So, if you wrote a script based on the D’Priest tour, Quentin Tarantino would reject it as unbelievable. This story is just day one!
The first show on the first leg was at the Mason Jar in Phoenix, Arizona, which was cool. I had played there many times, and a lot of big bands play it–sort of a tradition. We had left the previous evening late, and arrived in the morning . . . no one slept much.
The rest of the band and the crew were inside, and I was on the bus with my friend, who was also handling the merchandise. As I looked out the window, I saw a cab pull up; a guy about my height, maybe similar hair (hard to remember) gets out of the cab, and runs onto the bus carrying a gym bag.
Before I can give him the mandatory speech about the bus being someone’s home, which is why you don’t just run on, he points to the t-shirts and says, “Are those for sale?” We answer yes, thinking ‘wow, cool not even setup and were making money!’ The guy pulls a wad of cash out of his pocket, buys a shirt (just like the one I was wearing) and runs off the bus. As he is getting in the cab, I see him take his shirt off and put the D’Priest shirt on.
About fifteen minutes later, I decide to get off the bus and stretch. As I am walking around, I notice a guy in a suit next to the building across the parking lot, and it looks like he’s talking into his wrist. I turn towards the back of the building, and there’s another one.
So now I’m shaking my head thinking, ‘Ok Vince, you’re tired but you’re not that tired . . .‘ but when I’m finished shaking my head, they’re still there. In fact, they’re closer, still looking nonchalant. I look towards the street; there are more across the street, and every time I turn my back on one to look at the others, the one behind me gets closer. It’s like a cartoon.
Finally, when I decide to say something, a very calm voice says—-
Which, of course, I had no intention of doing. Although I am a little worried about all the parking lot dust causing a truly unfortunate sneeze.
Turns out, the guy in the cab–the guy about my height, now wearing the same shirt . . . had just robbed a bank. In a cab. The gym bag was filled with cash.
So our manager comes out, and straightens everything out with the nice FBI agents, and the tour officially starts with me being mistaken for a bank robber
This is how I remember it, granted it was a long time ago. But it happened. And the tour got weirder from there . . . .