A rock doc charts its own course

   Now and again, a pop cultural phenomenon breaks boundaries with an energy so furious, it can be mistaken for outrage. It’s not easy to connect the throwers of such pop-cultural hand grenades to a specific agenda; it’s never entirely clear what they want or whether they want anything at all. One thing is clear, though: They are committed to assertion.

   I thought about that while watching Butt Hole Surfers: The Hole Truth and Nothing Butt, a documentary about a raucous Texas art/punk band that caught fire in the 1980s. The doc left me wondering if it’s even possible to tell where the art ended and the punk began. 

   Whatever the case, it's clear that the Butt Hole Surfers were creative in their craziness, blurring the line between performance art and music in ways that could be both provocative and hilarious. Their show made use of surreal projections, and it's fair to say that they seasoned their weird stew with countercultural zest.

    Drummer King Coffey was known to pour lighter fluid on this cymbals and set them on fire. The band made enough use of strobe lights for the documentary to begin with a precautionary warning for those who might be subject to seizures.

   All of this becomes clear in director Tom Stern's documentary about a group that not only ignored conventional rules but stomped on them. The band formed in the late '70s when its two principals -- Gibson 'Gibby' Haynes and Paul Leary -- met at Trinity University in San Antonio. 

  Leary, who played guitar, and Haynes, who became lead singer and frontman, weren't sure where they were headed; they reflected their indecision by changing the band's name from one show to the next, eventually settling on the ... well ... you already know.

  Throughout a turbulent history, the band tended to go through bass players with the speed of hockey line changes. Eventually, they got lucky with Jeff Pinkus. He was number eight. 

   In the film, Kathleen Lynch reflects on her days as the band's naked dancer. Yes, for a time they had one. Coffey and Teresa Nervosa played dual drums in a band that once feigned sex on stage. Haynes, too, sometimes appeared naked.

   The Surfers evidently leaned heavily on the drug side of the sex-drugs-and-rock 'n' roll equation as they bounced their way through the '80s and '90s, accumulating a loyal following that became part of an underground scene. It sounds a bit old-fashioned but the effect of a Butt Hole show might be described as psychedelic.

  Stern emphasizes the influence the band had on artists such as Kurt Cobain. He also offers footage from a Hollywood period when Haynes did some heavy hanging out with Johnny Depp and other celebs.

   I found myself amused -- albeit a bit battered by a film about a band built to foster chaos.

   Oh well, sometimes all you can do when confronted by non-stop craziness is laugh. Made with ample amounts of humor, Butt Hole Surfers employs animation, puppets, interviews, archival footage, and in-your-face boldness to capture the spirit of the band's music. 

  To add perspective, Stern interviews director Richard Linklater, who knew the band from its early Austen days. He also includes comments from Flea and Dave Grohl. If you don't know those names, you're probably not part of the movie's target audience. 

  In sum, Stern offers a comprehensive look at the band, highlighting its don't-give-a-shit daring,  balancing things with contemporary interviews with band members who have matured. Haynes, turns 70 in September; Leary is 69. 

  At one hour and 46 minutes, the film tends to wear out, but Stern saves a big reveal about Haynes for the final going. 

  I'll leave it to others to judge the band's music, although I know that Leary's guitar work has been praised and that the band received acknowledgement for its invention and originality.

   Some of their albums -- Locust Abortion Technician -- were recognized for contributions to experimental rock, which has something to do with a willingness to expand the rock soundscape to include sounds not typically thought of as musical. They liked feedback from amplifiers. 

   To me, the movie seemed a chronicle of a long-running band that presented an unruly front -- part tantrum and part creative explosion -- that eludes easy explanation. 

   So rather than being reductive about it, I’m left to say,  "Hey, it was the '80s," and leave it at that.

   The documentary had a limited run at some Alamo Drafthouse venues and probably will turn up again. Maybe. I suppose. Who really knows?