THE DUKE OBSERVES
GG ALLIN
RAW, BRUTAL, ROUGH AND BLOODY
GG ALLIN
RAW, BRUTAL, ROUGH AND BLOODY
The ever so fetching and terribly chic Parental Advisory warning
which graces the cover of “Raw, Brutal…” has never seemed so
perfunctory, so listless, so flaccid. Even if this opus of shit-
drenched, blood-soaked mania were to be graced with a meter-wide
wrap-around government warning, it would still seem
inappropriate.
The Duke has been fascinated with the popular entertainer by the
name of GG Allin ever since reading an article in Kerrang!
magazine many summers ago. This shaven-headed, goatee-sporting,
bullock-naked primate looked like just about the most
fascinating rock star anyone could ever hope to encounter. In
the intervening months and years, I have had the distinct
pleasure of hearing only one of GG’s recordings, but suffice to
say it was far from memorable. The droning, hollering mess of
bad punk that graced those two minutes of mp3-encoded audio did
little to convince me of the musical abilities of this monster.
But still he fascinates me.
On the 15th of June, 2004, MVD Music Video Distributors release
GG Allin & The Murder Junkies – Raw, Brutal, Rough & Bloody –
The Best Of 1991 Live. It is possibly the most unforgettable
concert video what will ever scar your pupils.
Because love or hate this demented motherfucker, one can’t argue
that, as far as live performances go, there really isn’t anyone
even remotely approaching this level of intensity.
For which we can only say thank fuck.
Now, I’ve been to plenty of gigs in my time. If you were
thinking that The Duke was some kind of sheltered individual
what never got grossly manhandled in “The Pit”, you’d be wrong
right there. I’ve been pushed, prodded and kicked during shows
by Green Day and D-Generation, I’ve had sweating Irish
malcontents thrust their naked torsos against mine, I’ve jumped
with abandon as a reformed Dexy’s Midnight Runners blew the roof
off The Waterfront Hall. I’ve also sat in awe as Ryan Adams
completely deconstructed his back-catalogue with the aid of a
grand piano and a cello, and had pints of beer flung around my
form as Shane MacGowan roared not two-feet from my face.
But here are some things that never happened;
As far as I recall, although granted, I’m not graced with the
most photographic of memories, Kevin Rowland didn’t interrupt
Come On Eileen for to take a shit on stage and then roll about
in it. I don’t think Ryan Adams stuck a microphone up his arse.
Come to think of it, most of them didn’t even get naked.
This DVD what I’m about to tell you about, is positively
bursting with that kind of nonsense. GG Allin was a psychopath,
the embodiment of that particularly unpleasant strand of punk
rock that cares not a jot for social reform or political
upheaval, but is concerned only with sheer bilious, nihilistic
violence.
The bulk of the disc is made up of slightly-above-bootleg
quality VHS recordings of three entire gigs. If, perchance, you
were thinking of making a purchase, on account of how The Duke
says it’s fucking amazing, then perhaps you might consider the
following brief description, ie, this review what tells you some
stuff what happens.
These shows were all filmed during The Murder Junkies’ 1991 tour
of America, just after GG’s release from prison. We aren’t told
where the performances take place, but it doesn’t really matter.
The first glimpse we get of GG is as he strides across the tiny
stage, naked but for a spiked dog-collar and a pair of leather
gloves. His flesh is a tapestry of self-inflicted wounds and
tattoos which appear to have been administered by the hand of a
two-year-old, his shoulders sporting such cheerful slogans as
“Scum Fuck” and “Life Sucks”.
The drummer, too, is naked, whilst the lead guitarist tries his
best to adopt the most convincing Johnny Thunders pose he can
muster, trying his damndest to look cool, just in case, y’know,
the Manic Street Preachers or someone might be watching. A
proper band.
His shot at glory is nullified somewhat, however, both by the
fact that no-one is really paying any attention, and also, just
under his ever-so-cool leather-jacket and shades, he is sporting
no more than a flesh-coloured cod-piece.
Twenty seconds into the first song, a charming, Kinks-esque
number by the name of Gypsy Motherfucker, GG’s microphone has
stopped working. Maybe it’s because he has bashed it off his
skull so much that already his forehead is awash with blood, but
who knows? Maybe it’s a PA problem. He steals the one currently
being utilised by trendy guitar-hero, and finds it doesn’t work
either.
A lesser individual might see this as a chance to holler about
the awful restrictions being imposed on their art, but GG just
wants to jump into the crowd, run around a bit, punch a few
folks, and then beat himself over and over with the
malfunctioning mic, each whack being utterly cringe-worthy.
Then, realising the bass player is still audible, he steals said
musician’s yack-pipe and carries on.
Already, this is more entertaining than a dozen Shania Twain
“Live In Concert” efforts.
I mean really, Shania, put a little effort in. When was the last
time you lacerated yourself onstage? I bet not even once this
month.
The insane heights get even higher, however, as GG, who
incidentally resembles some deranged, tiny-willied V.I Lenin
clone, squats, back to the camera, and takes a shit right off
the edge of the stage.
I haven’t once saw David Gray take a shit onstage. This one
time, when he was performing Babylon on Top Of The Pops, I was
sure he was about to strip off, stick his fingers in his asshole
and do a big turd right there and then. He didn’t though. Just
shook his head a little and sang about the lights are changing
red to green.
As he stands up, giving his shit-streaked thighs an affectionate
pat, GG notices a chair on the stage, which is fit for nothing
if not flinging with gusto into the audience. Then a bottle gets
tossed.
During the third song, the highly poignant Expose Yourself To
Kids (“Do it now”, the lyrics advise, “before they grow up and
it’s too late!”), GG jumps onto the floor once more, and rolls
around for a while in the freshly minted dung. Shortly
afterwards, he climbs back onstage, where a fan reaches him a
drumstick.
Where the fuck did this guy get a drumstick?
Who comes to a gig equipped with their own drumstick? Did he
figure maybe the drummer might see him and invite him up for a
number? Since you made the effort, and all, bringing your own
stick and so on.
Anyway, GG sees this as opportunity to play with his rectum once
more. He bends over and shoves the musical implement up his
arsehole. During I Love Nothing, he tries to further enrage his
prostate by attempting the same procedure with his microphone.
Another fan tries to assist, balancing a chair with one arm as
he tries to insert the leg alongside the mic.
GG thanks him by kicking him in the spine.
GG Allin appears genuinely dangerous in a way that, say, Marilyn
Manson, for all his “shocking” theatrics, never could. Manson’s
performance is carried out exclusively within the confines of
the stage.
GG, by way of contrast, seems to view the stage as little more
than a decent place to put the drum-kit. He scales the rafters,
hanging upside down and falling for to smack his ribs on the
edge of the platform. He runs into the audience, scaling tables
and kicking pints of beer into the faces of spectators. Truly,
there is no safe haven. As the sign outside suggests; “Enter At
Your Own Risk.”
There is very, very little to like about GG Allin, certainly
going on this evidence. Despite an alleged love of The Beatles
and Alice Cooper, his music has all the complexity of an
especially muffled and tuneless fart. He is shockingly
misogynist, utterly despicable as he trails a woman by her hair
across a floor smeared with his shit.
And yet The Duke finds himself unable to look away. It’s
mesmerising.
And those folks in the audience, the ones that Jerry Springer
once worried about so convincingly, since they were all being
victimised and disturbed? They love it. They love every dung-
caked, blood-soaked minute of it. They grin as GG punches them
in the face, or forces himself upon them. “You rule!”, they
suggest, a point-of-view which GG seems to embrace
wholeheartedly.
And we’re only 6 songs into the first show.
By the time the touching ballad Cunt Sucking Cannibal is aired,
the floor in front of the stage is awash with piss, shit, beer,
broken glass, smashed tables and dismantled chairs, an
assemblage into which GG gleefully bounds.
He is commanding, and yet deeply disturbing, as he slices
himself asunder with broken glass, or smashes the microphone
against his temple for the umpteenth time. It’s disturbing
because it’s real. Sure, it’s maybe no less a performance than
that of Slipknot or Eminem, but GG Allin seems genuinely
psychotic. Those gashes ripping open across his head are real.
That deranged cartoon glare that he sports so fetchingly as he
pokes his fingers into his anus, is real. The teeth that are
spat into the face of onlookers are real.
The microphones have pretty much given-up by the time Die When
You Die is announced, and so GG strides about like some faeces-
riddled gorilla before grabbing his jacket and leaving. The
crowd chant for his return, which he does, popping in for one
last assault to a nearby fan. Applause roars throughout the
venue.
The second gig takes place in a somewhat different
establishment, with no stage as such, simply an area of the
floor which is cleared and surrounded by protective barriers,
giving the effect of some kind of human zoo, although GG
regularly escapes his confines, racing around through the
audience.
The show begins with GG holding up four free-drink tickets. His
bargain is simple. A free drink for a blow-job. Surprisingly, no
one is very keen to accept the demands.
Unperturbed, GG bends over and lets a disgustingly liquidy shit
fall onto the floor. “You can get arrested for that in
Milwaukee”, he announces. “Let’s see if you can get arrested for
it in Chicago.” This is the Communion, apparently. GG scoops up
the running mess and flings it into the audience, before
deciding that the thing to do would be to piss into it, and then
smear it over his chest.
Again, when did Stereophonics last smear shit on themselves?
What gives, Kelly Jones? I saw at least two concert videos, and
not once did I see any faeces rubbing.
That’s just downright shoddy showmanship, Stereophonics.
By the time the first song kicks in, GG’s face is obscured by
blood, and before the end of the track, he can’t cross the stage
without slipping onto his lacerated arse in the urine-dung
mixture.
The audience at this second gig seem to be a much different
crowd from the first lot. Rather than the chanting, goading
fans, this venue seems to be filled primarily with steel-jawed,
glass-eyed biker-types. One terrifying moment has GG walking up
to one of these grim-faced behemoths and spitting right into
their face. Behemoth spits back, and offers a withering stare,
before a bouncer steps in.
Strangely, however, GG seems respectful, affectionate even,
towards his band-mates. His venom, his violence and shit-
flinging, are reserved solely for himself and the spectators.
Even when he bites the bass-players willy, it seems to be more
in the spirit of camaraderie than with any malicious intent.
During Bite It You Scum, which was preceded with the invitation
to “tear this fucking place apart”, GG bends over and attempts
to unload a little more bowel-matter onto the already swamped
floor. Sensing the imminent arrival of yet more crud, the camera
zooms in anticipatorily on his arse. It’s to no avail, though.
GG gets up having not even let a “pffft” free from his rectum.
You should have eaten more fibre, GG, is what.
During I Want To Fuck Myself, the final song of the evening, GG
walks up to a young bespectacled fan, takes his glasses from him
and starts wearing them. He looks around a moment or two,
considering his options.
The option seems to be to smash the microphone into his nose,
thereby breaking the spectacles.
This done, he throws them to the ground and tramples them into
minute shards.
You’d think that this indicated some kind of mean-spirited
contempt for the folks who ensure that he can get paid to rub
shit on his legs every night. Yet, after the show, something
truly unexpected happens.
GG walks off and stands beside a pinball machine. Here, a fan
comes up and offers him a shirt to wipe himself clean with. GG
accepts, and shakes the fella’s hand. Then another bloke comes
up, rubbing himself against his hero. “Get some shit on me”, he
pleads. More and more folks arrive to shake hands with this
individual who not five minutes ago was flinging his waste at
them and trampling their glasses.
The third show is the least eventful of the lot, in comparison
to the first two.
It’s a venue very similar to the first one, although GG sees fit
to wear a fetching black g-string this time around. He exhibits
utterly surreal tics throughout, bending over to poke at his
arse and then standing up, back arched, looking for all the
world like a kid who’s been caught picking his nose in class. He
lurches with abandon from high camp to highly fucking deranged,
and from childlike mischief to full-blown rage.
At one point GG demonstrates his caring side, as he climbs onto
a table and thrusts his hands down a female fan's top. He then
serenades her with a verse from Expose Yourself To Kids, before
grabbing her in some kind of bizarre, ritualistic headlock.
Unfortunately he slips, unwittingly thumping the woman’s head
off the edge of a table. He carries on regardless, wandering
back towards the stage. After all, there’s shitting and what-not
to be getting on with. The woman holds her head in her hands.
Ok, it was an accident, but it seems to have hurt, you barbaric
motherfucker.
During I Wanna Fuck Myself, a mini-fight erupts on the floor, as
a fan runs up and sucker-punches GG on the head. GG turns and
smacks the individual on the jaw, losing his microphone in the
process. He clambers onstage, delivers another kick to the skull
of the offender, before being reached a replacement mic. This
too gets flung at the quick-fisted reveller.
And that’s it. GG wanders off midway through the song, trailing
what looks like a large speaker behind him.
We are granted one more performance, yet another version of
Expose Yourself To Kids, with GG decked out in beanie hat and
black jacket, looking like some kind of hillbilly Ice-T. Before
the end of the song he has French-kissed at least four women, at
least three of whom were compliant, and two of whom actually pay
him for the privilege, thrusting dollar bills into his far-from-
heaving underpants.
You sigh with relief.
The only extra on the disc is an alarming interview with GG’s
mother, alarming because she seems so nice. Turns out GG was
originally christened Jesus Christ, on account of his father had
a vision. In addition, snippets of this interview punctuate each
of the live shows.
In short, then, this is the most amazing live concert video I
have ever fucking witnessed. The music, with the sole exception
of the alarmingly-catchy Hanging Out With Jim, is diabolically
awful. The picture and audio quality is way below average. The
same set is basically repeated three times. And yet it is
utterly hypnotic, utterly captivating, and utterly motherfucking
essential, is what.
In 1993 a Murder Junkies concert in New York erupted into
something of a riot, on account of the power being turned off
two songs into the set. Some venues, man. They just don’t get
how the shit on the floor and the piss and the naked bloke with
the tiny willy (“but big balls!”, as Allin explains) is crucial
to the survival of the establishment.
GG threw something of a wobbly, a shit-fit if you will, before
heading out into the streets, naked and drenched in filth and
blood, in an attempt to make it to the home of good friend
Johnny Puke, that he might get loaded and carry on shitting,
pissing, bleeding and so-on.
The fans followed him, hurling obscenities and trashcans with
equal enthusiasm in the direction of the pursuing police.
Following a vein-full of heroin, GG passed out, his fans posing
for pictures alongside his defecation-crusted body.
Turns out he died.
It’s sad, man, and it’s even more tragic when you consider that
GG really wanted to kill himself onstage, taking as many of his
fans with him as possible.
Such a shame, man. Oh well.
The Duke doesn’t like GG Allin. I think he was an ignorant,
moronic hateful motherfucker, is what, but still he fascinates
me. Perhaps in these days of cripplingly corporate musical
“product”, when ensembles like Good Charlotte, however pleasing
their tunes may be, are heralded as “punk”, perhaps now we need
to see GG shit himself and then eat the shit and then spit the
shit into a motherfuckers face more than ever.
He was a demented, bullying son-of-a-motherfucker, but God bless
him all the same.
Thanks folks.
Further Reading
The Duke’s Review Of "Hated - GG Allin And The Murder Junkies"
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
which graces the cover of “Raw, Brutal…” has never seemed so
perfunctory, so listless, so flaccid. Even if this opus of shit-
drenched, blood-soaked mania were to be graced with a meter-wide
wrap-around government warning, it would still seem
inappropriate.
The Duke has been fascinated with the popular entertainer by the
name of GG Allin ever since reading an article in Kerrang!
magazine many summers ago. This shaven-headed, goatee-sporting,
bullock-naked primate looked like just about the most
fascinating rock star anyone could ever hope to encounter. In
the intervening months and years, I have had the distinct
pleasure of hearing only one of GG’s recordings, but suffice to
say it was far from memorable. The droning, hollering mess of
bad punk that graced those two minutes of mp3-encoded audio did
little to convince me of the musical abilities of this monster.
But still he fascinates me.
On the 15th of June, 2004, MVD Music Video Distributors release
GG Allin & The Murder Junkies – Raw, Brutal, Rough & Bloody –
The Best Of 1991 Live. It is possibly the most unforgettable
concert video what will ever scar your pupils.
Because love or hate this demented motherfucker, one can’t argue
that, as far as live performances go, there really isn’t anyone
even remotely approaching this level of intensity.
For which we can only say thank fuck.
Now, I’ve been to plenty of gigs in my time. If you were
thinking that The Duke was some kind of sheltered individual
what never got grossly manhandled in “The Pit”, you’d be wrong
right there. I’ve been pushed, prodded and kicked during shows
by Green Day and D-Generation, I’ve had sweating Irish
malcontents thrust their naked torsos against mine, I’ve jumped
with abandon as a reformed Dexy’s Midnight Runners blew the roof
off The Waterfront Hall. I’ve also sat in awe as Ryan Adams
completely deconstructed his back-catalogue with the aid of a
grand piano and a cello, and had pints of beer flung around my
form as Shane MacGowan roared not two-feet from my face.
But here are some things that never happened;
As far as I recall, although granted, I’m not graced with the
most photographic of memories, Kevin Rowland didn’t interrupt
Come On Eileen for to take a shit on stage and then roll about
in it. I don’t think Ryan Adams stuck a microphone up his arse.
Come to think of it, most of them didn’t even get naked.
This DVD what I’m about to tell you about, is positively
bursting with that kind of nonsense. GG Allin was a psychopath,
the embodiment of that particularly unpleasant strand of punk
rock that cares not a jot for social reform or political
upheaval, but is concerned only with sheer bilious, nihilistic
violence.
The bulk of the disc is made up of slightly-above-bootleg
quality VHS recordings of three entire gigs. If, perchance, you
were thinking of making a purchase, on account of how The Duke
says it’s fucking amazing, then perhaps you might consider the
following brief description, ie, this review what tells you some
stuff what happens.
These shows were all filmed during The Murder Junkies’ 1991 tour
of America, just after GG’s release from prison. We aren’t told
where the performances take place, but it doesn’t really matter.
The first glimpse we get of GG is as he strides across the tiny
stage, naked but for a spiked dog-collar and a pair of leather
gloves. His flesh is a tapestry of self-inflicted wounds and
tattoos which appear to have been administered by the hand of a
two-year-old, his shoulders sporting such cheerful slogans as
“Scum Fuck” and “Life Sucks”.
The drummer, too, is naked, whilst the lead guitarist tries his
best to adopt the most convincing Johnny Thunders pose he can
muster, trying his damndest to look cool, just in case, y’know,
the Manic Street Preachers or someone might be watching. A
proper band.
His shot at glory is nullified somewhat, however, both by the
fact that no-one is really paying any attention, and also, just
under his ever-so-cool leather-jacket and shades, he is sporting
no more than a flesh-coloured cod-piece.
Twenty seconds into the first song, a charming, Kinks-esque
number by the name of Gypsy Motherfucker, GG’s microphone has
stopped working. Maybe it’s because he has bashed it off his
skull so much that already his forehead is awash with blood, but
who knows? Maybe it’s a PA problem. He steals the one currently
being utilised by trendy guitar-hero, and finds it doesn’t work
either.
A lesser individual might see this as a chance to holler about
the awful restrictions being imposed on their art, but GG just
wants to jump into the crowd, run around a bit, punch a few
folks, and then beat himself over and over with the
malfunctioning mic, each whack being utterly cringe-worthy.
Then, realising the bass player is still audible, he steals said
musician’s yack-pipe and carries on.
Already, this is more entertaining than a dozen Shania Twain
“Live In Concert” efforts.
I mean really, Shania, put a little effort in. When was the last
time you lacerated yourself onstage? I bet not even once this
month.
The insane heights get even higher, however, as GG, who
incidentally resembles some deranged, tiny-willied V.I Lenin
clone, squats, back to the camera, and takes a shit right off
the edge of the stage.
I haven’t once saw David Gray take a shit onstage. This one
time, when he was performing Babylon on Top Of The Pops, I was
sure he was about to strip off, stick his fingers in his asshole
and do a big turd right there and then. He didn’t though. Just
shook his head a little and sang about the lights are changing
red to green.
As he stands up, giving his shit-streaked thighs an affectionate
pat, GG notices a chair on the stage, which is fit for nothing
if not flinging with gusto into the audience. Then a bottle gets
tossed.
During the third song, the highly poignant Expose Yourself To
Kids (“Do it now”, the lyrics advise, “before they grow up and
it’s too late!”), GG jumps onto the floor once more, and rolls
around for a while in the freshly minted dung. Shortly
afterwards, he climbs back onstage, where a fan reaches him a
drumstick.
Where the fuck did this guy get a drumstick?
Who comes to a gig equipped with their own drumstick? Did he
figure maybe the drummer might see him and invite him up for a
number? Since you made the effort, and all, bringing your own
stick and so on.
Anyway, GG sees this as opportunity to play with his rectum once
more. He bends over and shoves the musical implement up his
arsehole. During I Love Nothing, he tries to further enrage his
prostate by attempting the same procedure with his microphone.
Another fan tries to assist, balancing a chair with one arm as
he tries to insert the leg alongside the mic.
GG thanks him by kicking him in the spine.
GG Allin appears genuinely dangerous in a way that, say, Marilyn
Manson, for all his “shocking” theatrics, never could. Manson’s
performance is carried out exclusively within the confines of
the stage.
GG, by way of contrast, seems to view the stage as little more
than a decent place to put the drum-kit. He scales the rafters,
hanging upside down and falling for to smack his ribs on the
edge of the platform. He runs into the audience, scaling tables
and kicking pints of beer into the faces of spectators. Truly,
there is no safe haven. As the sign outside suggests; “Enter At
Your Own Risk.”
There is very, very little to like about GG Allin, certainly
going on this evidence. Despite an alleged love of The Beatles
and Alice Cooper, his music has all the complexity of an
especially muffled and tuneless fart. He is shockingly
misogynist, utterly despicable as he trails a woman by her hair
across a floor smeared with his shit.
And yet The Duke finds himself unable to look away. It’s
mesmerising.
And those folks in the audience, the ones that Jerry Springer
once worried about so convincingly, since they were all being
victimised and disturbed? They love it. They love every dung-
caked, blood-soaked minute of it. They grin as GG punches them
in the face, or forces himself upon them. “You rule!”, they
suggest, a point-of-view which GG seems to embrace
wholeheartedly.
And we’re only 6 songs into the first show.
By the time the touching ballad Cunt Sucking Cannibal is aired,
the floor in front of the stage is awash with piss, shit, beer,
broken glass, smashed tables and dismantled chairs, an
assemblage into which GG gleefully bounds.
He is commanding, and yet deeply disturbing, as he slices
himself asunder with broken glass, or smashes the microphone
against his temple for the umpteenth time. It’s disturbing
because it’s real. Sure, it’s maybe no less a performance than
that of Slipknot or Eminem, but GG Allin seems genuinely
psychotic. Those gashes ripping open across his head are real.
That deranged cartoon glare that he sports so fetchingly as he
pokes his fingers into his anus, is real. The teeth that are
spat into the face of onlookers are real.
The microphones have pretty much given-up by the time Die When
You Die is announced, and so GG strides about like some faeces-
riddled gorilla before grabbing his jacket and leaving. The
crowd chant for his return, which he does, popping in for one
last assault to a nearby fan. Applause roars throughout the
venue.
The second gig takes place in a somewhat different
establishment, with no stage as such, simply an area of the
floor which is cleared and surrounded by protective barriers,
giving the effect of some kind of human zoo, although GG
regularly escapes his confines, racing around through the
audience.
The show begins with GG holding up four free-drink tickets. His
bargain is simple. A free drink for a blow-job. Surprisingly, no
one is very keen to accept the demands.
Unperturbed, GG bends over and lets a disgustingly liquidy shit
fall onto the floor. “You can get arrested for that in
Milwaukee”, he announces. “Let’s see if you can get arrested for
it in Chicago.” This is the Communion, apparently. GG scoops up
the running mess and flings it into the audience, before
deciding that the thing to do would be to piss into it, and then
smear it over his chest.
Again, when did Stereophonics last smear shit on themselves?
What gives, Kelly Jones? I saw at least two concert videos, and
not once did I see any faeces rubbing.
That’s just downright shoddy showmanship, Stereophonics.
By the time the first song kicks in, GG’s face is obscured by
blood, and before the end of the track, he can’t cross the stage
without slipping onto his lacerated arse in the urine-dung
mixture.
The audience at this second gig seem to be a much different
crowd from the first lot. Rather than the chanting, goading
fans, this venue seems to be filled primarily with steel-jawed,
glass-eyed biker-types. One terrifying moment has GG walking up
to one of these grim-faced behemoths and spitting right into
their face. Behemoth spits back, and offers a withering stare,
before a bouncer steps in.
Strangely, however, GG seems respectful, affectionate even,
towards his band-mates. His venom, his violence and shit-
flinging, are reserved solely for himself and the spectators.
Even when he bites the bass-players willy, it seems to be more
in the spirit of camaraderie than with any malicious intent.
During Bite It You Scum, which was preceded with the invitation
to “tear this fucking place apart”, GG bends over and attempts
to unload a little more bowel-matter onto the already swamped
floor. Sensing the imminent arrival of yet more crud, the camera
zooms in anticipatorily on his arse. It’s to no avail, though.
GG gets up having not even let a “pffft” free from his rectum.
You should have eaten more fibre, GG, is what.
During I Want To Fuck Myself, the final song of the evening, GG
walks up to a young bespectacled fan, takes his glasses from him
and starts wearing them. He looks around a moment or two,
considering his options.
The option seems to be to smash the microphone into his nose,
thereby breaking the spectacles.
This done, he throws them to the ground and tramples them into
minute shards.
You’d think that this indicated some kind of mean-spirited
contempt for the folks who ensure that he can get paid to rub
shit on his legs every night. Yet, after the show, something
truly unexpected happens.
GG walks off and stands beside a pinball machine. Here, a fan
comes up and offers him a shirt to wipe himself clean with. GG
accepts, and shakes the fella’s hand. Then another bloke comes
up, rubbing himself against his hero. “Get some shit on me”, he
pleads. More and more folks arrive to shake hands with this
individual who not five minutes ago was flinging his waste at
them and trampling their glasses.
The third show is the least eventful of the lot, in comparison
to the first two.
It’s a venue very similar to the first one, although GG sees fit
to wear a fetching black g-string this time around. He exhibits
utterly surreal tics throughout, bending over to poke at his
arse and then standing up, back arched, looking for all the
world like a kid who’s been caught picking his nose in class. He
lurches with abandon from high camp to highly fucking deranged,
and from childlike mischief to full-blown rage.
At one point GG demonstrates his caring side, as he climbs onto
a table and thrusts his hands down a female fan's top. He then
serenades her with a verse from Expose Yourself To Kids, before
grabbing her in some kind of bizarre, ritualistic headlock.
Unfortunately he slips, unwittingly thumping the woman’s head
off the edge of a table. He carries on regardless, wandering
back towards the stage. After all, there’s shitting and what-not
to be getting on with. The woman holds her head in her hands.
Ok, it was an accident, but it seems to have hurt, you barbaric
motherfucker.
During I Wanna Fuck Myself, a mini-fight erupts on the floor, as
a fan runs up and sucker-punches GG on the head. GG turns and
smacks the individual on the jaw, losing his microphone in the
process. He clambers onstage, delivers another kick to the skull
of the offender, before being reached a replacement mic. This
too gets flung at the quick-fisted reveller.
And that’s it. GG wanders off midway through the song, trailing
what looks like a large speaker behind him.
We are granted one more performance, yet another version of
Expose Yourself To Kids, with GG decked out in beanie hat and
black jacket, looking like some kind of hillbilly Ice-T. Before
the end of the song he has French-kissed at least four women, at
least three of whom were compliant, and two of whom actually pay
him for the privilege, thrusting dollar bills into his far-from-
heaving underpants.
You sigh with relief.
The only extra on the disc is an alarming interview with GG’s
mother, alarming because she seems so nice. Turns out GG was
originally christened Jesus Christ, on account of his father had
a vision. In addition, snippets of this interview punctuate each
of the live shows.
In short, then, this is the most amazing live concert video I
have ever fucking witnessed. The music, with the sole exception
of the alarmingly-catchy Hanging Out With Jim, is diabolically
awful. The picture and audio quality is way below average. The
same set is basically repeated three times. And yet it is
utterly hypnotic, utterly captivating, and utterly motherfucking
essential, is what.
In 1993 a Murder Junkies concert in New York erupted into
something of a riot, on account of the power being turned off
two songs into the set. Some venues, man. They just don’t get
how the shit on the floor and the piss and the naked bloke with
the tiny willy (“but big balls!”, as Allin explains) is crucial
to the survival of the establishment.
GG threw something of a wobbly, a shit-fit if you will, before
heading out into the streets, naked and drenched in filth and
blood, in an attempt to make it to the home of good friend
Johnny Puke, that he might get loaded and carry on shitting,
pissing, bleeding and so-on.
The fans followed him, hurling obscenities and trashcans with
equal enthusiasm in the direction of the pursuing police.
Following a vein-full of heroin, GG passed out, his fans posing
for pictures alongside his defecation-crusted body.
Turns out he died.
It’s sad, man, and it’s even more tragic when you consider that
GG really wanted to kill himself onstage, taking as many of his
fans with him as possible.
Such a shame, man. Oh well.
The Duke doesn’t like GG Allin. I think he was an ignorant,
moronic hateful motherfucker, is what, but still he fascinates
me. Perhaps in these days of cripplingly corporate musical
“product”, when ensembles like Good Charlotte, however pleasing
their tunes may be, are heralded as “punk”, perhaps now we need
to see GG shit himself and then eat the shit and then spit the
shit into a motherfuckers face more than ever.
He was a demented, bullying son-of-a-motherfucker, but God bless
him all the same.
Thanks folks.
Further Reading
The Duke’s Review Of "Hated - GG Allin And The Murder Junkies"
Drop The Duke A Line Via Electronical Email
