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Hey Edgar, Where's Your Brother?

Hey Edgar, Where's Your Brother?

The last time I saw Johnny Winter, one of the truly magnificent guitarists of all time, was in 2003 at a South Baltimore shithole called the Thunderdome.  Johnny, who died last week in Switzerland at 70, was addled and frail and the bartenders made fun of him behind his back. I regret not telling them to go fuck themselves, wish I had gone backstage to punch Johnny’s longtime manager—the late and conniving and greedy and larcenous Teddy Slatus, now chasing Johnny through the afterlife for 10 percent—in the face. Instead my friends and I—Glen Burnie photographer Richard Snyder and vacuum-tube-amplifier broker Joe Mooney of Hampden—shouted from the edge...

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