Music / Reviews
Review: GWAR, Fleece
“You’re pretty hot for a 100-year-old shitbag!” leers Blöthar the Berserker seductively as Her Majesty the Queen (note: not the actual monarch) simpers around the stage. Naturally, Her Maj rewards the corpulent horned goblin by fellating one of his udder-cocks before exposing her rubbery breasts gleefully. Not to be upstaged, Blöthar promptly chops them off, showering the audience in blood. But Mrs Windsor is unwilling to leave the stage and returns repeatedly to jiggle her bloodied torso while wrapped in a Union Jack.
Yep, the self-styled ‘sickest band in the world’ are back on the first night of their UK tour in the city that once banned them. “Good evening Glasgow,” sneers Blöthar. “It’s great to be back in the land of shitty food and ugly women!”
Attending a GWAR show is more like being a sitting duck than an audience member, especially when it’s at a sold out venue where we’re crammed in so tightly that there’s no chance of dodging the jets of jizz and blood. There are few if any takers for the ‘disposable ponchos’ on sale at the door for £2 a pop, as everyone is up for a drenching – especially as it’s still 28C outside.
is needed now More than ever
The only sensible prep one can do is to select disposable attire for destruction. Alas, I couldn’t find my old Anti-Apartheid – Sanctions Now T-shirt (why do social justice campaigns have to be so fucking successful, rendering much of my wardrobe redundant?), so it was a generic metal design that took the full force of the first spurt after Joe Biden was beheaded for equivocating over Ukraine.
A comedy redneck then appears, demanding to see ‘his’ president. “He’s probably getting a cavity search from the FBI,” quips the frontman before flaying and disembowelling the hick.
Yep, there’s a theme developing here. After every couple of songs, a grotesque celeb/politician/stereotype comes on to be abused and slaughtered. Occasionally, this is rather near the knuckle even for hardened GWAR enthusiasts. There’s a sharp intake of breath or two when a rubbery yellowface President Xi jibbers away in a Charlie Chan accent. Blöthar calls a halt to proceedings and reminds his bandmates that: “. . . the British murdered and raped half the world, but even they can see this is fucking racist!” So here’s an absurdly ripped Putin, who proceeds to bugger Xi before the two leaders of the Unfree World engage in a hammer and sickle fight that concludes with the Russian strongman having his hands chopped off. Hey – nobody promised subtle political satire.
Songs? Yeah, they played some of those. Mostly sturdy if unexceptional thrash metal with big singalong choruses like Sick of You, Mother Fucking Liar and the jolly Fuck This Place. What’s really remarkable is that Blöthar, self-regarding Balsac the Jaws of Death (GWAR’s very own Lexxi Foxx, if you will) and, er, the other guys can play anything at all while sweltering inside those cumbersome costumes.
You’d have to be a pretty devoted fan to actually buy their albums (or comicbooks, NFTs, action figures, etc), but everyone who doesn’t prefer to get their kicks from competitive, performative social media offence-taking can enjoy this show. And there’s a lot of effort going into all that gory dismemberment. Behind a screen on the right-hand side of the Fleece stage, members of the GWAR collective can be glimpsed beavering away industriously on the next outrage.
Those who wind up feeling a tad smug about having dodged a spattering are in for a shock during the encore – a cover of AC/DC’s If You Want Blood (You’ve Got It), obviously. On come the dual high-powered blood cannons whose relentless jets reach all the way to the back of the Fleece. As we stagger home, the alarmed expressions on faces of passers-by remind us that the happy grin and blood-encrusted attire combo is an unusual look – even by the standards of Stokes Croft.
Read more: Metal & Prog Picks: August 2022
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