Merry XXXMas
For the most part, Christmas-season entertainment options are snow-pure: Barbra Streisand singing carols, Tim Allen in a fat suit, “family-friendly” films and countless characters in countless sitcoms and TV dramas dropping their differences and learning how to love again. But there are a few deviant possibilities, such as the disturbing Santa-as-hefty-hacker Silent Night, Deadly Night film series, the excellent Beavis and Butthead Christmas special that spoofed Hall and Oates‘ “Jingle Bell Rock” video and, most important, Blowfly and Rudy Ray Moore‘s collections of dirty ditties. (A holiday note to the easily offended: Season’s greetings. Stop reading here.)
Moore, or Dolemite as he’s known by legions of blaxploitation fans, struck first with This Ain’t No White Christmas! which featured unorthodox takes on chestnuts such as “A Night Before Christmas” (hint: creatures were stirring). But Blowfly, a formative influence on Tech N9ne, upped the stakes with Blowfly Does XXX-Mas, which offered the world such joyful gems as “Deck the Halls (Dick the Hoes),” “Jingle Bell Cock” and the “Silver Balls”/”Jingle Balls” double-header.
At press time, no local acts have recorded holiday albums that are more naughty than nice, but a few releases from earlier in the year might make the perfect gift for that friend or relative who is always telling you in no uncertain terms what you can stuff in your stocking. For added convenience, these albums are rated for offensive content using a special Blowfly-approved scale of measurement.
The naughtiest, and most musically competent, comes from the Pornhuskers, whose Porn on the Cob butters up listeners with catchy hooks while assaulting them with over-the-top obscenity. Much of the sex talk is cleverly done; after all, it takes quite a poet to rhyme bald baby beaver with Caesar the one-eyed pleaser, or cock in my hand with reprimand. (But while praising the group for its intelligence, it’s worth noting that the title of the tune from which the latter line comes is misspelled “Masterbate.”) And though some knee-jerk reactionaries quickly branded the group sexist after catching its live show (with its gigs opening for Reverend Horton Heat inspiring particular outrage), the Pornhuskers are actually equal-opportunity offenders. During the group’s theme song, vocalists Ms. Cowgirl Cannibal and Ms. Bustanut proclaim themselves “female chauvinists” and order “stupid hicks” to “suck [their] clits.”
If the band’s name doesn’t warn away the morally inclined, the song titles should: “Doris Speaks of Dildos,” “Sleezbag Peepin’ Tom,” “Blue Balls.” And if these references are too obtuse for people who don’t get out much, the first lines of the tunes (One of my favorite things is licking ass opens “Brown Eye Blues”) often spell out the group’s message in graphic detail.
People who enjoy the Pornhuskers’ sound — a double-barreled guitar attack teamed with an earthquake-simulating rhythm section and a singer whose voice alternately recalls Iggy Pop‘s yowls and head Bosstone Dicky Barrett‘s too-gruff-for-ska delivery — usually aren’t squeamish about dingy rock clubs, profanity or sex-talk. Which is good, because it would be too bad if garage-punk fans missed out on hearing top practitioners of the art due to some sort of aversion to vulgarity. The Pornhuskers stretch the limits of comfortable filthiness, stopping before there’s any question whether the band actually contains intolerant misogynists. (The world needs only one Anal Cunt, thanks.) If you’re a borderline case awaiting a last-minute judgment from Santa, pledging allegiance to the Pornhuskers might well swing your pendulum in the naughty direction. But seeing the group at the Pub on Friday, December 21, with As Memphis Burns in the opening slot, might be worth that risk. Blowfly’s rating: Four jingle balls
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For sheer volume, connoisseurs of nasty music should seek out Keely Zoo‘s double-disc set Fingerdonkey, which supplies its own superlatives (“jugulicious,” “tittytastic”) for listeners who might be rendered speechless by its sprawling tale of a dense trucker’s son and his sexual conquests. Like the Pornhuskers, Keely Zoo makes no attempt to shield its intentions to arouse and offend with figurative language or subtlety: Just check the song titles (“Pocket Pussy,” “Shake Your Ass for Jesus” and “A Job That Blows,” not to be confused with “Blow Job”).
The first disc, Bad Ass Car Crash, follows clueless protagonist Billy Joe from his conception (“Humpin'”) to his birth (“Billy Joe Popped”) to puberty (he celebrates my first boner just before the phrase I wanna get laid replaces I think I can in this little train’s one-track mind). Soon enough, Billy Joe succeeds, proving the validity of The Onion‘s recently posited theory that poor, uneducated men are especially adept at expressing their attraction to women; he woos his date with the “panty-peeling” line you’ve got a lovely vagina. Unfortunately, after scoring again and fantasizing about being unusually endowed (“Billy Two Dick,” a dream-sequence number that plays like a testosterone-injected version of Grease‘s “Beauty School Dropout”), Billy Joe crashes his rocket car into the side of a mountain. But lest anyone shed tears for poor Billy, Keely Zoo reprises the upbeat, inspirational “Jugulicious” to remind listeners that, hey, it’s only a record.
So ends an epic 28-song odyssey that incorporates every musical style from twangy harmony-accented grunge to melodramatic shlock opera. But wait, there’s more! The second disc doesn’t follow a coherent storyline (though there is a trilogy of tunes about chickens), but it does immortalize both the blow job that saved Rhode Island from the most terrible of fates and the exploits of “Johnny the sex machine.”
Like a porno film that gets bogged down in plot, Fingerdonkey might disappoint cut-to-the-chase listeners, who, to use successive song titles, want less “Talk All Night” and more “Put It in Me.” The group obviously put a lot of effort into constructing the story and composing appropriate musical accompaniment, and cheap-thrill cravers usually get turned off by sex that’s too integrated into art — orgy or not, no one’s renting Eyes Wide Shut for stag parties. But Fingerdonkey is more like Scary Movie, delivering a few dumb laughs, a lot of stupid characters and a robust gross-out quotient. Blowfly’s rating: Three jingle balls
If Keely Zoo’s Fingerdonkey recalls the excessive film adaptation of Caligula, the Weads‘ Sunday is more a disturbingly snufflike low-budget horror film. Its production barely exists, its song structures are skeletal and its vocals weave in and out of tune, often losing sight of the rhythm along the way. With its flat, observational style and off-key caterwauling, the opening track, “Fierce Bitch,” dedicated to former Frogpond bassist Justine Volpe, could be a lost Wesley Willis track. Like some of Willis’ work, it’s almost brilliant in its absurdity. In her royal rock court/Sports talk is strictly blasphemy/And draft beer is to her fancy, guitarist Max Barlow declares, his tone wavering erratically between conversational and hysterical.
The title “Fierce Bitch” merely refers to the slogan on a shirt Volpe wore onstage, so the only visible hint of naughtiness on the disc turns out to be a dead end. But there is some sexually themed material on Sunday, though the band is oddly apologetic about its horniness. (Or maybe that’s not so odd coming from a group responsible for a song that repeats I’m so sorry seven times.) “Sara” deftly substitutes the word “hits” for “tits,” a clever ruse that would surely fool non-English speakers and anyone under the age of four. Oh my God, those hits… Let’s see those hits… Show me your hits, bassist/vocalist Nate Borders pleads, thus becoming the first rocker to make that time-honored request sound completely pathetic rather than just boorish.
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The Weads also eschew explicit sexual terminology on “Cambridge,” which seems to be about the band members’ stumbling upon the filming of a porno flick. What were they doing? Borders asks. They were screwing, Barlow replies, his voice incredulous. Ooooh, the group coos in unison later. Communicating the uniquely creepy glee of unlucky-in-love sorts living vicariously, “Cambridge” radiates with Beavis and Butthead-brand desperation.
Stunningly amateurish and often annoying, Sunday could be offensive on many levels to fans of high-quality music, but it’s not profane enough to ruffle the feathers of anyone with a post-puritan belief system. Still, give it a half-ball for the “bitch,” and a half more for not keeping the Sabbath holy. Blowfly’s rating: One jingle ball
