Shock Doc
Film review: New documentary chronicles Texas band Butthole Surfers
Butthole Surfers are a chaotic band and surprisingly lucid documentary subjects.
For anyone familiar with weird, wild Texas rock band Butthole Surfers, it might seem unimaginable to hear guitarist Paul Leary declare at the beginning of Butthole Surfers: The Hole Truth and Nothing Butt that it feels good to finally be normal.
This new documentary premiered at South by Southwest (SXSW) at the Paramount Theatre on March 12, and played a second time on March 13 at the AFS Cinema.
Directed by Tom Stern (Freaked), the film follows the band through archival footage, some well-curated cameos, and stories told by the band's dozen-plus members since its inception in San Antonio in 1981. It's not at all for the faint of heart, featuring frequent full-frontal nudity, medical footage, heavy drug use, stories of sexual assault or harassment, and more.
Included in the arc are the band's early days at Trinity University, where it started with Leary and singer Gibby Haynes; the addition of longtime members King Coffey and Teresa Taylor; the relatively short affair with dancer Kathleen Lynch; and an improbably large rotating cast of ex-bass players, with special emphasis on J.D. Pinkus.
It followed the group's rise in the underground of San Antonio and Austin, a stint in Atlanta's drag scene, the transition between periods of true independence and ties of varying formality to record labels, and finally a denouement in which the core members have become basically domesticated.
In short, this film covers a huge amount of ground, also sprinkling in cameos (named and otherwise) from some of the only people who could really handle this outrageous bunch, including Red Hot Chili Peppers bassist Flea, then-Nirvana drummer Dave Grohl, shock-seeking comedian Eric André, and absurdly nerdy music journalist Nardwuar.
And lest the music be overlooked, the film emphasizes the instrumental and lyrical skill underneath the extravagantly strange performances the band was known for.
Just about any documentary is going to have a point of view, and this one rode almost entirely on accounts by the band members, organized by a director who thinks they're one of the best bands in history. Viewers who can't stomach unreliable narration should turn away. However, this multifaceted film really does seem to stick to its truth-touting title in an emotional, no-holds-barred sense.
That's thanks to the sheer number of testimonials collected, the direct footage, and most importantly, just about every talking head's unconditional love for the weird, perverted, and shocking. What incentive does someone have — someone whose life's work hinged on continually creating more and more unhinged stage shows — to polish up the story?
It'll depend who you ask, but despite the constant lapses in judgment or personal responsibility, these musicians and performance artists come out the other side of the film flawed, but likable. Where boundaries are unhealthy or nonexistent, there's almost always fondness and understanding. Where the art is tactless and bewildering, the spirit behind it is incandescent.
Butthole Surfers, especially Haynes, are hilarious, which is only amplified by deft editing. If the film actively paints any picture, it's one of true weirdos not just holding the torch in Austin, but setting the stage.
To some, the rallying cry (or at this point, the cliché) "keep Austin weird" is a call to fight back against corporate homogeneity; to others it's a plea for individuals to resist succumbing to boring normalcy. Watching The Hole Truth and Nothing Butt, some of the inherent entitlement in the philosophy comes to light.
Here are some trailblazers of Texas weirdness running themselves into the ground, while a largely adoring audience laughs and applauds at the quirky results. This story's most questionable moments feel unavoidable; you don't join or follow this group without a thirst for chaos. And the film does briefly touch on enablers. We ask a lot when we ask people to commit to a life outside comfortable norms.
A predictably unpolished talkback by the band, the director, and producers after the show drives the point home that even if Butthole Surfers are at least brushing with normalcy in the 2020s, these are their real lives. Like it, lust after it, or leave it.
The cast and filmmakers didn't confirm a wide release for the documentary, but they did name drop Alamo Drafthouse founder Tim League, implying that they may have support to move forward after some positive initial feedback. Leave it to Butthole Surfers to drag someone new into the chaos.
