SCREW’s Tireless Quest for the Grotesque Nets G.G. Allin, Troubled Troubadour of Tomorrow
There’s no use mincing words about Boston. It sucks. The place is lousy with yuppies and invertebrate preppies posing in some quaint “New England lifestyle” that makes Mayor Crotch seem like Dick the Bruiser. The bars close just after dark and the silly little trolleys call it quits soon after that, but the L.L. Bean parade of Kelly-green trousers and duck shoes never ends.
The first thing I did when I got there was hock a healthy chuck of New York City phlegm, the kind laden with soot, on some yuppie who was prancing out ofCheers bar. That relaxed me for about five minutes, but for the rest of my stay I was prey to the uptight aura that historic Boston never fails to emit, and I swore that I would never return to that Mickey Mouse non-city until SCREW started paying my expenses. I never would have blessed it with my pretty mug in the first place, but I’d smelled that Golden Dildo Award for the sleaziest story on the sleaziest personality. I was to rendezvous with G.G. Allin, renowned punk-rock pervert and scumbag extraordinaire.
G.G. first caught my attention after a fellow brain-dead deviant gave me the lowdown on his then-pending show at the Cat Club. Big things were promised, and indeed, big things were delivered. G.G. turned the Cat Club into the Scat Club with a blast of diarrhea. He pulled his pud out of his jockstrap (tastefully adorned with the legend “Eat Me”) and yanked at it like a kid at a taffy pull. He shoved the microphone up his ass. And then a bottle. He broke the glass and carved himself up with it. There was blood and shit everywhere. The power went off on about the fourth song, but to be honest, who could pay attention to the music? It was a first-rate performance, probably the only time that queer joint ever gave its patrons their money’s worth. G.G. got bounced onto the street for his efforts.
After the set, I snaked backstage to say hello. The band was hurriedly packing up, eager to get the hell out, when G.G. stumbled in, covered in blood and shit, shards of glass still embedded in his back.
“What’s the mattah?” he asked earnestly, in a stately New England twang that would do the Kennedys proud. “You guys pissed at me?” Somehow he managed to get a cab to the Port Authority, where he caught a bus to his home in New Hampshire, still naked but for the jockstrap, still covered in shit and blood, and not ashamed. The cops left him alone because they thought he was a victim.
A few days later I got a copy of G.G.’s EP, 7 Songs on Ass Fuckin’, Butt Suckin’, Cunt Lickin’ and Masturbation, and any thoughts I had about G.G. just being a show-off were buried under the seething sounds of The Scumfucs: Crunching three-cord rock that makes the Clash sound like the Carpenters, sleazy lead guitar work that sounds like James Williamson with a catheter jammed up his tube, and G.G.’s surprisingly tuneful ranting and raving all make for a swell platter. Stage antics are one thing, but G.G.’s music stood on its own merits. The man earned my respect; with cretins like Paul Shaffer and Iggy Pop trying to deliver rock-‘n’-roll its final death blow, we need someone like G.G. Allin more than ever. I dropped G.G. a line (he doesn’t have a phone) and he returned it with a collect call. I told him I wanted to do a story and some photos. “Sure,” he replied. “Whatta ya want me to do? Fuck myself with a beer bottle? Eat my own shit? Want me to cut myself up? Pull my pud to a copy of SCREW?” I said, “Yes.” We agreed to meet in Boston.
G.G. said he would be at the Greyhound station downtown, but when I got there he was nowhere in sight. I had to take a leak, so I sauntered into the restroom, only to find my man sitting on the john, the door wide open and the coin deposit box on the floor, trying to slap his dip-stick to an issue of SCREW and quickly learning that it was no mean feat. He folded the rag, pulled up his trousers and we went for some drinks.
G.G. was doing just fine. He had already quaffed a quart of Jim Beam on the way down and was itching to whip out his pecker and start pounding it again. We decided to go to what soft Boston calls the “Combat Zone,” their own little strip of peep emporiums and topless bars, and soon discovered that it was as pathetic as the rest of that hick town. The entire array of bookstores and peeps could fit into the Show World Center and there would still be enough room left over for Tip O’Neill’s big red honker. I was embarrassed just to be there, but G.G. was already off, ducking into an alley to get down and dirty. Gleefully he produced a long-neck Bud bottle procured from the bar. In another second he had dropped trou and was horsing around with it, exploring his puckered anus with the already brown glass and stretching his tiny prod like it was Silly Putty, all while desperately flipping through his much-treasured copy of SCREW and desperately trying to get a hard-on. No such luck was to be had. He ditched the beer bottle and rescued a larger liquor bottle from a dumpster. G.G. obviously knew what he was doing: Before reaming himself with his new glass dildo, he removed the plastic cap to facilitate entry. A true professional.
He went at it again, foaming at the mouth, cheeks spread, dick stretched almost to Provincetown. But that pecker would not perk up. I conceded that he was looking at a picture of Al Goldstein, but had to wonder how he kept his virility up under normal circumstances, living the life of a Scumfuc. He gets plenty of action from the scummy pool of dick-thirsty punks, curious nubile sluts and twisted junkies who are ravenous for sleaze of G.G. Allin’s caliber. He’s had needles up his cock, and lands in the hospital for blood poisoning thrice yearly. The latest G.G. video effort features Mr. Allin tying a friend to a tree, beating the shit out of him, doing the golden shower routine (right in the mouth no less), a little of the ol’ crankshaft abuse, some shit smearing – just your basic rock video. It’s a good lifestyle if you can get into it. The video before that didn’t have much shit or anything, but it did have a lot of blood. And he’s been at it for nine fucking years.
But this is going to be G.G.’s year, if he doesn’t die. He’s facing assault charges and paternity suits, but more important, he’s finally got some fresh productcoming out. A ROIR cassette, Hated in the Nation, almost didn’t make it when the label went limp and nearly succumbed to pressure from the PMRC. Apparently, producer Mykel Board didn’t tell ROIR cassette captain Neil Cooper everything, and the project was nearly crunched in the fallout of the Cat Club debacle. And G.G. just slapped his John Hard-cock on a three-record deal with Homestead Records, in come, shit and blood, natch. He’s also gearing up to take the legend on the road. There’s been a lot of press and a slow drizzle of money – things definitely look like they’re on an upswing. But nothing was going to help G.G. get it up for an old copy of SCREW. He wiped his ass with it and took one of my cigarettes.
We both agreed that it was time to score some grass to keep those creative juices flowing, and you would think that in a place called the “Combat Zone” there would be no problem scoring some drugs. Any other feeble row of smut palaces would provide at the least a 10-dollar-rip-off, but you can’t get shit in the bowels of Boston and our herb quest quickly fizzled. I was disgusted – I don’t trust cities that don’t have crack problems – and G.G. was outraged. He pissed on a bum.
Before we left the Zone, G.G. wanted to take a stroll in his trademark jockstrap. He pulled it out of the car trunk, along with about 20 pairs of soiled panties – souvenirs from girls he’s had and presents that came via post – and the stench hit me like a trolley chug-chugging across Harvard Square. He slipped into it and began to stroll, taking time to grovel in the gutter and slam his ham for the camera. The Zone was not receptive. Locals, already highly suspicious, spit on us. A theatre owner threatened to kick the shit out of us, and then the cops came pulling around the corner, too dumb to leave off the sirens. We got wise. G.G. put on his pants in the vestibule of a convenient flop house and we beat it out of there.
We walked back to the car, taking a slight detour across Boston Commons to look for some patriot’s grave for G.G. to take a dump on. He thought it would be nice to add his own monument to a city already full of them, but we couldn’t find anyone worth leaving a steaming turd on. G.G. shits from the heart or he doesn’t shit at all.
G.G. Allin is a hardened kernel of crap floating atop a puddle of punk-rock puke; he’s not a poseur and he ain’t no fucking dilettante. He doesn’t just sing about sleazy, violent sex, and he doesn’t stop begging to have the shit beaten out of him when the spotlights dim – that’s just the way he lives his life. As he puts it, he’s a Scumfuc. Maybe he’s an asshole – he would never deny it – but his music reeks of blood and guts and charismatic slime and raw fucking intensity. And you can dance to it. Unlike most self-avowed punk rockers, he’s worth the price of admission – just keep to the back of the dance floor and you won’t get hurt.
— Mike Edison