Here is the download: Pink Panties - Live on WUOG
The following transcription was recently unearthed from the historical archive of Sgt. Gary Flowers (Ret.):
Toast Of The Turkey, or My Day As Animal Handler Of The Pink Panties
Dateline: June 1997
It was difficult enough to get the Pink Panties past United States Customs Agents (what with fresh moon shining convictions on their records), but couple that with their collective agoraphobia and puzzling, yet crippling, fear of all things magnetic, and it was a near impossibility to finally wrangle them into the hallowed halls of college radio bastion WUOG 90.5 fm in Athens, Georgia. Not to mention the band's irrational belief that they were somehow the second biggest band in the free world (behind only [again, in their minds] The Mentors), and commanded far more respect than what was generally afforded them by the half dozen or so musical masochists who could legitimately be called "fans" in any real capacity. The egos were job to contain in and of themselves.
Once there in the studio, it was quickly determined that the band's knowledge of music, nay, musical instruments was that of a young child. And not a precocious young whippersnapper either, I mean a real dullard. The kind of retard born of inhalants and the East St. Louis School System, a true idiot. It became a true exaltation of will merely getting the drum kit set up, and the amplifiers plugged in. Beyond the archaic power requirements and unruly equipment they crafted their "songs" on, the band could not be bothered to help in erecting their novelty stage props or (beyond offensive, not to mention somehow xenophobic) banners, even when alerted to the fact that this performance was merely for radio broadcast and would not be seen by any person alive or dead, at any time in the history of the universe. All of these tribulations whilst baby-sitting four clinically diagnosed half-wits with the combined attention span of a gnat will test even the most dedicated recording professionals. But (and yes, that sentence began with "but"), 27 hours, eighteen engineers, six gaffers, a dozen catering companies, and one visit from the Arch Diocese of Georgia later, the Panties rose triumphant above the wastelands around their feet.
What your are listening to is the word from on high, the tempered tones of Truth if you will. All killer, no filler. Say what you will about their methods, their hygiene, their treatment of animals, or their disrespect for the mathematical arts, but the Pink Panties do what they say, and say what they please. Do what thou wilt, shall be the whole of the law, or something like that. I don't know, I'm not a fucking philosopher or anything, I just saw that written down somewhere and thought it would be appropriate, or somehow impressive to quote it here. Doesn't matter because the Pink Panties would have no idea what I was trying to say anyway, hell, they will never even read this transcript, they're probably halfway across the globe drinking Mai Thais out of the hairless buttholes of Laotian teenage boys. That's just how they do, or did, or will do.
You see, Pink Panties, while technically a band, where more of an apparition, a fever dream of colliding light and shadows never to be contained or replicated. As such, we, the public, are lucky to have even this poorly recorded (and performed I might add) document of their existence playing music, or what might pass for music at the Helen Keller Center For The Criminally Insane (located catty corner from the Elsinore Brewery). The laser focus of the band's sounds could shatter glass and minds alike, not something easily contained on any known commercial format. Like a thief in the night, Pink Panties came, saw, wet on your rug, and were gone before you knew what that smell could even be. I may hem and haw occasionally about their demands, or their inability to grasp even the simplest tenets of language, but ultimately, at the end of the day, when they released the torrent of transcendent energy that was their blitzkrieg setlist...well...what else could I do but acknowledge that I had just borne witness to the greatest porno-grind band to ever emerge from Eastern French Canada.
Personnel (at the time of recording):
Loudy LeReoux - Drums
Farty LeReoux - Bass
Bossy LeReoux -Guitar
Curly LeReoux - Vocals
Personnel (previous):
Biggy LeReoux - Backing Vocals
Stinky LeReoux - Bass
Lanky LeReoux - Security
Nudity LeReoux -Security
Ray Butt LeReoux - Passing Through
Songlist (approximation, as the songs were more suggestions and less structure, constantly shifting to please the band's mercurial moods):
Sloppy Shit Butthole Stinky
Chainsaw Massacre Head Off With Decapitated Bodies Shitting On The Street (Smell this) aka Stone Mountain Laser Show Riot
Gremlins Go Surfing At Camp Crystal Lake
E.T. Died On The Cross...Bitch
March Of The Mammals
Poppycock, Balderdash, and Flim Flam
Young Til I Die (later covered and made popular by Reno, NV hardcore band 7 Seconds)
For The Glory Of The Crown,
Sgt. Gary Flowers (ret.)
The following images are from a performance in Athens from 1996 in full battle regalia:
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