I’ve mentioned them quite a few time here, over the years, but I used to be a big fan of this band called Pussy Galore. I say “used to,” as they don’t really exist anymore, their members having long-since disbanded to form and play in myriad other projects. But, back in the day, as they say, Pussy Galore were one of those bands that stopped you dead in your tracks. Whether because of their deliberately prurient name (I used to routinely point out that, technically, they were named after Honor Blackman's character from the James Bond classic,“Goldfinger, but no one ever really bought that) or because of their singular sonic signature -- a sort of slovenly punk-blues blitzkrieg featuring crazed, yowling vocals, volatile guitars and rusty kitchen-sink percussion that sounded like the Tin Man from “The Wizard of Oz” being forcibly shoved down a flight of stairs --- Pussy Galore left few people indifferent. They were entirely loud, messy and wilfully obnoxious. In other words, they were kinda perfect.
That all said, they still kinda weren’t for everyone. I always thought their uproariously offensive, middle-finger-for-all aesthetic was fairly obviously cartoony, but not everyone got the joke. While maybe not quite as universally objectionable as, say, the oeuvre of GG Allin & the Murder Junkies, choice Pussy Galore song titles could certainly ruin someone’s day and/or land one in Facebook jail for violating community standards if invoked in a post. Put simply, not everyone appreciated Pussy Galore’s tireless rampage of potty-mouthed invective, much less their clamorous brand of music.
But being purposefully provocative was part and parcel of Pussy Galore. They went all in and, as fans, you were expected to do the same. And in the wake of a succession of what I considered hilarious slabs of wax like (sorry) Groovy Hate Fuck, Sugarshit Sharp, Dial ‘M’ for Motherfucker and Corpse Love (to name just a small selection of their discography), I became wholly enamored of the band to the extent that I proudly procured myself a shirt of theirs emblazoned with the scrawled text from a former gig flyer. The copy on same read: “Live from the Hate Fuck Capital City of the World: PUSSY GALORE.” I bought this garment at a now-long-dormant record shop in SoHo called Rocks in Your Head. Today, after playing host to a real estate agency for several years, the space that had been Rocks in Your Head is now a dessert emporium called Sugarwood that exclusively serves genital-shaped treats. I find this somewhat entirely appropriate.
I wore my Pussy Galore shirt quite a bit, initially, although it usually didn’t do me any favors. While it may have garnered the odd nod of recognition from fellow noise-rock nerds, it more often than not prompted confusion, consternation and verbal abuse from the layperson. After a while, it was kind of more trouble than it was worth, so I gave it to my nextdoor neighbor.
So, why am I bringing all this back up now? Well, I’m friends with former Pussy Galore drummer Bob Bert on social media. Along with Pussy Galore, Bob also served in the ranks of several other amazing bands like Sonic Youth, Bewitched, Chrome Cranks and Drunk Driving. These days, he splits his creative time between Lydia Lunch’s amazing Retrovirus (you may remember my rapturous live review from earlier this year) and a trio called the Wolfmanhattan Project. In any case, Bob posted an amazing bit of Pussy Galore ephemera, today, concerning the very flyer that ended up on that star-crossed t-shirt. In much the same way the shirt invited some significant scrutiny, so did its original source material. Lovingly lifted with all respect from Bob’s Facebook feed, below find both the original flyer and, beneath it, the apology Bob was presumably prompted to write in response to the fallout. Amazing.
And, just for the Hell of it….here’s some vintage Pussy Galore.
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