Gwar has a serious attitude problem. These interplanetary Huns arrived on our sorry excuse for a planet to kill or subjugate everyone on it because, well, we’re inferior beings and they hate us for it. But here’s what puzzles me. How is it these mutant metal barbarians first stepped foot on the shithole we call home in 1984 and we’re still alive? Is it possible they’ve developed an affection for our loathsome species?
More likely we’re only around for their amusement, and they take special delight in spitting the tender sensibilities of America’s puritanical classes on the broadsword of their disdain. Your typical fundamentalist tends to go full howler monkey over Gwar’s outre lyrics, which revolve around violence, sex, and violence, bodily functions and violence, oh, and before I forget, the rank hypocrisy of your Moral Majority types who love to condemn them for their words while doing much worse in real life.
There are some who would have it that Gwar’s a fraud, and its crew of vulgarians actually hail from earthly Richmond Virginia. Gwar would no doubt deem this a blasphemy punishable by torture and death, but it makes a certain sense–Northern Virginia has long been a melting pot for your hardcore punk and thrash metal types, and this crossbreeding has led to some real musical mutations over the years. But the stage dominators in Gwar–whose grotesque rubber outfits make ‘em look like cartoon predators from the movie of the same name–actually fit the part. Compared to Gwar, the guys in Kiss look like the briefcase-carrying corporate greedheads they really are. With Gwar, to see ‘em is to flee ‘em.
Gwar has released 14 schlock-rock classics since 1988, but my pal and Gwar fanatic Eric Berthoud swears by 1990’s Scumdogs of the Universe, and who am I to argue with an expert? With the late Oderus Urungus (earth name Dave Brockie) handling lead bellows and Flattus Maximus, Balsac the Jaws of Death, Beefcake the Mighty, and Jizmak Da Gusha crushing bones behind him, Scumdogs of the Universe is both comedy record and brutal demonstration of world domination expressly created to put we paltry humans in our place.
From “The Salaminizer” to “Cool Place to Park,” Scumdogs of the Universe sets out to lose friends and eat people, stringy as we taste. Oderus Urungus spells out the band’s mission statement on NWA “Gangsta Gangsta” takeoff “The Salaminizer” (”We’re on the planet and running amok/I should give a shit but I don’t give a fuck”), then throws in some crude sentiments (“This is your ass, and I’m in it”) while he’s at it. Like the rest of the songs on Scumdogs of the Universe, “The Salaminizer” is both outrageous and offensive, and if you’re bothered by such things best put your fingers in your ears and stop reading.
On the Frank Zappa-flavored satire/chant-along “Slaughterama,”Sleazy P. Martinis (real name Don Drakulich) envisions a monstrous game show whose deserving contestants include hippies (There’s nothing like hippy hunting/My dad always used to take me with Lee Harvey Oswald”), Goth types with big hair (“Whatever happened to Eddie Munster?”) and Nazi skinheads (“Time to give this Nazi skinhead one more haircut/Real close to the shoulders like”).
And so it goes with the rest of the songs on this human barbeque. Gwar adds the occasional color to its black humor palette–”The Horror of Yig” opens with bagpipes before bringing down the axe, “Sexicutioner” comes complete with cracking whips and faux-reggae vocals gratis Chuck “Sexcellent!” Varga, and the canned female backing singers ululating horror movie style on “Maggots” will make your skin crawl.
“Love Surgery”channels Black Sabbath; on battering ram “The Years Without Light,” Oderus Urungus lets us know we’ll never understand what it means to stand atop a heap of heads and hands. Chant-along “Vlad the Impaler” is both tour through a sewer in a glass-bottom boat and nursery rhyme–Vlad could have been a sailor or even a tailor but turned out to be Norman Mailer instead. On “Death Pod” you get a lot of “Hey Heys!” and a stagger step rhythm; “Sick of You” is a meat grinder undercut by lyrics that are disappointingly tame by Gwar’s fuck ‘em and then puke on ‘em standards.
Gwar hates us and lots of us hate Gwar, but I’m of the opinion that most of the people in the latter category are either musical elitists or chuckle-challenged prudes. Bad jokes in poor taste coupled with bone-crushing music–what’s not to love? Lots of things probably. But like it or not, the world is Gwar’s, and we’re only here to make ‘em laugh.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A-
