees’ Head (1968). He’s in other movies worth mentioning - Giant, Cool Hand Luke, and Hoosiers if you want examples - but these are the movies stamped on our collective rock ‘n’ roll consciousness, his characters embodying rebellion as few other actors ever have.

(He also directed two of the best rock ‘n’ roll movies: the aforementioned Easy Rider and Out Of The Blue, the latter taking its title from a well-known Neil Young song.)

Hopper was rarely the star of the movies he appeared in; he wasn’t exactly a supporting actor either. You could classify him as a character actor … only not in the traditional sense: his presence in a film’s cast lent the film a certain character … you readied yourself for something off-beat, something unsettling, something rebellious. His name in the credits was like reading that of notable session musician – like Nicky Hopkins or Jack Nitzche say – in an album’s liner notes. Without Hopkins talents on Volunteers, Who’s Next, Exile On Main Street those albums by Jefferson Airplane, The Who, The Rolling Stones would never be as good. Hopper had the same impact on the films he appeared in, none more so than Blue Velvet and his portrayal of the unnamed photojournalist in the (to some) difficult final third of Apocalypse Now! (You could almost call it a coda if it wasn’t so integral to the movie: the goal of the Captain Willard’s mission. Another musical comparison is the opening seven or so minutes to He Loved Him Madly, Miles Davis’ tribute to Duke Ellington.) “Hey, zap them with your sirens man! Zap with your sirens!” yells the photojournalist to Willard and the remaining crew on what had been the Chief’s boat; waving them - and us - into Colonel Walter E. Kurtz’s compound.

“There’s mines over there. Mines over there too. And watch it! Those goddamn monkeys bite you, I’ll tell you.” Clicks a photo. “That’s a pretty one. Move it right in towards me. I’m an American! Yeah. An American civilian. Hi Yanks. Hi. American. American civilian. It’s all right. And you got the cigarettes and that’s what I’ve been dreaming about.” Willard asks him who he is as he walks around the boat. “I’m a photojournalist. I’ve covered the war since ’64. I’ve been in Laos, Cambodia and Vietnam. Oh whoo-ee. Whoo-ee baby. I’ll tell you one thing. This boat is a mess, man.”

This hooked me into Hopper. I was aware of him. Knew he directed Easy Rider. But this performance made me appreciate his acting abilities and love the final third of the film. Many do not. They think it’s too slow even if it’s got a decapitation, an assassination, and Marlon Brando as the original Bone Daddy. (Watch it sometime with the sound off and watch the way cinematographer Vittorio Storaro’s lights Brando’s scenes: “He looks like bone, man! Looks like bone!” as the photojournalist might’ve said.)

Hopper is the liveliest character throughout the scenes at Kurtz’s compound: his hippie photojournalist with the headband and beads and dirty beard and long hair thriving as much as being outside of society as Kurtz is troubled by being misunderstood by it. But because of the patient pacing during this part of the movie, Hopper’s never gotten his due. His character is every bit as colorful as Robert Duvall as Colonel Kilgore, and the best portrayal of a Vietnam photojournalist to date.

The photojournalist’s fate is unknown at the end. The last we see of him is pontificating wildly to Willard. Kurtz is killed. Willard departs with Lance. Chef – before his decapitation – had contacted “Almighty” (the final religious reference of many throughout Apocalypse Now! (except maybe the fact that Chef’s head resembles that of Jesus Christ) to initiate the U.S. Air Force’s bombing run and it’s the colorful destruction – ironically psychedelic – of the compound that originally ended the move. Presumably the photojournalist dies in that bombing.

After Blue Velvet, the bad boy of Hollywood – he had practically been run out of town in the late ‘50s – was now embraced by Hollywood. Tellingly, he never made another “rock” movie. Maybe his situation was similar to something I heard Iggy Pop say during an NPR interview on the occasion of The Stooges long overdue induction to the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame earlier this year. Iggy said that although he still performed songs such as ‘No Fun’ and ‘I Wanna Be Your Dog’ in concert, he couldn’t really tap into and reach the former youth who wrote and recorded those songs. Maybe Hopper – embraced and comfortable and collecting art and appearing in television ads and doing documentaries – maybe Hopper could no longer tap into the outsider he formerly was and could never make another “rock’ movie because “rock” movies are all about being outside. But thanks to his performances we still can.

If Sean Lennon defends recent usage of his father’s image in a television ad in Great Britain for Citroën cars by saying we’d be surprised to learn how many young people he meets who have no idea of who The Beatles are, then can you imagine how Joe Strummer’s family feels? True, in England he is considered something of a folk hero like Johnny Appleseed whom he once sang of, but its beginning to feel as if Joe Strummer’s only remembered in America by other musicians: Rancid and The Hold Steady namecheck him, Bob Dylan extraordinarily plays London Calling during a London concert (I mean do you know how significant this is? Bob Dylan never ever covers contemporaries), Bruce Springsteen does Coma Girl at last year’s Glastonbury Festival. But nobody in America remembers Joe Strummer, let alone the fact that 30 years ago this month Joe and his band visited our shores for less than two handfuls of shows. It was the American leg of The 16 Tons Tour and The Clash was at their performance peak. Vindicated by London Calling’s critical and chart success, The Clash swept through like Paul Revere in reverse trying to wake us up. And nobody remembers.

That is because concert tours are as fleeting as rainstorms: both pass through our towns, soak us and are gone. This is why ever since Alice Cooper broke up after I saw them during their Billion Dollar Babies tour way back in 1973, I’ve tried to catch every band or recording artist I’ve wanted to see as they’ve passed through. Led Zeppelin … Husker Du … Nirvana … I caught them when I could. Even Barry White and Guy Lombardo: I caught them too and was unexpectedly inspired them. You catch them when you can because the day will come when you cannot.

Something I had never done back in 1980 was follow a band around from town to town and when my parents asked me what I wanted as a graduation present from college, I said “Airfare to England.” I said I’d like to live there for half a year with my grandmother, read A la Recherche Temps Perdu in its entirety (being a budding author this was very important to me) and maybe, just maybe, I could follow The Clash around on home turf.

My Scottish granny lived in Coventry, England, which I knew was no longer only famous for the naked midnight ride of Lady Godiva. It was now the epicenter of the ska revival, the Two-Tone movement best represented by The Specials, a 7-man band that hailed from Coventry. Two Tone was affecting the musical direction of the other acts around them. I knew that by staying at my granny’s in Coventry I was sure to be in the thick of Britain’s musical stew.

So you will appreciate the auspiciousness I felt when I settled in a seat on a Coventry bound train, opened the copy of NME purchased in Euston Station and saw this full page ad: Elvis Presley in his gold lame suit holding London Calling. (As yet unavailable in the US of A although I had secured an import at Colony Music in the Time Square’s northwest corner just after Christmas.) But this wasn’t just an ad for The Clash’s latest album. No sirree. At the bottom were listed the remaining dates for The 16 Tons Tour. And like me, The Clash was headed for Coventry: Tiffany’s on February 7th. Less than two weeks!

The 35-date tour was The Clash’s first full-fledged tour of Great Britain in over a year. In the interim they’d fired a manager, released a single, toured America, fired another manager, recorded and relased an EP, toured America again, recorded a double album, toured America again, mixed and released a double-album to mixed reviews at home. The British music press was upset with The Clash’s dalliance with America and – fanning the flames - wondered how loyal or fickle British fans would be. The 16 Tons Tour was undertaken to do more than just support the new album; it was an attempt to make amends with the locals.

Acknowledging the band’s growing interest in reggae music, Jamaican legends Toots and the Maytals were originally scheduled as the opening act. It wasn’t meant to be. Several other acts stepped in to fill the void until Jamaican producer and toastmaster Mikey Dread joined the tour at Bradford on January 29th and filled the second slot on the bill for the remaining dates of the tour. (In hopes of promoting unsigned bands, a different local band was selected for the opening slot in each town.)

I possess bootleg recordings of 122 of The Clash’s shows with Mick Jones (the band’s lead guitarist and occasional vocalist), but only two from the first few months of The 16 Tons Tour: both in January1980: but one of them is that show in Bradford. The tour was into its fourth week and Bradford the 19th show. The recording is generally considered one of the worse from the tour but it’s all I’ve got and when you don’t have anything else to compare it with, it’s pretty amazing: more evidence of the high caliber of The Clash’s performances during this period.

The wham bam slam of ‘Clash City Rockers’, the brand new ‘Brand New Cadillac’ and ‘Safe European Home’ was standard modus operandi for The Clash if you never saw them. They always opened with three fast, furious rockers that left the pogoing fans up front sweaty and spent ten minutes into the show.

Listening to the Bradford recording, ‘Jimmy Jazz’ gives the band and the fans a little breathing room. But wait … where’s Micky Gallagher? “He’s a blockhead,” as Joe used to introduce the organist from Ian Dury and The Blockheads who filled out The Clash’s sound on The 16 Tons Tour. He used to join The Clash on stage for ‘Jimmy Jazz’: stage right as Snagglepuss used to say before making a hurried exit. His organ’s nowhere to be heard on the Bradford bootleg and he was definitely on Tiffany’s stage when I stood there pressed up against the stage near bassist Paul Simonon who stood stage left.

Earlier that day in the Coventry town center, I had hurried past the pigeons cooing from near Lady Godiva’s breasts and practically ran to be the first on line. I didn’t know that in England fans didn’t really queue up hours in advance. I was early enough for Tiffany’s employees to give me funny looks as they showed up for work and to look up from the Capote paperback I was reading to see The Clash and entourage walk pass me with their ghetto blasters blasting reggae. I didn’t say anything to them but did notice they weren’t wearing punk gear. With their trilby hats and suits they looked like jazz musicians. I went back to reading The Grass Harp.

“You from here?” the guy standing next to me on the short line asked me later.
“No.”
“Not many people are, are they?”
I nodded.
“You a Yank?”
“New Yorker.”

He started singing: “New York, New York. Forty-second Street!”

I smiled, recognizing the lyrics from The Clash’s ‘The Right Profile’. We struck up a conversation. He was from Birmingham: about 15 miles west of Coventry, had seen The Clash nine times before, and offered to buy me a pint when we got inside but we were separated in our rush to get in when the doors opened. He ran for the bar. I ran for the stage. I might’ve been first on line but not knowing the venue I was no match for fans behind me who did. That’s how I found myself near Simonon’s slice of the stage and not in front of Strummer’s microphone. Fine by me. I was just happy to be upfront.

Actually I was happy to not be near the microphones. The audience was on the young side and their behavior downright childish. They killed time waiting for The Clash by continually knocking over the microphones. Once The Clash were on stage, they spent their time getting into fistfights and gobbing the stage, which is what they were doing when The Clash were playing ‘Jimmy Jazz’. Gob rained the stage and I could tell Strummer was none too pleased. He was ad-libbing, almost scat singing how it was none too cool to be spit at. I don’t remember his exact words, but I do remember thinking I was the only one in the audience listening to him and I was the only one not gobbing.

Jimmy Jazz had gone his way before the police could get him when Strummer pointed and said “You!” He then jerked his left forearm and caught a huge gob. It rested on his skin, glistening in the stage lighting. “No you!” he declared, pointing at some other bloke in the audience before diving headfirst into the crowd and attacking whomever he either saw or thought had just spit at him. I was not five feet away from all this. Strummer was swinging at this young guy whose mates were coming to his defense. Strummer had to be fighting four guys! It was pure chaos as bouncers rushed forward and the other members of The Clash just stood there on stage motionlessly watching their singer. Strummer brushed past me as bouncers’ hands lifted him out of the audience and back on stage. El Clash Combo’s singer strode to his mic. There was a welt under one of his eyes. Someone had landed at least one good blow on Joe. He grabbed the microphone stand. Slammed it once … twice against the stage floor. “Rrrrrrrrright! Next number!!!” And The Clash poured gasoline on the combustible situation by pounding out ‘London Calling’!

(Kris Need’s Joe Strummer and the Legend of The Clash briefly mentions Joe’s fight with audience members in Coventry that night. He adds that Joe clobbered a skinhead with his guitar. That’s not how I remember it. (This was not Hamburg where in May 1980 during another date on The 16 Tons Tour, Joe did clobber someone over the head his guitar and was arrested and spent a night in jail.) As proof I point to the fact that Joe jumped into the crowd just as ‘Jimmy Jazz’ finished: a song on which Strummer did not play guitar: he did not have a guitar in his hands to clobber anyone with.)

Strummer and Simonon swapped instruments. It was unusual seeing Simonon holding Strummer’s black 1966 Fender telecaster. Strummer retreated to Simonon’s edge of the drum stand. Simonon stood before Strummer’s microphone. He received a rousing reaction, perhaps the loudest all night. Simonon scratched at the guitar strings. Strummer contributed the Sisyphusian bassline. Seesawed. Headon and Jones hopped onto the song’s natural rhythm. And unnatural singer. “When they kick at your front door … How you gonna come?” Simonon’s not a singer, not by a longshot, but it worked for ‘The Guns of Brixton’, Simonon’s song about the uneducated underclass. Simonon’s inarticulateness sold the song; either that or the resemblance to James Dean he was cultivating. He stood up there, center stage, a black lithe figure bathed in blue light, spitting out the defiant lyrics. He abandoned his rhythm guitar and let the musicians in the band carry him to a noisy exit.

It’s odd that Simonon got to sing before Mick Jones but Mick got his turn with ‘Protex Blue’ and later with ‘Stay Free’. The set consisted mostly of London Calling track, and one of my favorites that night was the first encore’s first song: ‘Armagideon Time’, a reggae cover and the b-side of the ‘London Calling’ single. I had bought the 12 inch version since reaching Coventry and the over 8-minute version was a personal favorite. Still is. Anchored by Gallagher’s organ and accompanied by Mikey Dread toasts, I felt like I was hearing the “electric church music” Jimi Hendrix spoke of creating one day. It was a particularly spiritual moment. Simonon’s droning bass line locked in with drummer Topper Headon’s hypnotic beat. Strummer let out a shriek. Jones contributed mournful guitar to the mix. “Alottapeople won’tgetno suppertonight.” Thereisalotta treatment on the vocals. Jones struck sharp chords as Strummer cupped his left ear with his hand. His eyes were closed. “Alottapeople use a calculator!” Spittle was flying; his body swaying to Headon’s beat, left to right while the drummer continued moving up and down behind him. Strummer inserted his left hand’s forefinger into his open mouth and wiggled the finger to moan for the masses. “Alottapeople.”

Nearing what must’ve been the 5-minute mark, Simonon dropped his repetitive bassline for a walker … one that was nudged along by Headon’s impatient tempo and soon the band was playing ‘English Civil War’ with its ‘When Johnny Comes Marching Home’ melody. Even back then it struck as one of the most unnecessary Clash songs but coupled to ‘Armagideon Time’ it was most affective. It got everyone upfront slam dancing again (the precursor to mosh pits (and a lot less violent) and clamoring for another encore.

Two encores were the norm at Clash concerts and we got one in Coventry. Unfortunately I do not remember it although I’m sure it was spectacular. (There was a lot of showmanship in clash performances: the color coordinated clothing, the occasional choreography. The Clash’s front three were not only as mesmerizing as The Beatles or The Rolling Stones; they were far more energetic. With Jones’ leaps, Strummer’s jittery right leg, Simonon’s jumping jack movements, there was always something to watch.) I do remember a Bobby taunting me on my way out of Tiffany’s and trying to provoke me to spending a night in Coventry’s jail. I walked home to my Granny’s instead smoking a New Yorker’s toothpick-sized joint reveling in the performance I had been a witness to.

I saw The Clash again five nights later at the Stateside in Bournemouth, a seaside town on the south coast of England. As well as I recall the Coventry concert, I remember next to nothing of The Clash’s performance in Bournemouth. The only reference I found in my old journals is this: “I have a feeling tonight’s crowd won’t be as punk dominated as the crowd was in Coventry. I’ll be glad if it isn’t. That was quite an experience.” I actually remember more about the wind that night and the B&B I stayed at. I do remember I watched the show from the back but not because I arrived late. Knowing me I was probably the first person inside but I stood in the back because I used to like to watch concert halls fill and swell with excitement and horniness and drunkenness. I also wanted to watch this Clash concert from the back and not have to contend with the slam dancing and gobbing and sweat up front. I’m sure the show was a good one. I saw The Clash 25 times and only two shows stand out in my memory as being sub-par and even one at of those shows (Derby) Mick Jones was so on fire that it didn’t matter. Such an underrated lead guitarist. It was that night as if he was performing at a level the other members of The Clash could not match.

Another thing I remember about the Bournemouth show was the next day training back to my granny’s “wee flat” on Stoney Stanton Road. I was elated having seen The Clash but disappointed knowing that The Clash was playing American dates in March, including one in New York City, my dirty old hometown. Friends and lovers had already written me telling me they had gotten tickets to see The Clash at The Palladium on March 7th and/or The Capital Theatre in Passaic, New Jersey the following night. Suddenly I felt as if I was stuck in England for another four months.

Then my luck took a freaky turn as I read in NME a story that Topper had torn a ligament in one of his thumbs. (And it was a story: a complete fabrication to conceal the fact that Topper’s hand had been stabbed with a pair of scissors in an altercation at one of the drug parties the drummer’s flat was becoming known for. That’s Strummer’s version anyway. Topper denies this but admits he doesn’t know what did happen.) The damaged hand meant that the remaining dates of The 16 Tons Tour would have to be rescheduled but not before late May or even June: just when I supposed to go back to America. I’d surely be able to get me a ticket to at least one of those shows. Little did I know then that I would be at six of them, including two at the London venue The Clash had made famous in ‘(White Man) in Hammersmith Palais’. Talk about home turf.