pretentious intro: they named a song after me

Butthole Surfers - Weber, from the Locust Abortion Technician LP (1987)

You knew from the start that something just wasn't right; who would call their band that? The first listening experience didn't bring any peace of mind: it was as if your special needs cousin had traded his meds for acid and decided to start a psychedelic punk band having only heard Black Sabbath's first album. Ever. I had one friend who listened to one of their early ep's for a week at the incorrect speed. His explanation was that the label on the vinyl "read '69 rpm', and well, it kind of works on both 33 and 45, in it's own strange way." And their live shows were disturbing lysergic multimedia events; a two hour battery of wall to wall strobe lights, howling guitars, smoke machines, films of surgical procedures, plodding drums, fire, feedback, bullhorn vocals over an endless litany of perverse and crude songs. People who attended their shows were either repulsed, fascinated or confused by it all. They weren't really sure about what they had just seen and heard. But they knew it was something.