I can’t hear your music because your boobs are too loud :: A Rant about Butcher Babies

Butcher Babies

This past Saturday, I went to a Marilyn Manson concert.

…Yeah.

20 minutes in, a guy with glitter gel in his hair told me he was going to memorize my face and put a curse on me – which,  you might think, had to be the most eventful part of the night. Or maybe it was when Mr. Manson said he “hated getting caught stabbing women,” right before he sang a song I’m pretty sure was about rape. BUT then again, you probably have never heard of Butcher Babies.

That’s right, Butcher Babies.

Now, I can’t tell you what I was expecting when it came to the opening band, but I can tell you what I was NOT expecting – two ridiculously hot girls, covered in fake blood, screaming so intensely I’m surprised their little lungs could expand that much under the crushing weight of their completely disproportionate fake boobies.

I really, really want to tell you that I’m so proud that women can get up there with the boys, ignore all societal expectations for how a female should act, and deliver a performance equally as satisfying as any male-fronted musical act.

But I can’t.

I do, in fact, believe that can happen, but unfortunately it won’t happen in the form of a Butcher Babies performance. You see, I get the shock factor thing. I really do. You need to get all up in everybody’s face to prove that you can hang, and you’re willing to defy all expectations to do it – including wearing nothing but electrical tape, because how else are you going to drown out the screams of every other Matty Mullins and Jake Luhrs out there?

The problem, my sweet little Butcher Babies, is that you should probably double check to make sure you have the talent to back it up. Or at least hire a songwriter who doesn’t suck so. bad.

Despite being included two years in a row on Revolver Magazine’s Hottest Chicks in Hard Rock calendar, these two do not belong in the same category as badass girls like Lzzy Hale or Maria Brink. It makes me laugh a little to myself that these poor schlub fans of theirs have fallen so deep into their hypnotizing trap of nipple tape and hair whipping that they believe the music is good.

Well boys let me give you a little piece of advice – buy the calendar, skip the show.

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Categories: Concert Review, Editorial

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