Doin’ the Head Boogie with CHINGA CHAVIN [1977]

Text by Lincoln D. Kirk / FFanzeen, 1977

Intro and live image by Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2021
Other images from the Internet

Doin’ the Head Boogie with Chinga Chavin

This article about Country Porn lead singer Chinga Chavin was written by Western New York rock historian Lincoln D. Kirk, and was printed in FFanzeen Number 2, way back in October 1977.

A previously unreleased interview with Chavin by myself was published last year on this blog (HERE). At the time of this article, Chavin had only released one eponymously titled album, Country Porn and later would have Jet Lag, and years later, Live and Politically Erect. – RBF, 2021. 

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What’s this? You say you hate country music? But you do dig smut, don’t you? I thought as much. Well then, good buddy, allow me to introduce you to Chinga Chavin’s Country Porn, the world’s first X-rated country band.

X-rated country? Doesn’t sound like something that’ll go over big in the Bible Belt, much less country fairs, John Denver Rocky Mountain  hideaways, the Grand Ole Opry, or even beer-brawl Texas roadhouses. But that won’t stop Nick Chavin. He’ll hit all those circuits anyway, knowing full well he’s setting himself up as a target for rednecks waiting in parking lots across America to tear him limb-from-limb., for verbally raping their virgin kid sisters’ ears with his explicit raunch – after all, it’s happening to him already.

Chavin’s demented combination of rugged individualism, hucksterism, and salacious pornography can be traced back to his years as a teenage pervert in Juarez,. That fabled flesh-hole, across the border from his hometown, El Paso, quite probably the most debauched of all wide-open Mexican border towns (Juarez, that is; the El Paso Chamber of Commerce as been known to get awfully nervous when people allude to the two cities in the same breath!), serves as the inspiration and origin for many of his outrageous lyrics. To hear those who were there tell about it, New York’s modern-day street-punks are practically model of strait-laced gentility compared to the denizens of Juarez’ golden era. Pre-teen sex, bestiality as night-club entertainment, and other fun depravities most people only read about, watch in porn flicks, or fantasize about could easily be had for a price, and not an overly high one at that. To be sure, for most Texas teens in the ‘50s, these pockets of paradise were rarely more than temporary outlets, places to sow wild oats and to taste the pleasures of manhood, a very occasional thing at best. To Chavin, Juarez became an obsession (“love at first sight,” he’s characterized it), and fond memories festered in his warped psyche long after he went respectable and became a high school English teacher in the San Francisco Bay area, living the good life in Marin County.

But then along came the 1970s. Charlie Rich’s “Behind Closed Doors” opened the floodgates, causing an uproar over its supposedly “dirty” lyrics. Nevertheless, despite bitter denunciations, country and pop fans lapped it up in the millions. In its wake, a rash of bedroom songs invaded first the country airwaves, then peaked over into Top 40.

Keep in mind that the young honky-tonkers  who thrilled to barroom weepers and cheating laments in the ‘50s have long since grown up into staunch conservatives, to whom country music is the last bastion of true, red-blooded, God-fearing, moral Americanism in the media. All those songs about warm and tender bodies, making love in the hot afternoons, and having daydreams about night things are ruining their teenage children’s morality, breaking up marriages and families, causing a decline in church attendance, and eating away at our democratic institutions. And you think you’ve got it tough being a punk? Try being a Christian parent, what with sinners like Billie Jo Spears, Barbara Mandrell, Bill Anderson, and Mel Tillis seducing your youngsters and loved ones into a life of lust and slavery!!

But, let’s face it. Even with all the Ruby’s taking their love to town, the afternoon delights, the blankets on the ground, the girls who get prettier at closing time, and similar manifestations of decadence run amok, all these songs of illicit sex and forbidden pleasures are pretty smut-less. The strongest four-letter words are still “hell” and “damn,” and even these can still get a record into trouble (Farron Young’s “Here I am in Dallas” was banned on dozens of country stations simply because of the vehemence with which the former singing cowboy repeated the relatively innocuous line, “Where the hell are you?!”). The actual sex act is never mentioned in any of these songs (the lovers generally just considered it, or just woke up following their dastardly deed). Besides, sex in country lyrics is generally dignified as a daring, meaningful expression of love and tender emotions instead of pure animal lust. IF there’s no “true love” involved, the singer is usually beset by enormously crippling guilt pangs. All acts considered “deviant” by a random panel of evangelists are strictly taboo, and sex in general talked about rather than done. So much for smut in country lyrics.

Into this setting steps Chinga Chavin, to whom the very idea of porno lyrics in an idiom which continually tries to clean itself up is enough to change the entire course of his life, from reputable to purposely offensive. Even his name is extended to be offensive, “chinga” being Spanish for “fuck you.” Even his guitar is depraved, being constructed out of a toilet seat. This guy is all the evil, filthy things that so-called evil, filthy AM-country isn’t. Forget that idealized, romantic balladry – you won’t get it from Chinga. This pervert says everything straight out. Lyrics like, “She wore my ring around her neck/But she wore her legs around mine” (from “Tit Stop Rock”) ain’t something you’re gonna hear on a Ray Price record!

If you suspect the Nashville-music press is ignoring his existence, you’re almost right. Country Music, perhaps the top mag in the field, did make the mistake of reviewing his album and has lived to regret it. But the porn press has done much to publicize Chinga, almost to the point of landing him major-label contract (from – believe it or not – Motown, who backed down at the last minute and signed Pat Boone instead; true story!). Indeed, he was an underground hero, particularly in San Francisco, before he ever committed a note to vinyl. If nothing else, his exploits have made for what is known in the press as “hot copy.”

You see, Chinga’s the sort who would play a concert in a divinity school without toning down the pandering obscenity of his lyrics and stage act. He would and did hire porno film star Gina Fornelli to bump, grind and reveal her world-famous mammaries – while dressed in a nun’s habit! He wasn’t asked back. Then there was the time he played San Quentin, fondling his dancer’s boobs as he sang with a plastic dick on his nose. He caused such a riot among the crowd of ultra-horny inmates that he almost found himself staying in prison as an unwilling guest of the State! This Chinga Chavin fellow is so low, he didn’t even soften his act when his own, very-mainstream mother was in the audience. Now that’s nasty!

If some of this garbage seems to stretch credulity a bit, if you think I’m making this up, send $8.95 (I know that’s a lot, but put things in perspective; it was also the list price of the soundtrack of A Star is Born, which has about as much redeeming musical value as Chinga has a redeeming moral value!!) to CP Products, [New York address that is no longer valid – RBF, 2021], and ask for album CP-666, Chinga Chavin’s Country Porn. (Don’t look for it in your local stores, cos they won’t have it!) If you’re into unmitigated trash, it’s worth every penny.

No expense was spared! Chinga attempts to supply you, the consumer, with a worthwhile product, one that will bring you hours of disgusting entertainment. Chinga brought in no less a record-industry-respected figure than Michael Brovsky, the man who brought you Jerry Jeff Walker and similar namby-pamby (in comparison to Chinga, at least) “outlaws,” to professionally produce the album. The engineering is first-rate, thanks to the facilities of Quadraphonic Studios – one of Nashville’s finest. Augmenting regular Country Porn members – Chinga, Beaver Bob Herman and Blue Berry – are some of country’s most awesome sidemen. If names like Kenny Buttrey [d. 2004], Norbert Putnam, Bobby Emmons [d. 2015], Bobby Thompson [d. 2005], and Chip Young [d. 2014] don’t mean anything to you, look through the personnel listings in the country bins of your favorite record stores and count how many times these names pop up. And on steel guitar, Chinga managed to procure the services of the man whom many worship as the greatest steelman of them all, Curley Chalker [d. 1998]. Helping out on background vocals is no less than Dobie (“In Crowd,” “Drift Away”) Gray [d. 2011]. This ain’t no low-budget quickie, nosireebob!

Musically, it’s more country-rock than hardcore country. Hold it – I didn’t mean to conjure up Eagles and Poco images with that term “country-rock.” Imagine a middle ground between rockabilly and Merle Haggard. Take it down to a Texas sleaze tavern and throw in some R&B and Tex-Mex, give it some Nashville-tinged gloss, and you’ll get an idea of what sort of country-rock this is. The music is performed pretty much straight, all the better to emphasize the discrepancy between Chavin and “proper” country music. There’s only one drawback – poor Chinga can’t sing to save his ugly ass (there’s a photograph of his ass on the inside cover, such is how I know it’s ugly!). But while his voice lacks all flexibility and he has the gosh-darndest ol’ time trying to carry a tune, he does have this sardonic leer-turning-to-sneer in his voice that is simply perfect for the under-the-counter rancidity of his lyrics.

And, after all, it is the lyrics that you as a punk are more interested in than the music, right? Things get off to a great start with “Talkin’ Matamoros First Piece O’ Ass Blues,” in which Chinga rewrites his glory days at Juarez. Our hero recounts the loss of his innocence to a “cute little Chicano whore” in one of the album’s most explicitly, humorous, and smoothly produced (mariachi trumpets, castanets, and all) tracks. To fully appreciate it, you really have to hear the way Chinga says things like “Psst, hey meester / How’d you like to fuck my seester” and other deathlessly poetic lines. On the other hand, “Cum Stains on the Pillow (Where Your Sweet Head Used to Be”) is an almost poignant love-lost lament which, with a few lyric revisions, would be just right for a Tennessee barroom jukebox.

Probably the only song which could get any airplay at all is the trucker song, “Get It On the Run.” You won’t find a radio station in America, though, with balls furry enough to risk their FCC license by playing the rockin’, rollin’ “Four A.M. Jump,” with its all-time irresistible singalong chorus, “We’re gonna jump, suck, lick, fuck / And hump all night… / Till we ball away the blues.” And what a Capella doo-wop group wouldn’t love to shake their middle-class/middle-age audiences up with a few sounds of “Sit, Sit, Sit  (Sit On My Face)”? Don’t overlook the R&B stomper “Head Boogie” (“Get down and poach them eggs / Three minutes soft cooked / and well done” sure ain’t no Julia Child cooking lesson, friends and neighbors!!).

Two cuts deserve special mention. “Asshole from El Paso” is Chavin’s biggest hit, so to speak, though no one gives him credit for it. Seems an old University of Texas frat brother, Kinky Friedman, heard Chavin do this parody of “Okie from Muskogee,” added it to his (Kinky’s) act, and now everyone thinks it’s a Freidman original. But Kinky is strictly a lightweight when it comes to porn-country. If you want to hear how lines like “We keep our women virgins ‘till they’re married / So fuckin’ sheep is good enough for us” should really be delivered, forget Friedman, and rely on Chavin to show you the true way.

Speaking of “the true way,” perhaps the most controversial of all Country Porn favorites is “Cum Unto Jesus.” Here, Chinga  takes on that most sacred of all country cows: fundamentalist evangelism (simplified for all you atheistic punks out there, that means “religion”). As Bobby Emmons plays “Rock of Ages,” that scurrilous heathen Chinga renders a sermonette from the Anal Robert Show, with a devastating attack on country-gospel music. This wicked sinner, Chavin, apparently hopes to draw his listeners with him into the flaming pits of Hades, claiming our dear sweet Savior actually encourages us to engage in perverted sexual activity. May the red-hot fires of eternal damnation forever punish Nicholas Chavin and all his propensity for darin’ to disseminate the blasphemous chorus, “You’ve got to cum for Peter / Cum for Paul / Cum for Mary, too / If you cum twice / Jesus Christ will bless you.” It’s enough to give a Bible-toting Christian a vicious hardon, I tell you. Anyone who listens to this heinous record will surely perish from the face of the Earth! Satan, himself, must be turning the record presses for this diabolical lump of vinyl. Hallelujah!!!

Believe me, this guy China does have a way with smut. So even if you don’t dig country music, you owe it to your immoral [sic] soul to check out Country Porn. 10-4, good buddy!!