Here Come the Mummies
Thursday, Aug. 24
The Vogue

To be a wallflower at a Here Come the Mummies show is to miss the point. Clearly, three drinks under and in the middle of the dance floor is the correct way to experience this particular breed of apocalyptic funk.

Shrouded in mystery, the published story on its Web site delivers the Mummies story like this: “One night, the Pharaoh found the nomads dressed as mummies and creating grooves in an effort to compromise the moral integrity of his five daughters. The angry Pharaoh cursed the nomads (already conveniently dressed as mummies) with a spell so vile that seeing its name in print here would make your eyes melt and flow freely from their sockets.”

Of course, a more likely story, though equally cloaked in secrecy, is that Here Come the Mummies is a stage act put on by top-notch Nashville studio musicians. Needing to protect their identity in order to keep their day jobs, it seems dressing up as mummies and playing in an R&B band may become just as lucrative.

Secret identities are nothing new in the entertainment biz; from Mark Twain to the Residents, it’s a move that gives the artist an ability to create their own back story. Though this one is an obvious whopper, it adds to the fun of it all and breathes fresh life into the Mummies old song and dance routine. Not surprisingly, the band has shared the stage with acts like Jackass’ Steve-O and the infamous Dave Matthews Cover Band.

Indianapolis citizens came out in droves to see the act, and just like the R&B entertainers not dressed in toilet paper, the Mummies packed in the ladies at the Vogue. They played a set that ranged from rhythm and blues standards to originals that focused mostly on booty and the undead. It was all pretty silly, but done with tongue firmly planted in cheek.

The singer/guitarist, known as Mummy Cass(anova), carries a traditional soul voice, and the band’s sound has gotten perfection and imitation down to an easy delivery. The secret to the Mummies’ success is in what it calls the “Undead Auxiliary Army,” better known as the horn section. The crowd swooned with appreciation whenever a member of the brass stepped forward to solo.

In a musical world where overwrought artiness is rewarded too often, it’s good to stop and have those notions pushed around once in a while. What kind of stiff can’t break down and enjoy nine mummies slide dancing on stage and threatening to wrap you up in honey and smother you in love, anyway?