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.
* * *
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.
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!!
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