Knee-Deep in the Goo-Goo Muck
April 1, 2009, 4:39 am
Filed under: Jon Ginoli, Music, Pansy Division, Pop Culture, Uncategorized

Funny thing, I talked myself out of including any Cramps in my contributions to the latest installment of the Green Monkey Music Project (well it was the latest installment, but I guess I’m so woefully behind in posting this there’s now a newer one, so I am lame).  It’s called The Lenten Mix, aka You Know This Shit’s Not Good For You, and it was the proud brainchild of the inimitable Bubs at the Sprawling Ramshackle Compound.  The Green Monkey Music Project is a Splotchy enterprise, and that is good.  Anyway, I told myself I didn’t need to make myself personally responsible because someone else would surely include a Cramps song.  Turns out they didn’t, but if anything the Cramps are the patron saints of this endeavor.   Although not my favorite band, they played the devil’s music and they blowed it up real good.  This one’s for you, Mr. Interior.

I’ve had So What by the Anti-Nowhere League on my iTunes forever, but I had to google the lyrics to confirm it was every bit as offensive as I thought and then some.   A representative verse follows, but don’t say I didn’t warn you:

Well I’ve fucked a sheep
And I’ve fucked a goat
I’ve had my cock right down its throat
So what, so what
So what, so what you boring little cunt
Well who cares, who cares what you do
Who cares, who cares about you
You, you, you, you

It would just be stupid and offensive to me if somebody came up to me on the street and said these words and by no means do I endorse bestiality, but to sing these words along with Animal is somehow strangely liberating:

Listening to Fear always made me feel a little dirty, but in a good way.  Lee Ving always seemed to have his shirt off, and he looked like he would smell of sweat and other manly fluids.  That and his blues voice made him seem like a real man to me, a slightly threatening real man who obviously must have a sense of humor.


Beef Bologna could easily be misconstrued as sexist, but there’s nothing particularly sexist about the notion of a woman who voraciously devours cock.  If anything this song is reductionist, but therein lies the appeal:

She don’t like salami, she don’t want pastrami
She don’t want a chicken, she don’t want a roast
She just wants her double dose of my

Beef, beef, beef, beef bologna

It reminds me of the old days when I used to scarf up raw hot dogs straight from the refrigerator.  Faintly repulsive, yet compulsively appealing

I am honored to be friends with someone whose accomplishments are worthy of inclusion on this list, namely Jon Ginoli of Pansy Division.  Like The Ramones, Pansy Division have recorded any number of songs that would fit on this list.  Unlike the Ramones, Pansy Division are the one band whose songs I am most likely to lurch up and skip on my iTunes when my daughter is about (I figure she is okay with the ones that go right over my head, like Alpine Skiing).   As the world’s #1 gay pop-punk band, Pansy Division’s most common subject matter is buttfucking, with cocksucking a close second.  There’s just no other way to say it, nor should there be. The danger of a song like He Whipped My Ass in Tennis (and many other Pansy Division songs) is that it is just so gosh-darn catchy:

To wit, as I was still in the process of compiling this list I walked to my eight-year-old daughter’s school to pick her up and it suddenly dawned on me I was bopping through the schoolyard, singing these words in my head:

So we whipped and fucked
And fucked and whipped
And whipped and fucked
And fucked and whipped
He whipped my ass in tennis
Then I fucked his ass in bed

Then we licked and sucked
And sucked and licked
And licked and sucked…alot of dick
He whipped my ass in tennis
Then I fucked his ass in bed

Context is everything, I guess.   As I’m bopping through the schoolyard, the incogruity strikes me and I suddenly feel naughty.  Other parents around me have no clue what kind of utter filth is in my mind, but I am grateful I remembered where I was and didn’t sing out loud.

As long as we are talking about Pansy Division, I should mention Jon Ginoli has a new book out called Deflowered: My Life in Pansy Division.  He’s out and about pimping it on a huge book tour, so stop in and see him and buy the book, because I’m in it.  Pansy Division also have a new album out, called That’s So Gay, their first in several years.   My mother remembers Jon and wants me to have him sign a copy of his book for her, but I’m reading it now and I can guarantee that there are passages in there that would give her a heart attack.   Anything less would have been an emasculated version of the truth, so I’m glad Jon has stayed true to his prurient self.

I knew I would post a Ramones song here, but I had a terribly hard time choosing because there are so many that would qualify.  Like all of the bands here but Pansy Division in particular, the insidious thing about the Ramones is that their songs are so catchy.  If I had it to do again I might have chosen Beat on the Brat simply because violence is right up there with bestiality on the list of things I think are genuinely bad.  Add to that the implication that the “brat” who is the target of the singer’s violent intentions could be a child,  and you have on your hands a song that in theory should be unspeakable.  In theory.

I finally settled on I Wanna Be Well because it manages to glorify both nihilism and substance abuse in the same verse.   It’s one thing to sing about ingesting bug spray and hallucinogenics in the face of human devastation, quite another to be outright gleeful about it:

I want my lsd, golly gee, ddt, wowee!
Daddys broke holy smoke my futures bleak aint it neat?

Like So What, I like I Wanna Be Well because it makes me feel like I need a disclaimer.  This makes a perfect segue into Cherry Bomb by the Runaways, a song written from the perspective of a naughty underage girl and performed by actual underage girls.   I don’t know if the Runaways were actually doing the kinds of things they sang about or if those lyrics merely were a product of Kim Fowley’s mercenary tendencies, but let’s just say I hear them differently now as a mother than I did when I was seventeen:

Hey street boy what’s your style
Your dead end dreams dont make you smile
Ill give ya something to live for
Have ya, grab ya til you’re sore

Hello daddy, hello mom
I’m your ch ch ch ch ch cherry bomb
Hello world I’m your wild girl
Im your ch ch ch ch ch cherry bomb

Just in case you thought you might have misunderstood what this was all about, Runaways singer Cherie Currie awkwardly pranced around the stage in a pink corset, looking more like Ziggy Stardust in fishnets than the teen temptress she was most inappropriately  hyped as:

Of course you know and I know teenagers have sex, but what makes this song so wrong and yet so right is that it’s a veritable anthem for the practice and a BRILLIANT POP SINGLE.   Who cares what they are singing about, as long as it sounds good?  Actually that’s not even true, because a great part of the allure of the devil’s music has always been that it is bad for us.  A co-worker of mine once said of Danish black metal band Mercyful Fate “They’re so bad, they want to go to hell.”   I might go to hell for listening to these songs, but at least I won’t have died of boredom.

Nor did Lux Interior, who also didn’t die in vain.  In the name of all things good-bad but not evil, I leave you with a Naked Girl Falling Down the Stairs:

Foam at mouth.  Rinse.  Repeat.  Mom would not approve, but isn’t that the point?

5 Comments so far
Leave a comment

Awesome descriptions of your selections! Fantastic. I’m embarrassed to say I had never heard a Runaways song prior to this mix. Thank you!

Comment by Splotchy

Man, Dena, this was EXCELLENT! And I love those video clips too…

Comment by Bubs

Love, love, love the new look. You dirty grrl.

Comment by Billy

I decided the old look was too hard to read and it was time for a change. Need to tidy things up a bit and spruce up the left sidebar, but we’ll see when time allows.

Comment by denalynn2001

Line and paragraph breaks automatic, e-mail address never displayed, HTML allowed. Oh, and this was a supercool post.

Comment by Marianne

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