Butthole Surfers

Weird Revolution (Hollywood Records)

The Butthole Surfers have finally made the most perverse, offensive album of their blasphemous career. This is not a good thing. Weird Revolution is offensive to their long-suffering fans. Accustomed as we are to Gibby's wildcat screams, Paul Leary's acidic guitar spurts and the rumbling low-end puke of such classics as Cream Corn From the Socket of Davis and Hairway to Steven, the Surfers have pulled the double whammy on us and crapped out a bland little baby shit of an album that is sure to appeal to the lowest-common-denominator pop consumer while simultaneously knotting up the stomachs of the hardened Butthole faithful.

Weird Revolution is a homogenous smear of synthesized drumbeats, synthesized bass and tarted-up revisions of earlier Butthole Surfer songs. The heretical vitriol of "The Lord Is a Monkey" is recast as the vaguely Love and Rockets-y "Jet Fighter." The shit-scabbed road trip of "Mexican Caravan" is transformed into the harmless Sunday drive of "Mexico." Where's the fear? Where's the strobing guitar wash, the demonic howl of brown acid and Testor's glue fighting for control of your occipital lobe? My God, where are the real drums? Is this a joke? On the back of the album, they advise us to "place this CD in your computer's CD-ROM drive to access very special features!" Like what, an apology? This CD is depressing enough just as music; do we really need visuals, games or downloads to further enhance the painful experience of having the mighty Butthole Surfers suck so much mainstream cock? There's nothing wrong with experimenting or branching out in new musical directions or completely starting over -- just don't be boring. The Butthole Surfers should never be boring.

Enough. Butthole Surfers, we demand that you put down this Revolution and get back to fomenting revulsion. We'll buy you the drugs, or hookers, or stuffed animals with strap-ons. Whatever it takes. Just make it stop.