Butthole Surfers

Although some might dismiss this as a musical car accident oddity of nonsensical electronic pop, further examination will yield that it is indeed the Butthole Surfers at the core of the mess and that they are just being themselves, same as they always have been. The material consists of some tracks salvaged from the ejected After The Astronaut, an album that was originally intended for release on Capitol Records in 1998. Only now it seems that the fearless and almost dysfunctional pseudo-acid casualty leader Gibby Haynes had his brain salvaged as well, albeit barely. He comes across as so far removed from normality that fellow Surfer Paul Leary probably had to cart him into the studio on a stretcher and have him talk for a while in some sort of morbid K-Tel toxic dance remix music factory. While that went on, Leary wrapped him around some enthusiastic feats of eccentric electronics while Haynes babbles and tries to connect life as we know it into a single equation (or something like that) in his new found preacher-style fixation, as some incredibly deep grooves pound on, like some kind of version of a psychedelic Motown rave fiasco. I think I like it. I think. I like it. I.