Sex, Lies, and Uncomfortable Misogynistic Content

by Sharon Rexsmith

Just four months after they released Star Sex, Abysmal Crucifix are back for revenge with Two Berries on a Twig. The album contains: pleas to be "fucked to death," detailed instructions on effective hard sex with a reluctant female partner, despair and sadness (voiced by an actual female, Abysmal Crucifix friend and collaborator D.J. Koko) that a penis is too big, revulsion when a transexual does not adapt to typical female gender roles, male-assisted female masturbation, a male stalking a female, still more huge penis demands (this time with the male demanding the female stick it in her mouth because it is too large to fit into her vagina), and an implicit comparison of sex to murder-by-werewolf.

Abysmal Crucifix is offering to the world, for the second time in less than half a year, a series of songs that border on monstrous in their depiction of women and male-female sexual relations. Each song contains lyrics so puerile, so childishly stated by tunesmith Girth McDürchstein, that they are not merely offensive to women — they are offensive to men for assuming these lyrics are in some way relatable to the masculine experience, and they are offensive to humanity as a whole merely for existing. What is wrong with Girth McDürchstein?

In a quiet voice, almost whispering, I will acknowledge that the music is interesting and, at times, quite beautiful. The lyrics and ribald stage shows, drenched in nudity and bodily fluids, will forever be the downfall of Abysmal Crucifix. I can't see their popularity increasing. At all. Ever.

I tried to contact Girth McDürchstein for an interview. He didn't return my calls, so I actually went down to Los Angeles to an Abysmal Crucifix concert to speak to him myself. Fortunately, I was one of the few women he didn't invite onto the stage to leer at and fondle — but what about the women who were? Why are they allowing this to happen instead of standing up for their rights as women?

Is it possible they like being demeaned and degraded by a man so clearly inferior, so poorly endowed, that they will allow him to touch their breasts, work his own pump-action ejaculating dildo in them, and occasionally even penetrate them with his own undersized manhood? What kind of monster is this? What sort of control does he have over these women?

Incidentally, McDürchstein refused an interview. When I approached him backstage, he looked me up and down and asked if I wanted "some a dat" while aiming his thumbs at the smooth, almost flat patch of leather pants covering his crotch. I declined — but I admit I was reluctant. The man exudes charisma like a sewage treatment plant exudes waste. I'm not sure why I turned him down.

Reprinted from Hardchord Magazine, June/July 1996