Rarely has a band been so well matched to a venue as it was Wednesday night when The Mummies took over Southpaw. The club’s considerable investment in rock ‘n’ roll—walls papered in album jackets, vintage tuck-and-roll sparkle naugahyde Plush and Kustom amplifiers behind the bar, a basement bunker bar that once housed a crackhead who occasionally raised enough green to enjoy the company of a lady friend at the most inopportune times—was quickly trumped by the trash talking, trash rocking Mummies who had the audience flinging plastic cups of beer at them before stagehands even got the curtain fully open. In between standing on, bench pressing and dry humping his Vox Continental organ, singer Trent Ruane tore down his bandmates with some classic mumbled gripes as they remembered/learned some songs on stage: “Yeah, alright, I remember my first beer, too.” “C’mon, I got a plane to catch.” “Refer to your manual!” One yahoo clawed himself up out of the scrum in front of the stage to crowd surf again and again. A full beer hit a spotlight and exploded into mist. Old timers like Eric Davidson and Mick Collins, singers for the New Bomb Turks and the Dirtbombs, respectively, nodded their approval in the back. The Mummies’ budget, thrown-together costumes turned gray with moisture as they, well, didn’t necessarily hit every note, but maybe missed the same notes they’ve been missing for years. Still, they sounded better live than they ever did on any of their records. And their stage getups may be smarter than they appear—I’m sure they’d be able to wring enough alcohol out of the sweaty bandages to catch a buzz the next morning.
After only one encore, the Mummies returned to the bowels of Southpaw and the crowd reluctantly dispersed in a gust of swampy air. Sure, rock is dead, but for one night it rose from the grave—20 years later, the Mummies are still stronger than dirt.
