Maybe 15 years ago one of the latter day dudes from the Butthole Surfers showed up at a gig of mine with a vinyl copy of the Scud Mountain Boys Pine Box LP for me to sign. I honestly thought he was fucking with me…about being a fan of the Scuds. I’d been a fan of the Buttholes since ’87 or ’88 after a roommate played me the killer track “The Shah Sleeps in Lee Harvey’s Grave.” But why would that dude like the Scuds? We made this kind of music, and they made that kind. While he went on with the compliments, I kept my hand resting over my drink for fear he was going to dose me with some crazy fucking desert zombie acid. Clearly this dude thought I’d made the shittiest record of all time, and he was going to pay me back by sentencing me to a life of spittle lipped babbling, ill-fitting Huggies and self nipple twisting. I looked around for one of his spiral-eyed freak cohorts getting it all on video.
I didn’t trust that dude one bit. I was instantly reminded of a night the Scud Mountain Boys were playing the Mercury Lounge. I was standing alone in front of the club freaking out about telling the guys I was quitting the band. May I be struck dead if Tommy Stinson clad in malnourished rock icon getup and a woman on each arm didn’t strut by at that very instant, take one look at the marquee and scoff, “Fucking sleepy-time music.” Fucking perfect, I thought. And we even had “Friday Night Is Killing Me” in our goddamn van. I think the Scuds lasted another couple weeks. Did Tommy Stinson help break up the band? No, but he sure as shit didn’t help keep us together.