I thought it might happen last night on my way to the gig. I passed the village cop while I was blasting away on my the Bb marine band that I keep on my front seat to practice. He looked right at me and I actually got a little excited. I drove 50 yards and sure enough, he pulled out to chase me down. I set the harmonica on my lap, clicked my seat belt and waited for him to settle in behind to turn on his reds. I even picked out a nice spot to pull over so everybody would be safe.
Meanwhile my mind went wild. I fantasized about being the first person in my town to ever get a ticket for playing the harmonica while driving. I thought about being featured in the police blotter. "Castleton man charged with blowing harp while driving."
I decided that I would plead "not-guilty" to the charges and retain my fishing buddy/lawyer friend to represent me in the ensuing court battle. I would pay him with a couple of trips out on the river for stipers and a bottle of Laguvulen. We would fight the charges tooth and nail. I would be approached by Metroland for a feature article and harmonica players from all over the northeast would rally in my defense.
The night of my trial there would be a peaceful protest. A convoy of a 100 quirkie harp players would assemble outside the village limits and proceed to drive slowly through the village with their windows rolled down, playing harmonica (sonny boy style) while they steered with their thighs. News Nine would record the event and people would line the streets to cheer them on. The convoy would wind up out in front of the village court and the harp players would form a picket line outside the courthouse in my support.
When my mind stopped and I looked up, the officer was inspecting the band gear inside the cab of my truck. He looked young and his partner walked up on the passenger side. I fumbled for my license and registration and handed it to him.
"Excuse me." I asked.
"Yes sir." he replied.
"Did you pull me over for playing my harmonica while I was driving?" I needed to know.
"Sir, when you passed us, you weren't wearing your seat belt. I see that you put it on after you saw us." He said it in a very business like tone.
I was devastated.
He asked me where I was going and I had to explain: I was on my way to the Polish Community Center to play a benefit with my band so that some rich suburban kids could go to Europe with their youth soccer team. He let me off after running my stuff through system. I figured he either liked soccer or was polish. I didn't catch his name.
The gig:
There were ten people in a huge ballroom. By the end of the night there were three. We played for almost two hours straight and none of us wanted to stop. It didn' matter. It was some of the best music I have ever been a part of. The magic happened because we were jazzin on the grooves. I nthe end, the room was empty 'cept for a couple of loyal fans who we knew they were hearing something very special.
The Polish guitar player was in heaven playing his community center. It was good.
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