The Merda Files

DETROIT, CIRCA 1969: The house lights of the packed Casino Royale dim. The club's vibe is electric, the fog of cigarette and reefer smoke thicker than a Scottish moor. 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. As each man passes in front of his gear, the glowing red eyes of the guitar amps seem to wink conspiratorially at the audience.