Here Come the Mummies Certainly Came, and Funked Us Good

It's exactly what it says on the tin.
It's like Broadway, but ... not.
We're an odd bunch here at Operation BSU. We do crazy things like pretend that we're journalists just to get in to places for free, and then ... actually report on them. Like good journalists. Which is kind of obscene, if you stop to think about it. Citizen journalism? In this day and age? What crap!

A couple of weeks ago, I was shambling along the streets of Athens, GA, home of fine musical acts like REM and Man or Astroman, and I wandered within line of sight in front of the newly reopened and remodeled Georgia Theater. What to my wondering eyes should appear but the upcoming playbills! Not just any playbills, but hidden among the piles was a thin green flimsy promising the near-immediate appearance of Here Come the Mummies!

I turned to my faithful schmooze-master and PR coordinator, The Big Leneski, and I said, "Holy shit, Here Come the Mummies!"

Whereupon he dove to the concrete in a three-point combat stance and said, "Where? Where?" while fumbling for the butt of his non-extant crossbow or M-16. I think maybe we've been playing a lot of zombie games and the mention of the undead, well, it was swift and concerning.

"No, dumbass. On the upcoming shows! Here Come the Mummies! They're great! Imagine a bunch of guys who dress like mummies, get up on stage, then throw down the rockingest hard jazz you've ever heard, all the while cracking mummy sex jokes! They're awesome!"

The lights are right for a par-tay.
I'm not too proud to say there were some speculative looks. Not all my ideas are guaranteed winners. Some are awesome, some are ... niche. Deeply niche. Like hidden behind the real books and underneath your pile of animal fetish porn niche. But this is a good crew. They tend to let my personal foibles go in favour of the big news and, besides, if I was this enthused about a band, how bad could it be?

Right? Right? Beuller?

Right. I'm brilliant and in possession of the best taste of any producer / editor / news coordinator ever. I'm writing this, so I get to craft the backstory. If I've learned nothing else from my years of watching CNN, MSNBC and Fox, I've learned that!

David Prime, The Big Leneski,
and the SquidLord lurk in
Taste of India.
Fast-forward to Thursday, June 14th. It's a fairly quiet day in Athens, GA. The sun is shining (a little too brightly for the solar-adverse). The birds are chirruping. No one I know that actually lives in town is around. So we, being proper journalists, take the opportunity to start drinking. As I've said before, one of the best things about journalism is that no one expects you to do it sober. A little early afternoon aperitif, and by that I mean holy-shit-that-is-strong German Chocolate Cake shots, really gets the blood pumping. Especially on an empty stomach.

We're real journalists, damnit! This proves it! All I lack is the little brown hat with the "PRESS' tag on it.

I'll get me one of those hats, my pretty. Just you wait and see.

Once you're good and soused, it's poor form not to go get some of the finest food that lies within the city you've been fulminating within, and for that we hit my favourite old stand-by, Taste of India. This is a place full of curries and tandoori and that most holy of foods, kema naan, but for my entree I order one thing: tandoori steak.
Blasphemy! Delicious, wonderful blasphemy.

Tandoori steak. Is there a word for how inchoately blasphemous I am? I must be pretty horrific since I almost successfully asked the waitress out to dinner.

Eventually, it was time to go settle in to the Theater and check out the seating arrangements. The rebuild of the interior was nice indeed. The entry goes right by a smallish bar. You walk forward and down to the floor level, which is roughly the size of the 40 Watt a few blocks away, though about 30% wider ... but the stairs winding up the side attract your attention, and your eye travels up, up, up, noting along the way the three tiers of further rail-side / table seating, where all the adults sit. At the very tip-top ...

... There is another bar.

Take into account that this is a venue which is now known for having a bar on the roof and throwing $2 roof parties, and you can see what this really is. The Holy Grail for journalists.

Up on the rooftop, click click click.
Three bars, elevated seating for those who might be a tad short, and what's that I see? Gigantic fans? Let me do a few quick volume-energy computations and -- there. Right there. That's where we'll be sitting for the show. Air moves there. I need moving air badly.

But not too badly yet. We've come in right after the doors open, stumbling down from the bar on the roof (thank Hades for elevators). The place is ... surprisingly empty. A scattering of upper-middle class couples, a minor fistfull of college kids kicking around with no place better to go on a Thursday night until school is back in session. Us.

It's a strange crowd, especially for a college town in the off-season.

Then that happened.

This is where we start pointing out things that got liveblogged from the concert itself, which you can catch a great amount of over on the Operation BSU Google Plus page, where its all been neatly placed in the posting feed.

Mummies Alive! And funking you up.
I want to contextualize this properly for you. Here Come the Mummies started off the show by starting to play outside the theater, jamming hardcore as they came up through the crowd, and leaped up on stage to essentially play for the next two hours solid. Solid. These poor bastards just don't take a break. Ever. I have seriously maintained after the concert that they are not, in fact, dressed as mummies. Those are just multiple layers of towels they use to absorb the sweat that would otherwise pour out and wash away the crowd.

The brass section knows no fear.

Pretty much like that. For two hours.

"Why would you think we're into bondage, anyway?"
I'd be a liar if I told you that this show did not rock beyond rock, like Mum-Ra the Everliving. Look over here at the two girls dressed as mummies. Those are the bartenders. How much has a band got to ooze with pure, gelignite awesome to get the bar staff to jump in with that kind of excitement? That's a miracle! A Christmas miracle! Except it happened in June and I didn't get to unwrap any presents.


If I were a proper music journalist, I'd already have an entire set list, probably stolen straight off the stage at the end of the set and meticulously noted upon with multiple colours deliberately working out every what and wherefore of each individual song and how the light board guy must've programmed the macros, and what brand of foot pad the lead singer used purely from the shape of his foot prints in the dripping sweat of the front row.

I'm not that kind of journalist. I have video!

Here is a thing that happened. The Mummies have a song called "Let Your Freak Flag Fly." Simple enough, right? Only their stage show involves bringing out two massive flags marked "FREAK," going all colour-guard on our asses, then handing one to another mummy on a tricycle that proceeds to ride all around the stage, waving his freak flag high.

I realize that sounds unbelievable, so here's more footage from a live show out in California.

The freak flag was well and truly flown.

Which was rather a theme of the night. If you've already gone out there, digging around, looking for Here Comes the Mummies videos and music, you know that there's a strong thread of -- I can't say "alternate sexuality" in good conscience. Maybe "omni-sexuality." The Mummies are sexual beings. They want to stick it in anywhere it'll fit, and if that takes a little stretching or maybe some consensual cutting, that's fine too. What I'm saying is that there are a lot of overtly sexual events that are positively commonplace on stage.

For instance, someone might strap on a cowbell attached to a belt (or, more specifically, a "cowbelt") then run out on stage, thrusting their hips in rhythm and asking the crowd who wants a little more gong in their thing or on their dong.

Everyone wants more gong for their dong!
And we have a volunteer from the audience.
That, friends, is a thing that happened. The Mummies picked a guy from the front row -- one there with a fairly attractive tall-woman in tight leather pants and platform shoes that made me almost able to touch her fuzzed-out hair from my lofty seat -- brought him on stage, then strapped a dong-gong cowbelt on him and let him play along.

No one doubts the power of a three-piece horn
section to funk your face off. The guy in front certainly
learned about it.
You've seen the video. You've seen the photos. Yes.

I've really been saving the best for last, in terms of "what the fuck did I just see?" quality.

I'll tell you right now, if you are of cowardly disposition, if you think you might be easily offended, if you have even an inkling that you could find a moment of horror by sharing my experiences, you'd probably best just sashay away to another blog, sweetie-pie, because I've been saving the awesome for awesome-place.

This is the awesome place. I'm not even joking, not a little bit.

Imagine you've been feasting on this panoply of wonder. Your face has been well and truly funked, in multiple positions as David Prime would have it. You are relaxing on a golden wave of that euphoria that a good concert evokes in all of us. You know, it's almost post-coital, except right before the post part.

You're feeling good, is what I'm saying.

And this man takes the stage.

"Freak flag? I'm wearing it!"
This man is Libido Kineval. He is a sexual stunt man. He is pointedly not the Unknown Stuntman, because I'm pretty damn sure he gets the girls nine-times-out-of-ten. He is flamboyant, he is powerful, he is a man that knows exactly what he wants.

And what he wants, er ...

... is apparently a sex couch, two inflatable sex dolls, and an inflatable goat, which he thrusts into, head-first, atop a giant skateboard. Seriously, go to the bit starting at 2:50 in the video above.

There are no words.

Careful, you'll get some funk on ya.
There are tonnes of words, actually, but none seem fitting so well as to note that was not the end of the show. There was a good thirty more minutes of sheer, balls-to-the-wall rocking out to be had, and we had it all. We ate it up. We gobbled down the throbbing cock of their horny sound and wiped off the mustache of funk before crying out for more. We rocked the funk out.

And after the show, even though they didn't have to, the Mummies hung around in the lobby and talked to the fans a while. Now one would have complained if, after a two hour long, hardcore, sweaty and breathy carnival of madness, if they had retired from the floor and hurried to stand in a forty-five minute shower. But there they were, pressing the flesh.

"Them! Kill all of them! The Leneski so commands!"

While the Leneski threatens, David Prime takes this opportunity to shit his pants in sheer terror.

It's a tongue-off. The woman in the back seems inordinately happy about this.
And this is why Operation BSU is your weekly show for sheer, mind-curdling horror. And pretty solid music.

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