So . . . this happened on the D’Priest tour. I’m going to change some of the facts, not that there are any innocents, but you never know who might end up reading this ;-). It was in the mid west, it was snowing.
Our security guy, who happens to be my best friend (no names here), and I were in the club we had played–in fact we were almost the last ones in the club–when an altercation broke out over a girl. Actually two girls . . . anyway, management threatened to call the cops, so we left.
We walked across the street to where the bus was parked . . . only it was gone. Just tire tracks in the snow where it had been.
So we start looking around, when I notice (speaking of tracks) that we had left a perfect trail from the club to where we were standing. I’m thinking, Well, they aren’t exactly going to need bloodhounds to find us . . . so we start walking.
We have no idea where we are, no idea where the hotel is and we are in some semi industrial looking neighborhood. We came to an alley and it was pitch black for as far as you could see, except for a little spot of white way down, so we decided to duck in and make for the light.
As we got closer, you could see that it was a little sign that stuck out from the wall of a building that said “Bar.” That was it, no name, just . . .”Bar.” So we duck inside. It had one of those little rooms where you are supposed to shake the snow off. We didn’t wait for our eyes to adjust; we just went in and ducked into the first booth. Whew! Safe! Been here all night officer!
As my eyes start to adjust, I start looking at the crowd dancing and finally it hits me–it seems like there is a really high ratio of men to women. As in . . . no women.
Just as it hits me…the waiter who is dressed like a Chip-n-Dale’s dancer walks up and says to me, “So . . . who’s your big friend?” (Pointing at my friend, “Head of Security.”)
It was also at this time I realized that my “big friend” was blind as a bat. For years, I had been driving with him all over Los Angeles . . . and now I know he is blind, because he doesn’t see any of this. Not the accountants dancing with the leather boys, not the Chip-n-Dale’s waiter . . . none of it.
So as I start saying, ‘Brother, we have to leave’, another waiter shows up with a tray full of drinks “from table three” . . . and when I look over at table three, they are all smiles. Seemed like a nice bunch of guys actually.
By now I’m kicking him under the table, saying, “We. Have. To. Leave.” But he isn’t going anywhere, because we are getting free drinks.
Anyway, we ended up getting out–no harm, no foul–we made a few new friends and did not get arrested.
It was just another night in the life of a touring musician. I know it sounds like a scene from a movie–in fact, it was a scene in a movie–but it happened! I need to remember not to tell stories in Hollywood without copyrighting them first . . . .