In college, WB had some friends from home who went to other colleges and were in a band. They were musically talented, although unfortunately none of them could sing worth a darn. He would come back from break with tapes of their recordings, one of which, the immortal “Who’s Gonna Buy the Beer” actually made it to vinyl on an independent label somehow.
The best thing about the Groundhogs, as they were called, was their magnificently offensive lyrics, which snuck up on you, disguised as they were by nice melodic guitar lines and sung in what would have been a pleasant manner if the singer’s voice hadn’t been complete crap. My personal favorite was the beginning to “Web of Love”.
Oh, I was searching
For a certain
Kind of girl to f—“
Or the wandering, almost Sultans of Swing-like “Bass Ale” which chronicled a weary working man’s night out at his local bar.
The other day, me and a couple buddies decided,
We’d go have a couple brews at the local bar.
We didn’t realize,
That it was going to be homos, all around us.
Yeah, the homos were coming in, they were getting ready,
For a big dance party, on Saturday night.
Oh, Saturday night….
It always amused me to put the tape in the car when I’d be out on a date or something, and it would take a couple songs before whoever was with me would realize what they were singing. Nine times out of ten, male or female, they’d burst out laughing. It got to the point that we couldn’t have a party without a mass demand for the Groundhogs tape, usually, of course, after everyone was adequately refreshed and in the mood for a riotous sing-along culminating in “Snorklehead”, which was either a Blyesque assertion of masculine independence from female oppression or an ode to lethal interspecies affection. I know all the words and I’m still not sure.