Here’s something new for Tipper Gore’s Parents’ Music Resource Center to really worry about. The Milwaukee duo that calls itself the Frogs, Dennis and Jimmy Fleming, have claimed to be both siblings and lovers (does that count as incest?), and that sort of brotherly love is what they sing about in their debut album. With humor. Look at the title again. Oh, boy; oh, boy.
The album cover shows a picture of a male child with a pink triangle—the symbol of gay liberation—pinned to his shirt, suggesting that your cute little boy could grow up and be just like the Frogs. And from the album’s first line, “I’ve got drugs that will blow your mind tonight,” it’s clear that this collection of songs is testing the dedication of the Just Say No crowd, as the Frogs sing with delighted depravity of drug-afflicted and/or homosexual incidents. Musically the odd combination of pervo-novelty songs performed by lazy guitars and nasal vocals make the Frogs sound like a duet between Bob Dylan and Tiny Tim. And at times it’s hard to tell when such songs as “Homos” and “Dykes Are We” (“There’s no chance we’ll ever get AIDS”) are strictly for laughs or also meant to touch on the pain and difficulty of being a sexual minority.
At any rate, the tune topics are often funny, though mostly unprintable in a family magazine—except perhaps one for gay incestuous families. In one fairly tame tune, “(Thank God I Died in) The Car Crash,” a ghost recalls his humiliation at having nine pairs of underwear on at his funeral, while “Gather ’round for Savior #2” envisions a second coming with a gay messiah surrounded by children and warning their concerned parents, “Oh, I took up this life when I was half their age.”
So what’s this all about? Outrageousness, mainly, in its many guises, It’s not easy being rebellious these days, what with just about everything being condoned or acquiesced in by modern parents. And in what the Fleming boys call “This crazy faggy time we live in,” this multilayered satire has damning comments to make—on pop culture, on gay bravado, on how to get publicity—whether or not you can dance to it, Which, incidentally, you can’t. (Homestead)