Bud Greene played a gig for some friends from a well-to-do family. They had a beautiful old home on top of a mountain ridge, with an amazing view of the city and way beyond. It was Summer and a clear night, so we set up on a big patio outside. I set up under a huge Oak tree, with a good view of the sky. It was nice.
We had a bad habit, or a good habit, depending on your point of view, of pushing the limits when it came to gigs, especially outdoor gigs. Most of the band was willing to play on past curfew. I'd just be getting warmed-up. Every neighborhood generally had its own agreed-upon cutoff time for outdoor gigs...noise levels, you know...which could be anywhere from 9 'til midnight, but 10:30 was average. We never quit when we were supposed to.
Our policy was to keep playing until the cops came. Screw it. Many times we were offered a good bit more money to play longer, but we never asked for it. We loved to play. Every band says they love their fans, but we really did. Many of them were either already friends, or people who'd become friends to this day, from all over the place.
If it wasn't enough to test the neighbors' and the cops' patience by playing past the limit, we'd usually take it further, and wait half an hour or so and then crank it up again. We'd start out quiet but of course we'd get loud by the third song, and sure enough the cops would usually show up again. If they weren't happy the first time they showed up, they really weren't happy having to come back again. One night a couple of us got arrested, but it was just for show and to scare us. They let us go. Guess who was always pegged as the ringleader...yep, the drummer.
So, this night we pulled our usual routine. It was one of those situations where our friends were hosting the party, and we knew a lot of the people there. It was a huge soiree and we were having a blast. Whatever the cutoff time was, we played straight through it. We managed to play for over half an hour before the cops came. One guy was black, every bit of 6-5, 385, and built like a hoss. He was all-business. I'm almost surprised we didn't shut it down after seeing him, but of course we couldn't do that.
We may have waited a few extra minutes, and we dimmed the lights way down and de-cranked the PA, and we again burst into song. We played a few songs, all the while expecting the cops to return. After another song or two there was still no sign of them, and we thought we might've gotten away with it. I counted-off another tune, and halfway toward hitting the opening cymbal crash, my arm met an immovable object, and froze in place mid-strike. It absolutely flipped me out.
My first thought was that a huge branch had fallen from the tree and blocked my arm. That was my second thought too, when I saw the massive arm of the black officer, which was as big as a tree branch, and had grabbed my little twig of an arm. He'd grabbed my wrist, and I couldn't move a millimeter. He goes "It's OVER!" This time we took him at his word. "I'm sorry, officer" I said. "You'd better be" he said. "I'm about an inch from locking your ass up." "Yes, sir. My bad." It was the first time that had happened that I'd gotten a bit worried, including the night we got arrested.
What was incredible is that he'd snuck-up on me. Somehow that huge-ass man worked his way around and underneath the tree and behind my drum kit, and I never noticed. After things cooled-down a bit, I told him I was really impressed by the way he'd snuck-up on me. He grinned and said thanks. That was Ninja shit, and it startled the absolute fuck out of me for a second. When it's over it's over. We cracked-up and mimed it the whole time we were packing up. It made for an hilarious story. Although they aren't as unexpected, funny or noteworthy, there are better ways to end a gig. Rock on.
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