Shit, man, it's been just too long.
How many DVD's been in and out The Duke's DVD player, how many documentaries been observed, how many live shows witnessed, and none of them featuring anything that a fella might mistake for the sight of GG Allin squatting center-stage and taking a shit right there, then maybe picking some up and throwing it at some malcontent down front, maybe chewing on some for a second, maybe rolling around in it for a time.
It's been almost a year since I last sat down with Hated - GG Allin & The Murder Junkies, or GG Allin - Raw, Brutal, Rough & Bloody. I was almost starting to forget how hilarious those camp poses and dances were, how incredible it is to see a fella kick folks right in the teeth in the middle of a tune, how tiny that ever-present sex-limb really was.
Thank all that's holy, a DVD arrives in Mondo Towers, a Digital DVD Disc by the name of GG Allin & The Murder Junkies - Savage South: Best Of 1992 Tour. I could hardly hold the damn thing in my hand without blacking out with the anticipation. What nonsense would GG get up to herein? How many shits would he take? How many fights would he get into? How many times will he play "Cunt Sucking Cannibal"? How naked will he get?
Plenty shits, plenty fights, plenty naked, plenty "Cunt Sucking Cannibal". Who in their right mind would expect anything less?
Savage South presents three performances from the tour of the same name, three shows from February 1992, being shindigs in Atlanta, San Antonio and Austin.
It seems only just for to take them each one as a separate incident, each one bursting at the guts with demented scandal.
The first of the incidents;
Wreck Room, Atlanta, GA, 2/14/92
GG Versus Jesus
As with all the shows on Savage South, the quality here is bootleg-level, both with regards visuals and audio. A time stamp, lots of shaking around, plenty periods of prolonged black when GG dives into the audience and the camcorder can't cope with the lack of light. God knows what he's singing or what the songs sound like, since for the most part a cacophonous garble is all a fella can hope for.
Now and again a quip seeps through the mire;
"We lost our drummer last night because the motherfuckers arrested us", for example. Plenty other gabbling about "motherfuck" and "fuck you".
It hardly matters, mind. Who gives a pink yak's piss what GG might be ranting about, who can hope to decipher a word since the microphone stops working every couple minutes owing to the number of times he smacks it off of his skull? The blood's pissin down his mug ten seconds into the first song, the mic gets thrown someplace, another appears, GG batters it into his head and it dies like the twenty-nine others.