10/24/2025
Basically, to anyone unaware of their legacy, Bu****le Surfers—along with bands like Scratch Acid, Big Black, and Flipper—fused noise with punk in a way that would become the main catalyst of inspiration for grunge.
But, in ways unlike anybody else at the time, or since, their legend is equally defined by the fact that they were purposefully and aggravatingly the weirdest motherf*ckers on earth.
Surfers revelled in mayhem, purred in mischief, and drank themselves to hell, often to the point of being unable to function or perform. However, rather antithetically to their drink and drug-crazed reputation, before the world of the Bu****le Surfers existed, Haynes was on a fast-track route to being a successful accountant, and guitarist Paul Leary was inches away from a masters degree in business administration.
As a band they were lurid, surreal and outlandish, genuinely terrifying to some, but it was not without due thought. It takes a degree of intellect to behave that stupidly.
Their first three albums Psychic… Powerless… Another Man’s Sac, Rembrandt Pussyhorse and Locust Abortion Technician are all juggernaut releases. From tongue-in-cheek nods to Black Sabbath to the pulled-to-bits cover of “American Woman,” these are tracks that switch in tempo from slow creeping terrors to wild sweat-inducing abandon, and nightmarish narratives woven with puerile and obtuse wordplay.
They were a band singular in character, but impossible to define sonically. Operating as some sort of mutant punk rock, psychedelic, esoteric noise, post-punk hybrid outfit, they wriggled around like snakes smothered in l**e when it came to letting a genre stick to them.
Perhaps this is the reason why, 35 years on from their formation, they still sound like no-one else.