Their visual impact is as arresting as their sound, all towering Afros, striped bellbottoms, flashy shirts and dangling scarves. “Veessee” Veasey on bass and vocals, and Tyrone Hite on drums. “Little Charles” Hawkins on guitars and vocals, VC L. This is Black Merda: siblings Anthony “Wolfe” Hawkins and F.C. At the precise moment the stage lights flash on, he leans into the mic to grunt out a primal hunnhh! and the quartet slams into “Cynthy-Ruth,” a thick mélange of Hendrixian psychedelia, Muddy Waters-style chain-gang blues and dirty-ass funk. Easing his way into the fray, the bassist nods his head in time with the beat. The other guitarist replies with a brittle chucka-chucka-chuck-chuck and the drummer fires a machine-gun snare volley. Then, abruptly, the signature wail of a wah-wah cuts through the haze. As each man passes in front of his gear, the glowing red eyes of the guitar amps seem to wink conspiratorially at the audience.Ĭords are twisted. Four tall figures emerge from the wings of the stage, one settling in behind his drum kit, the other three drifting over to their guitars. The club’s vibe is electric, the fog of cigarette and reefer smoke thicker than a Scottish moor. Detroit, circa 1969: The house lights of the packed Casino Royale dim.
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