I’m obsessed with shitting, so the wicked wake-up track on San Francisco garage outfit the Roofies’ studio debut, Blame It on the Roofies, gets me off (the toilet). Title: “Assorcism.” But what is it, exactly? I wanna put this song on repeat for hours, searching for clues: “It’s like a drug. . . . It moves my bum . . . something inside wants to come out.”
Sounds possibly like normal defecation, yet from the claims leveled by various ladies in the presong slumber-party confessional, it seems assorcism is something a little less quotidian: “I had a girlfriend who tried it,” one lady unburdens herself, and “she hasn’t stopped since.” Hmmm. I guess the good thing is that, finally, as lead singer Jibz Cameron joyously affirms, “It makes me shout!” Well all right! Combine frat-rock à la “Little Latin Lupe Lu,” Farrelly brothers lexicon, and a heavy dose of girl-centrism, and you get the Roofies, whose basically offensive name denotes not their screwy politics, but rather their pervasive, trashy levity. “Would Daddy like it?” Jibz asks her assorcist minions. “Who cares?” they call back. “I am possessed, wanna get undressed, I wiggle and squirm like a feisty sperm,” she screams.
Revamping the Sonics’ “Witch,” the eight members of this band strike out with their own “Bitch,” and they really hate this woman: “You used to be a lesbian, until you started liking men. But you couldn’t get a man, if you could buy him in a can.” Other put-downs: “You got a big-ass nose on a super-ugly face” (straightforward!); “If I was a guy, I wouldn’t let you suck my dick” (hugely insulting—don’t all guys let you suck their dicks?); and “I went to Korea, where I smelled like diarrhea—and you take smelly shit and you’re a bitch!” (The fury mounts—then, as if you’re fighting with your little brother, you finally lose coherence.)
Live, I bet, the Roofies are the kind of band you’d want to play for hours: a soundtrack for your perverted prom, where everyone actually drinks and fucks. On their record, however, the potty-mouthin’ ultimately gets so wacky it waxes dull. But it’s still kinda funny, in that p.c.-backlash kinda way. It’s not hard to feel compassion for tunes with titles like “Fleshy Surprise” and “Frankie the Shoe Fucker.” And Jibz Cameron is to be admired: Her vehement energy; huge, bratty voice; and silly, dirty, romping lyrics (not to mention her cute, comic cover art featuring tiny undesignated animals in underwear) drive the group. “The Roofies have been playing together since we met in 1963 at the Merry Music Makers Camp for Teen Sex Offenders in Pasadena, California,” she writes on their Web site. Yeah, right—actually, the band was reportedly born while the Supremes blasted during a car trip to Oregon.
As Rhino’s compilation Frat Rock explains, “Beer was [the genre’s] unchallenged drug of choice, and sex, the Braille-like subtext of the whole schmeer.” Toss in the pathos of bikinied and beehived girls’ post-Rohypnol mornings, substitute “context” for “subtext,” and you have a party band for the millennium.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on October 24, 2000