slug: interview

By Chris Lynch

WHEN THE GODS finally drop the hammer, sound their trumpets, and begin the great roll call, Zeus will have put all smart money on the Melvins. The übergenius, pulverizing subversity of the trio's avalanche of sound doesn't merely grab the bull by the horns but also slaps its ass for a cheap thrill along the way. Over the course of their near 20-year tenure, they've been saddled with the Blame, fingered for creating what came to be known as "grunge," a genre that brought with it the vast assortment of flimsy mimicry produced by countless pasty-faced kids with flannel shirts and guitars. It's a charge they deny vehemently.

Well, what did they decide to do about it all? Soak it up and cash in their chips for a house on the hill and spots on Jay Leno? No. They moved the hell out of the Northwest to San Francisco – home of the O'Farrell Theater and Swan the Messiah – before moving farther south and settling into the seedy woodwork of Hollywood.

The Melvins – Buzz "King Buzzo" Osbourne, Dale Crover, and, currently, Kevin Rutmanis – boast a worldwide legion of fans, among them bizarre notables such as Gene Simmons, Hank Williams III, J.G. Thirwell, and, it must be mentioned, their former roadie Kurt Cobain. As they prepare to launch another tooth-loosening tour of North America, in support of their new album, Hostile Ambient Takeover, a typically direct, yet entirely evasive, incredibly polite and well-spoken wise-ass, Buzz – the man with Moses' burning bush for a head of hair – took time out to ... uh ... share a few choice words with the people.

Buzz Osbourne: Hey there.

Bay Guardian: Howdy, sir. It's a pleasure.

BO: Where're you from?

BG: NYC – eye of the storm.

BO: [Questionably excited] New York City!?!? What's a-goin' on?

BG: God only knows. There were Coast Guard gunner ships in the East River again this morning.

BO: Maybe they're gonna shell Brooklyn!!" [Laughs ... and laughs more]

BG: First off, I've got to apologize for my condition. Got a bit drunk on wine-in-a-box last night, and my eyes hurt. Free drink tickets, you know. I was obliged.

BO: Don't blame me!

BG: I'll blame ...

BO: Coulda drank Diet Cokes. Nobody poured that down your throat, now did they?

BG: Thanks for being so understanding. Hey, loved the flick in Hustler. Could you ...

BO: There's no porn connection with us. They wanted to do this photo shoot. I had absolutely no interest. Said the only way I'd agree was if I could stand behind her [adult film star Papillion] with a fully loaded double-barrel shotgun, while wearing a shirt that said "Promote Homosexuality" – and not letting her touch me. The Hustler guys said OK. The girl showed up in the standard Adidas tracksuit. Plain Jane. I'd never have looked twice if she passed me on the street, but ...

BG: It's amazing what a little double penetration can do for one's image!

BO: Yes, yes. How true. Nice girl, though.

BG: Did you get a chance to catch the Leif Garrett VH1 documentary?

BO: Why yes, I did.

BG: When his mom took him all teary-eyed to reunite with the childhood drug buddy he crippled in a Vince Neil-Razzle kind of car crash? There was a lump in my throat.

BO: That was so nice, wasn't it? Great, great. You sure the lump was in your throat?

BG: Was he difficult to go out on the road with? [The Melvins collaborated with Garrett on a cover of "Smells Like Teen Spirit" for their album The Crybaby.] How about that car wreck of a band he's got, Godhead?

BO: It was cool. We had our fill pretty quickly.

BG: I just read in the paper today that King of Pop, Mr. Michael Jackson, is looking into one of those $20 million Russian space missions. I'd take $5 mil, give the fool a couple hits of LSD, blindfold him, and take him to Disneyland. He'd never be the wiser!

BO: Well, hey – nothing should be denied him! You know those parents took the money; they didn't prosecute. No one ever mentions that. Forty million for a few nights with little Johnny. All whores, every one of them.

BG: Speaking of whores, I simply must drop the name of Fred Durst.

BO: Good ol' Fred. What's up with Florida anyway?

BG: That's one class act. You ever hear of these kids "Buddyhead"? They keep breaking into his offices, stealing his red, bald spot-hiding starter hats. Then they post them on Ebay and donate the proceeds to women's rape-crisis centers.

BO: Beautiful. Date-rape rock. Ultimately people like Fred Durst don't exist for me. People hear their stuff, realize it's complete shit, and come buy ours. It's like a shit barometer. He basically sets an evil precedent. I guess we need him. He'll be forgotten soon, and someone else will fill in his ballet slippers. At least Michael Jackson is interesting. He's got that Howard Hughes thing going.

BG: I'll still take the Jacksons over the frat boy.

BO: I'll take nothing! I'd rather sit and stare at the wall, listen to the air. [Emphatically] Nothing!

BG: What do you think's going through Dave Grohl's head – having gone from sharing the stage with Mr. Cobain to Alanis Morissette's former boy-toy drummer guy?

BO: Oh, I have no idea. We're off Dave's A-list. That was a long time ago, man, and he doesn't remember. He deals with lawyers not people.

BG: I think he and Mrs. Cobain should tie off their right hands [together] and fight to the death with walnut picks. The survivor gets the Nirvana rights, once and for all.

BO: That would be nice. Unfortunately, Dave and Courtney's drama won't be settled properly, but by lawyers. Darn the luck!

BG: Dave looked very punk rock at the VH1 Fashion Awards in his Motörhead shirt. Lemmy as the new Alexander McQueen?

BO: Dave should wear a mink coat. Actually a mink suit. He and Fred. Maybe we should all wear mink. Or better yet, buckskin. Ted Nugent. The real-life Tarzan.

BG: Have you tried his beef jerky?

BO: Mmm. Delicious. He's got some interesting philosophies. I liked Ahmet Ertegun [founder of Atlantic Records]. I met him once, and he told me that he could care less about the bands on Atlantic Records. He loved jazz. Those records never made him any money though. So he put out lots of shit to pay for the good stuff. Hey, they gave us 100 percent creative control. Never believe that they didn't.

BG: Well, I'm getting into doomsday predictions, myself. A most prolific group of artisans.

BO: Ahhh ... Nothing's going to happen.

BG: Easy for you to say. That second plane almost took the bird feeder off the roof of my apartment building.

BO: We needed a new bogeyman. Too many people anyway.

BG: Thin the herd?

BO: Absolutely!

BG: Humans have become like rats.

BO: Wrong! Rats have a purpose – and they don't go on welfare. Yeah, so doomsday ... Oh well, great.

BG: Then we've got the Catholic Church-NAMBLA thing going on. At least the gods of karma are taking care of business in that arena. Father O'Malley club-hopping chicken hawk! Them and Jodie Foster [currently filming The Dangerous Life of Altar Boys]. Another case of art imitating life or ...?

BO: Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You mean to tell me there are people in the Catholic Church abusing kids?!?! What a shocker!!! As John Waters once said, "Thank god I was raised Catholic, 'cause that means sex will always be dirty!"

BG: While we're on the topic of right-wing fruitcakes, what went through your head when your music was played on Celebrity Jeopardy for Oliver North? Was that the moment you realized you'd "arrived"?

BO: Didn't catch that one. Heard about it though. My life simply will not be complete until I have a tape of that show.

BG: He probably thought the Russians were finally coming. Oh hey, I hate to do this to you, especially since I don't get it myself, but seeing's how I promised this cute girl from Minneapolis that I'd ask you – fully unaware of what this is going to provoke ...

BO: Yes?! Spit it out, man!

BG: What or who in the hell is Bill Bartell, the Gay Cop? And what's the big secret?

BO: Whoahhhhh ... a guy we used to know. Haven't heard from him in a long time. Let me just say that I don't know if he's actually gay. I also don't know if he's really a cop.

BG: Uhhh ... OK?

BO: Don't really know where that came from. Let's just say that he is. There you go.

BG: Well, OK. She'll be happy. We're even, I suppose. Now on to the famous rock and roll sting-op. You once said you'd like to take a bunch of undercover cops into KROQ and ferret out all the "respectable" swine and send them to jail. The ties-and-tattoos crowd.

BO: Did I say that? Hmmmm. Ah yes, but who could be bothered? Certainly would be fun, though. People talk a lot of shit – everybody's got a big mouth. Including me. Believe that! However, at the time I think I was lying. For the record, I would, however, love to do that.

BG: It seems like the longer you guys tour, the more ornate – well, maybe not ornate, but elaborate, thought-out, I guess is what I'm going for ... You seem to be transforming into a sort of conductor. The whole thing is rather mind-bending, if I may be so bold as to kiss a bit of ass.

BO: If I had the means, yes, I wouldn't have to do anything. That's my dream. Getting paid for doing nothing. I wouldn't even have to leave. Stay home. Dictate everything over a cell phone. From my garden.

BG: Like Kraftwerk!

BO: Yeahhhh. Oh, but we could never be that cool.

BG: Well, one can hope, no? As you say, "Envision-Execute."

BO: Yes. True. Did I say that?