04/30/07
Text: Anthony Layser
Photographers: Michael Persico
Otto Mühl Meets Orgasmo 3003
While sitting in a pink conversion van on the corner of Frankford and Girard in Philadelphia's Fishtown neighborhood, it dawns on me that the Black Lips are making an honest attempt to have one labiality planted on the deeply challenging concept of Viennese Actionism while having the other pressed firmly on good ole' American commercialism. It's a difficult smooch, even for four young punks with a lot of heart. They're scrappy, the type you root for, but it’s a tall order to get those two isms to make nice. Perhaps that's why I graciously accept when Ian St. Pe, the Lips' guitarist, lines up the plastic shot glass and pours me another dose of the brown liquid. The concoction is part of the commercialism thing—I just learned there's a plan in the works for a Black Lips-related euphoric energy vodka drink. Okay, so they're not Kiss, but it's still merchandising. It's also free booze, so what the hell?
Ian is the only white man I've ever met that sports a grill, and I can't help but focus on it as he attempts to give me the sales pitch. When I ask about the drink’s ingredients, he quickly decides it best to call his brother Patrick. I'm almost finished polishing off my second smooth, herbal tea-tasting shot when Ian hands me his cell phone. Claiming to be a nuclear engineer, Patrick tells me he's spent an extensive amount of time and money developing the beverage, which is tentatively called Orgasmo 3003. The 3003 is a reference to a lyric from the Lips' song “Dirty Hands” and later, Patrick tells me the drink has properties that can enhance one sexually. “It's engineered specifically for the Black Lips to help them with their hectic tour schedule,” explains Patrick. “It's a mixture of vodka and herbs from South America.” When I tell him it tastes like he chose a top-shelf vodka, he explains that he used gas-chromatograph readings to pick just the right one to partner with the herbs. I repeat the word “gas chromatograph” to make sure I heard him right. Ian shows off a big 14-karat smile: “He's not kidding. The Black Lips' potion is going to be just like the band. Always keep them wanting more.”
The Black Lips have been a band for nearly seven years, but it’s not just their music that’s brought expectant audiences back time and again. That's a fairly recent development. Before that, the Atlanta quartet was known for getting banned from clubs (most notably the famous 40 Watt in Athens, GA), and spewing vomit, urine, spit and blood during their performances. Nudity, including the substitution of a dick for a guitar pick, is also part of the legend. The group’s leader in this regard has been guitarist Cole Alexander, who on a few occasions has pissed in his own mouth and spit it into the crowd. “I studied this group called the Viennese Actionists,” Cole tells me over the phone a few days before their show in Philly. “They were fine artists from Austria in the 60s. I don't know if you want to call it fine, but they would cut themselves and pee in the cuts. They'd kill a chicken and paint with the blood. They were very punk before punk. They weren't necessarily musicians, but they inspired us.”
While Cole may cite an early performance art movement as an influence, the Black Lips’ stage antics have become more and more of a side note to the critical praise being heaped on the band and their latest release, Let It Bloom. Even the mainstream press has taken notice, with the New York Times calling them “the hardest working band at SXSW” and Rolling Stone proclaiming Let It Bloom one of the top five debuts of 2006. Thanks to the band’s rising profile and new contract with Vice Records, the Black Lips have been touring and promoting nonstop over the last few months. By the time of their Philly gig with The Ponys in late March, band members’ asses are starting to drag. What’s worse—word on the street is that there hasn’t been any on-stage piss-spitting in quite some time. I ask Cole what gives. “We've gone through the bag of tricks and it was just getting worn out for a while. You never know—it could happen again, but we don't want to get known for doing shtick every night.” As Ian and I leave the van so he can prep for the night's gig, I can’t help but feel hopeful that I'm not the only one who's dipped into the Orgasmo and is primed for one of those special evenings.
