This was the year those crazed motherfuckers hit our shores in an acid-crazed frenzy like no one had seen before. August 5th, 1987 — the Butthole Surfers rolled into Newport's Riverside Suite like a derailed freight train from the underworld, dragging LSD, feedback, and naked nihilism in their wake.
Fresh off the back of the album, Locust Abortion Technician, they weren’t just playing gigs — they were conducting psychic surgery on every town they hit. Gibby Haynes was wielding a megaphone like a flamethrower, sometimes a shotgun. Paul Leary's guitar sounded like it had been dragged through a swamp full of broken teeth. Behind them? Smoke. Strobes. Film loops of surgery and car crashes. And yes, Kathleen Lynch, the infamous bald, topless dancer twisting through it all like some deranged shaman.
Support that night? The Darling Buds, Caerleon’s own jangly pop hopefuls, still in the glow of their earliest shows — and I bet Andrea and co were wondering what alternate dimension they'd stepped into once the Buttholes kicked off.
If you were there, you probably don’t remember all of it. And if you weren’t — you’ve probably still heard the stories. Newport was never the same.
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