The Litter Box

THERE WAS A time when I thought the Mummies mattered. This was in the way, waaaaay back, before Kurt Cobain came up a few milligrams short on his first suicide attempt, even before the golden age of Maximumrockandroll, when it was packed with letters about Green Day's selling out and that fat pud George was always bringing up how once he was almost maybe gonna be a Ramone. Most people don't remember (and maybe this bit of history only exists in my addled mind) that there was a brief period between about mid 1990 and mid '92 – when you could hear hair metal's death rattle but alternative music hadn't yet gotten a proper shove from the guys with the money and the business plan – when it was possible things might be changing for the better, musicwise. I realize now it was just the eye of the commercial-music hurricane, a lull created as the industry tried to untangle its gummed-up works.

The situation had gotten so bad that there was nowhere to go but up – and there was this moment of near perfect clarity when it seemed as if any band might be the next big thing. So it was then that an idealistic young radio programmer with a terrible attitude, minimal communication skills, and a knack for picking losers decided to do a little hero-making of his own. The Cynics and Lyres and almost anything released by the fine folks at Norton Records got priority treatment – airplay – but nothing was more attractive than the scene on the West Coast. The Northwest had the Mono Men, Girl Trouble, Gas Huffer, the Fall-Outs, and a bunch of other great bands, and there was a rumor of a San Mateo scene in northern California – from Massachusetts it looked like the rock and roll ground zero. The lynchpins of the operation were four nitwits who called themselves the Mummies, and one of their songs, "Whitecaps (Part II)" became the weekly lead-in for my radio show. Because, my thinking went, they should be played as often as possible as they were undeniably the shit.

They did lots of Sonics covers, frequently used the f-word, and recorded most of their stuff on what had to be the cheapest (vintage) equipment ever. Each Mummies single sounded like it had been made in a public rest room using a four-track recorder that had a couple of the tracks on the fritz. It might have sounded like a hunk of crap to the trained ear, but the Mummies' routine couldn't have been any cooler as far as I was concerned. And it didn't hurt that they insisted on wearing bandages when out in public. Photos captured the band crashing parades in their custom hearse, having pictures taken with many topless women, and beating up stoners in liquor store parking lots. And if that wasn't enough to guarantee their legacy as avatars of cool, the Mummies only released their stuff on vinyl, ensuring obscurity and cementing their legend forever. And so it was that the Mummies became radio staples – on one community station located on the east-of-nowhere, west-of-nothing belt that runs between Boston and Syracuse, N.Y.

The best album was Never Been Caught, released on the superteeny Telstar Records in 1992 (come to think of it, that was their only proper full-length release). It provided pretty much all you needed to know about the band right there on one lowbrow, monophonic 12-inch disc. The original numbers were tuneful if barely under control, and covers of the Rascals' "Come on Up," the Superchargers' "Sooprize Package for Mr. Mineo," and of course, the Sonics' "Shot Down" were stripped down and steamrolled so that all 17 songs rode along seamlessly like one long, annoying answering-machine message. It was, in a moronic way, nothing short of brilliant. By the time the album hit the streets and the Mummies decided to cash in their chips, I was certain that they owned San Francisco and that the Purple Onion was heaven on earth. I vowed that someday I would get there.

That was 10 years ago, and looking back, all I can say is, "What did I know?" Turns out the Mummies didn't matter for shit until well after they broke up, and then only because rumors started that tied them to equipment stealing, club wrecking, and gunplay. And the San Mateo scene? It was a friggin' pizza parlor frequented by 20 or so outcasts, while the Purple Onion was a dump run by a (wonderful) crackpot and doomed from the word "go." And, as fate would have it, the Mummies turned out to be burrito-eating, soda-sipping, record-collecting dorks – not only are they not tough, they aren't even cool! Today, those members who are still active in music are in bands that can't get booked in most clubs. So I was wrong about a few things, but I learned this: you can't trust a San Franciscan when it comes to a local band.

Telstar has released Never Been Caught on CD – which makes sense, now that compact discs are outdated. Still, the band has a second chance to be ignored in their hometown. When it comes to the Mummies, San Francisco apparently remains resolute in its complete lack of response, even if the rest of the world is slowly coming round to the Mummies' sound. There has been no fanfare, no reviews, not even – until now – an I-remember-the-good-old-days story involving them. Word is there won't be a reunion to celebrate the album's rerelease, and that's a shame. Then again, if you were in a band that no one cared about when it was alive, it might be easier to bury the past and pretend it never really mattered at all.

We certainly needed the Mummies when they breezed across our bow a dozen years ago. And I know this: considering the current sorry state of music, the world needs the Mummies more today than it did back then. (John O'Neill)