Butthole Surfers
Psychic... Powerless... Another Man's Sac

THE REVIEW

And there will always be children from passive mental gymnastics, captivated by a long impotent crest of social scandal, engulfed, itself becoming also comforting, colorful: good. The kids who, for a few smirks, a few piercings, will have a life dictated by 4 overexposed chords for 30 years, mired in a dinosauric form, sterilized by massive abuse. "They sound like the Pistols, they sound like the Stooges." But then why the hell do you still listen to them, they’ve been busting our balls for 30 fucking damn overexposed years.

These are not long-lasting, timeless ideas, immortal steel-balled classics. They are not Pere Ubu, Residents, or Can's Tago Mago, for fuck’s sake. But this is punk, and in 2006 many silly dumbass bands offer you the REVIVAL, the already heard "But it’s nice, it feels like being back in the '60s garage or the early punk of the New York Dolls." Idiots! You let yourself get screwed by revivalism, by the already heard, polished by shitty channels like FLUX!. Have you ever noticed what’s written next to FLUX!? No??? AN MTV PROPERTY, idiots! The "alternative" share they don't gain with mulatto inhabitants of shitty ghettos they gain with FLUX, the brazen and rebellious surrogate of MTV. Wow, how shocked I am by Andy Melonakis you fat awful kid, I’ll rip off the kids' helpline and shove the receiver up your ass. Here’s what happens to those who fall for it: ====) Mouth and oh instead Ass (just to enter Sfasciacarrozziani realms, like words not like concept duh!!)
Ahh the beautiful songs with formulas from 40 years ago, a bit hard, a bit melodic at 2.30 minutes. Ahhh this is evolution. But the deformed, skewed suites of LSD-corroded hippie communities, the indecipherable fury of early post-hardcore, the rock that after decades of shapeless guitars and bacchanals blushes and becomes POST: what the hell happened to this drive to freshness, to discard imposed rules, to discard acquired comforts? For fuck’s sake motherfucker son of a bitch idiot half-crap in a midsummer night's sun with a half-belly exposed, tan yourself asshole “Dalla is not a singer, it’s advice!”. Playing rebels with the already acquired, distorting guitars embraced by generations and generations: the pre-rock. You goddamn sellout assholes! And then there will be people mentally infected by a hand running epileptically on the keyboard, ohhh lots of chords, lots of technique, ohhh ohhh what big eyes you have, it's to play you better kid. They name their guitar with a woman’s name, those bastards. “Sandy, Sandy how do I play you now?” Handicapped offspring of Biscardi Sandy Sandy how academic dinosaur you are too.  Grease your hair, go, the leather jacket is cool and very Maiden yuppyyy oh-là wepa, make mental jerk-offs on Steve Vai and company, always bring out that he is enlightened, that he has golden hands.
Wasted jerks in guitaristic sublimations of the fuck. Have you ever thought about what it's called when the first guitar plays while the rest of the band accompanies? A Solo: prophetic name. While the sun shines with humanized rays the typical metal guitarist is in his domestic burial plotting an asshole training test and emulation of his idiot favorite guitarist. And the friends from below “A SOLO!! A RINCOJONITO!!” and he with a mongoloid face “Yes yes, FINGERS FINGERS, keys keys, metal music, fast, nice, headbanging, Steve Vai, fast, good, him, master, fingers fingers, a solo” Yeah good a solo, and fuck off too idiot shithead. A solo.

And then there are those timeless works, long-lasting, infinite, and timeless conservation: The Modern Dance by Pere Ubu, with its fusion of avant-garde, Jazz, Theater, grunts blood and unmatched emotivity. The Suicide with their testament Frankie Teardrop have a multi-unit next to the sacred monsters of neorealist cinema. The Jesus Lizard, hyper-intelligent chamber hardcore: beyond!!!. And I repeat for fuck’s sake: beyond!!!. Shit! The White Stripes returning to the charts because the PO PO PO PO PO PO PO accidentally became the Italian anthem instead of Goffredo “You have no musical ability, you ugly idiot” Mameli’s. But how low are we going? How long will you play those chords accessible to every self-taught suburban kid’s crap, how long will you use overexposed and copied vocal lines, how long will you mimic the greats of the past like idiotic horses? Dignity none, many rebellious faces and symbols, lots of money, and music coming out of your ass in the form of diarrhea.

Psychic Powerless the highest peak of the Butthole Surfers, well I won’t explain a damn thing to you, no technical notes, no annoying pedantic analysis of the songs, I’ll shove the song analysis up your ass. Pull out every alcoholic drink from your fridge, glue yourself, hashish, marijuana, befriend the most recidivist dealers with syringed-teeth that flow in the arms like vital sap in tree bark. Now listen to this timeless phiphi and crush every imitative revivalistic abortion. They are fucking sons of bitches, avant-garde redneck with vitriol. They fuck your mother, your father, your sister, and then when you think they’re fucking your grandmother, they talk to her cordially and make yarn together, rocking pleasantly on the chair. Because they are psychopaths and everything compared to them will seem posed, cerebral, bridled. Po po po po po po po Sandy Sandy Red Crest, teenager menstruation on a red crest, masturbatory alternative for well-bred girls who eat popcorn pop pop pop pop Coo oornnn. Butthole Surfers!