I think someone from a self-absorbed L.A. band — that was sort of edgy in the ’80s — once wrote a book about their exploits called The Dirt. One Albuquerque band makes that stuff look like Sunday school, and they’ve been doing it live on stage for 30 years now. The mighty Beefcake in Chains is a group of degenerate musicians who go by the stage names Vinnie Testosteroni (guitar), Ben Dildo (drums) and Stephen “Panty Cleaver” Hardcock (bass). Last, and least is your humble host and self-proclaimed “God O’ the Mighty Beefcake Rod” Cap’n Orgasm on “vocals.” If punk rock, scum rock and sleaze metal(ish) music get you off, these dudes are sure to satisfy your strangest appetites. The Cap’n says if you’re not ready to get your clothes shredded and your dignity thrown out the window, stay home and watch cartoons. But if you wanna get wild and dirty and embarrass yourself in front of a crowd that’s probably just as twisted as you are, step right up!
Will you describe your sound for us?
We sound like if punk rock got railed in a gas station bathroom by nihilism and a distortion pedal. It’s loud, dirty and unapologetically horny. Our lyrics don’t whisper sweet nothings. They bend you over the amp and scream filthy poetry into your soul while biting your neck. If our music had a taste, it’d be whiskey, latex and someone else’s spit. It fucks — and it doesn’t call you back.
What are your favorite venues to play and why?
We’re mostly Launchpad house gremlins at this point. It’s the one venue where the crowd knows our songs, forgives our behavior and actively enables my bad decisions. I get handed drinks like communion, only to end up half-naked behind the dumpster getting groped by someone who swears they used to date my cousin. It’s loud, it’s sweaty, it smells like spilled beer and questionable consent — but damn, it feels like home.
We don’t play all-ages because this shit’s for grown-ass degenerates only. We’re all about clean balls — because hygiene matters when you’re grinding nasty — and filthy, filthy thoughts that’ll make your grandma clutch her pearls. We live for when horny perverts climb onstage to get freaky as hell — grinding, spanking, dry-humping or just straight-up doing things that make everyone question their life choices.
What are your lyrics about?
Our lyrics are a glorious cesspool of unholy thoughts. One minute we’re crooning about tender, sweaty Viking-on-Viking romance under a blood moon, the next we’re growling about sniffing bike seats like they’re gourmet aphrodisiacs. We’ve got songs about interdimensional orgies, getting pegged by a ghost and one disturbingly heartfelt ballad about licking pudding off a priest’s shoe. It’s poetry, if your idea of poetry involves lube, leather and a restraining order. Basically, we write the kind of songs that make your genitals confused and your therapist richer.
What bands or genres inspire your music?
We’re heavily inspired by the holy trinity of filthy degenerates —The Meatmen, The Mentors and the Dead Boys — plus the glorious chaos of Jayne County and that grimy, sleazed-out ’70s NYC punk scene where it felt like every guitar solo was followed by a blowjob and a bar fight. Our sound is basically what happens when you snort crushed vinyl records off a stranger’s thigh backstage at CBGB. We take the rawness, the rage and the raging boners of our influences and crank it all up until it’s leaking out of your speakers like something that definitely requires antibiotics.
What is the best show you have ever played and why?
Easy. The best shows are when things go so off the rails the venue staff just gives up and starts drinking with us. We’ve had people get on stage and dry-hump amps, tongue-kiss strangers with questionable dental histories, and one time a guy puked and came during the same guitar solo. But nothing beats the infamous “Hippie Spankfest.” This crusty, glitter-smeared dude climbed onstage for his birthday, dropped his patchouli-soaked pants, and we took turns spanking his hairy ass to a sloppy punk rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Someone licked the whipped cream off his back, someone else slipped in it, and sprained their dignity. Mike Trujillo got the whole thing on video and uploaded it before the hippie even sobered up. It smelled like feet, sex and broken boundaries. And honestly, it was beautiful. I’m not sure if that really happened. I was a tad drunk.
When is your next show?
Ugh, maybe September — if the planets stop jerking each other off and decide to line up for once. We’re not some desperate gig sluts banging out every crappy show just to get laid by a crowd; we only get onstage when it feels filthy right … and gloriously wrong — like sneaking into your drunk ex’s bed and smashing their favorite lamp just because you can. So keep your pants barely on and your brain in the gutter, because when we hit the stage, it’s gonna be a nasty, sweaty, borderline illegal mess you won’t forget (even if you want to).
It took decades for society’s standards to lower enough for the band to release a studio album, but they dropped a record last year. You can jam it on Spotify here.
If you’re not utterly exhausted from reading about the band yet, cruise the mighty Beefcake in Chains’ YouTube channel and see the stuff that’s too hot for TV here.
