The Bearded Weirdo Salutes... Gwar

If there was a single filmmaking company in all of pop culture that could act as a perfect counterpart to the inside of my own brain, it would unquestionably be Troma. Likewise, if there was a single act within the entire music industry that could similarly be seen as a physical embodiment of my disease spirit n' psyche, there is no hesitation whatsoever on my part in naming that act as Gwar. They are, after all, in their own way, sort of the psychotic sonic equivalent of Troma's cinematic brand of brain-rotting radioactivity.

The perverted, putrid performance art of Gwar is more than just macabre theatrical shock rock in the tradition of Alice Cooper, The Plasmatics, W.A.S.P., Kiss, and Screamin' Jay Hawkins. It is that, taken to an excessive level of obscene extremity never before seen, and not yet replicated. Gwar tears into the over-the-top antics of its aforementioned shock rock forebears and injects into the mix a scummy scatological sickness inspired by G.G. Allin, a cartoonish schlock aesthetic borrowed from The Misfits, an impish, lecherous levity derived from S.O.D., and an outrageous, explosive, pop surrealist style reminiscent of low brow art legends such as Robert Crumb and Ed "Big Daddy" Roth. Picture, if you will, an apocalyptic amalgamation of Anthrax, The Sex Pistols, and rubber reality monster movies a la' FROM BEYOND, CLASS OF NUKE 'EM HIGH, and the NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET series.

Gwar's crossover-style thrash took the crunching brutality and technical virtuosity of metal and artificially inseminated it with the spasticity, experimentalism, humor, and almost incoherent rawness of punk. Then the band ran the whole mess through a splatter, psychedelic ringer. Though best known for their vulgar n' vile on-stage grotesqueries, which include the ultraviolent executions of everyone from Paris Hilton to Osama Bin Laden accompanied by a supporting ensemble of similarly costumed secondary characters (such as greasy smiling snake-oil salesman Sleazy P. Martini and fire-dancing corpse paint-slathered slut Sylmenstra Hymen) bobbing atop an ooey gooey ocean of slime, blood, shit, puke, piss, and semen, the members of Gwar deserve equal recognition for their formidable musicianship. As good as these maladjusted maniacs are at flinging bile and designing intricate, explicitly repulsive F.X. art projects, they are just as talented as a real band. There are, in fact, real geniuses behind the latex walls of toxic waste n' paper mache.

Stepping from the toxic fallout when a bunch of art school misfits, hardcore punk pranksters, and would-be b-movie mavens collided in a sweaty, liquored-up stupor, Gwar quickly became gods of the grossout. Acting under the pretense of being war-mongering extraterrestrial invaders from another world, the band's mischievous misanthropic members have been nominated twice for Grammy Awards (though they ultimately, unfairly lost to the more mainstream acts Metallica and Nine Inch Nails) and, more importantly, have earned themselves a rabid, ravenous army of diehard fans (including yours cruelly) who flock the group's every anarchic, bizarro bloodbath spectacle. Songs like "Sick Of You," "Preschool Prostitute," "Saddam A Go-Go," "Fucking An Animal," "Ham On The Bone," and "Bring Back The Bomb" deliver either scathing satire or intentionally crass, unapologetically offensive, low brow morbid comedy, oft-times a little (actually a lot) of both. They energetically lampoon topics ranging from flatulence, bestiality, and beer-drinking, to mass genocide as a recreational activity, the politics of nuclear holocaust, and penguins.


Unsurprisingly, to a weird little preteen boy named William Weird, whose interested tended to lean towards the odd and unusual (still do), they became idols of a truly inspiring nature.


When I was a kid, I was a huge fan of Beavis & Butt-Head (still am), must to my mother's dismay. In truth, my poor harangued mother's disapproval of the cartoon in question probably had more to do with my initial attraction that show than anything. Anyway, as an unruly Beavis & Butt-Head lover and drooling Sega Genesis junkie, it wasn't long before I got my hands on the Beavis & Butt-Head video game. That's where I first discovered Gwar (the goal of the game was to track down tickets to a Gwar concert, natch) and, after seeking out some of their music, I was hooked for life.

Looking back now, I can see that Gwar probably had as much to do with turning my adolescent interest in freaky shit into a lifelong affair as Mike Judge, Lloyd Kaufman, Rhonda Shear, Joe Bob Briggs, R.L. Stine, or Kevin Eastman.

Though some of their middle period albums have been criticized for being too goofy and too experimental (with 1999's We Kill Everything being commonly referred to a record that need not even be acknowledged), I personally have never heard a Gwar release that hasn't been like sweet, sweet sex for my ears. Having said that, with more headbanger D.N.A. than punker D.N.A. at work in my genetic makeup, I do admit that I enjoy Gwar more metallic sounding songs more than the more silly, eclectic stuff. Either way, the fact remains: I... love... Gwar!

I love everything about Gwar. The music. The stupid sci-fi backstory. The jaw-droppingly insane stage show. The first time I saw the movie HARDWARE, I saw it specifically because I'd heard they appeared in the flick (they do, briefly, without any of their own music playing... thankfully, the movie itself was awesome enough to keep me watchin'). I went out of my way to track down an old V.H.S. copy of Gorgon Video Magazine because I found out they were in it (of course, the presence of Linnea Quigley helped too... boi-yoi-yoi-yoi-yoi-yoi-yoing!). I have every one of their albums. Shit! I even have the infamous Jerry Springer and Joan Rivers Show appearances on bootleg D.V.D. Yes sir, I'm a loyal visitor of the Slave Pit, a fecal-blooded scumdog, through n' through.

Gwar, the Bearded Weirdo salutes you!