Abysmal Crucisux

by Feather Vixen, Opinions Editor

Every Saturday night I like to slip into little clubs on the outskirts of town, hear some good music, pick up an anonymous guy, fuck him, and kick him out of my car begging for more. Then I go home, crouch into the fetal position, and whip myself with an already bloodied scourge for the sins of myself and my father.

I did not have a chance to do this last Saturday. I had the misfortune of seeing the self-described "thrash band" Abysmal Crucifix last Saturday at the Warfield Theatre, and I spent most of the evening vomiting in the ladies room, and not because I took four Ecstasy like last time.

There is only one way to describe Abysmal Crucifix: awful. Simply awful. Their stage antics range from lead singer/lead guitarist Girth McDürchstein prowling across the stage like a convicted murderer to drummer/back-up vocalist Margo Atwater vomiting on her snare drum and then beating it to see how high into the air she could splash the vomit. In between, there are a few stops along the way: eating live chickens, shitting on keyboards, and dabbing blood onto the nipples of a life-size statue of Jesus Christ and then licking it off. Through it all, music that covers the entire bland-to-painful spectrum pulses through the club.

Abysmal opened their set with "Fuck Your Little Mama," an obviously Freudian number about, what else, fucking your little mama. After this, they went into an ear-shatteringly bad rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner," during which bassist Mikey Parker demonstrated how easy it is to lick blood off of Jesus' nipples. Jimi Hendrix, where are you and your acid-lined headband when we need you?

The third song, aptly titled "Shitfest," is about a young child who wants to be a rock star. Supposedly, this was partial inspiration for front man McDürchstein's solo project, cult college fave The Hedge, but it was hastily abandoned when McDürchstein stumbled upon El Laberinto de los Diablos.

After a forty-seven minute improvisatory solo by McDürchstein with a mild, jazz-influenced backbeat by Atwater, they closed their set by butchering the drunken fratboy classic "Louie Louie" shortly before McDürchstein vomited chicken blood all over a pretty girl in the front row.

I heard most of these songs from inside a ladies' room stall, while one of the Examiner interns I happen to be sleeping with watched the majority of the show and took notes.

Reprinted from the San Francisco Examiner, Monday, May 6, 2002