SURFERS ROCK THE BOAT

The BH Surfers (short for their not-fit-for-a-family-newspaper full name) are a band that would gladden the heart of Hunter S. Thompson.

The first time I saw them, head Surfer Gibby Haynes concluded the show in a singularly memorable fashion; alcohol plays a central role in the band’s modus operandi, and by the time their set--and I use the word loosely--lurched to a close, the stage was littered with empty bottles.

Hayes proceeded to pick up one bottle after another and stagger from one group member to the next, smashing the bottles over their heads until the entire band had been knocked unconscious.

Leapin’ lizards, what a way to close a show! The rock ‘n’ roll arena hadn’t hosted such a crash ‘n’ burn spectacle since a blood-spattered Sid Vicious ricocheted around the Winterland stage in 1977.

Formed five years ago in the state that made chain-saw massacres famous, the Surfers left their hometown of San Antonio in 1981 and have been slogging the concert trail ever since (they’ll be at the Roxy on Aug. 9).

In addition to guiding light Haynes, the lineup includes guitarist Paul Leary Warthall, Jeff Pinkass, King Coffee and drummer Cabbage Gomez. A second drummer, known only as Teresa, recently quit--”she freaked out,” explains the band. Gee, I can’t imagine why.

As to what kind of collective profile they cut, the Surfers appear to be the result of generations of inbreeding in some remote hollar in the Ozarks. They all look to be missing a few vital chromosomes.

Vocalist Haynes, a former accountant who’s grown his hair to acid-casualty length, comes on like some drooling idiot savant, but close listening to the lyrics on any of the group’s five records reveals him to be a man of uncommon insights.

Haynes claims his central influence to have been L.A.’s own Darby Crash, who, of course, owed it all to Iggy, and like both those fine gents, Haynes is a savagely physical performer. When the Surfers performed at New York’s Danceteria last fall, he was buck naked through the entire show. Last February at the Santa Monica Civic he lit his hand on fire and sang a large part of the show with a screeching strobe light wedged between his knees.

Haynes also has a penchant for singing through the kind of bullhorn used to disperse illegal gatherings, and he likes to wear dresses. Special dresses, rigged with exploding sacs of colored paint located in the armpits and various other strategic locations. He also likes to disembowel large stuffed animals. Obviously, what the Surfers get up to verges on theatrical psychodrama, but it’s also very much in keeping with the spirit of rock ‘n’ roll.

And what does this “rock ‘n’ roll” sound like? If Jimi Hendrix formed a hard-core thrash band and brought in the Legendary Stardust Cowboy on vocals it might sound like a tame version of the Surfers.

Theirs is basically a Southern Gothic sensibility filtered through Captain Beefheart, Roky Erikson and Throbbing Gristle, and they kick up an unholy din indeed. Partial to abrupt explosions of sound, fractured, stuttering riffs and weird sound effects, they often punctuate their songs with the sounds of retching and feedback.

On “Creep in the Cellar” (included on their new album “Rembrandt Pussyhorse”) a whining violin natters through the song like an annoying mosquito, while the lead vocal on “Mark Says Alright” is performed by a lion. The vocal on a version of the Guess Who hit “American Woman” sounds as if it were hollered through a transatlantic telephone line.

Funny, yes, but the Surfers offer more than a cheap laugh and it’s Haynes’ lyrics that put the group in a class by itself.

“I’m gonna cut off my leg down in Florida” moans Haynes on “Moving to Florida,” which chronicles the demented dream of some growling, grizzled lunatic. A song called “Perry” uses a distorted rendition of the “Perry Mason” theme as the backing track for a hilarious monologue on coming of age that Haynes delivers in a prattling British voice, while “The Shah Sleeps in Lee Harvey’s Grave” finds him screaming, “I smoke Elvis Presley’s toenails when I want to get high!”

Yes, the Surfers could be dismissed as a joke band if their overall gestalt weren’t so dank, dark and terrifying. Built around the wigged-out beating of two drummers, their sound is powerful and primitive; when they get to pounding those jungle drums, you know for certain that the natives are witless and they’re on the warpath.