Production deadlines meant we worked through the first three bands on this bill (Basehead, fiREHOSE and the Stone Temple Pilots) before sauntering across Canal Street into a packed, steam bath-like State Palace Theater for the headliner, Texas’ Butthole Surfers. We needn’t have made the effort. There is a certain cheap thrill in patronizing a band whose name has been deemed un-airable by some commercial radio stations (the “B.H. Surfers,” anyone?). And the sight of a shirtless, sweaty and drunk Gibby Haynes—the Buttholes’ big ol’ redneck hippie of a singer—dousing his left hand and a cymbal with lighter fluid and setting them ablaze did hold the attraction of potential disaster.

But the Surfers’ clumsy, buzzsaw morass offered little other than tedium; Haynes’ vocals (which may or may not match the song the band is playing at the time) were run through a host of effects (including a bullhorn), and lost their novelty. Even the film footage that played against the backdrop throughout the set never got more interesting than a close-up of an especially messy dental cleaning. The show had the impact of a bad B-movie—good for bragging to friends that you saw it, but you’d likely not see it again.