I was playing drums in a band from Pensacola at a blues bar in Mobile, AL. They had pets that roamed the bar at will: a goat, cat, chickens etc. The stage was made out of long neck beer bottle cases with plywood over them. One night a big old rooster sat on the rail two feet from my head all night long, and not far from him was a brown spider about the size of a silver dollar. Neither moved the entire night.
We were booked by a nudist colony to play a Blues festival in 1998. We were very excited about playing there and joked about it all over the country. The day of the festival arrived and as we were driving there, my bass player said "why are you driving 35 mph on the interstate?" . Truth is I was scared and rightfully so.
We arrived backstage to the sound of our opening act (all nude except one guy wore a vest) playing "Gimme Three Steps". Their girlfriends were dancing naked in front of the stage. It was downhill from there. All the wrong people take off their clothes in public it seems. We performed fully clothed despite being encouraged to "take it off" by the nude audience. At the end of the concert, it got cold and we sold every t-shirt we had.
I'd been a regular at the local weekly honkytonk jam session. One of the fellows got a gig - and recruited 3 of us to be his support. We were to play a bunch of country standards at some wedding reception SE of San Antonio. OK, can do.
The buddies and I loaded up in the drummer's panel truck and trundled down the road to meet up with the leader of this exercise, who lived maybe 40 miles south of us (in Texas, this is right around the corner). Eventually, we found his house, hook up with him, and start following him to the gig.
He lead us this way and that. Off the highway, off of paved roads, through the trees on red dirt roads, maybe 15 miles from his house.
We get there, and can't believe it. It's a Junkyard. Seriously. Junker cars everywhere. Maybe 10 or 15 acres worth. There's a shop out in the middle of this mess, apparently where vehicles were worked on and recovered parts are stored. This is where we'll be playing. We're already in hysterics - we're all pros who have played all over the country, and this takes the cake.
They've cleaned out a spot in the middle of the "garage" for a serving line, but the wedding itself is to be held right outside the doors. There are maybe 100 people running around, most in casual western wear, some in full-on cowboy gear, and a cute Mexican-American family with a couple little girls in yellow and pink taffeta dresses. Surreal.
So, the preacher shows up. Dead ringer for Little Jimmy Dickens, riding on a horse. Got a sixgun strapped to his side, boots, chaps, a big Stetson. The groom is in the same sort of outfit, including the hogleg. On horseback. Then the bride arrives - wedding dress, gunbelt, boots, hat, on horseback. We're really losing it now.
The ceremony proceeds as expected and without any unnecessary gunplay. It's time for the reception. Everybody gets the expected barbecue buffet (standard fare at Central Texas weddings, no matter the socioeconomic strata) - and it was good - and then the bands began to play.
Apparently two bands were booked - us to do country, and another band to do blues. We could have done both, but weren't asked. The blues band brought the PA. Their drummer had an interesting kit - no throne (he used a wooden chair), no high hat stand (he used a chair), and he had a Kevlar kick drum head. We figured that when the gunfire started we could all hide behind his kick drum.
They weren't horrible, but they weren't good, either. We alternated sets. This went on for 3 or 4 hours while the guests got plastered off of keg beer and wired from wedding cake.
Every once in a while, we'd notice a couple would go wandering off into the junkyard and come back a while later a bit disheveled. We figured with that many backseats available, some people had to take advantage.
Anyway, the gig ended without further ado, and we all got paid as promised. We loaded up the panel truck and headed out...
and laughed until we hurt all the way home.
I'm playing with a blues band at a local bar, walking distance from my house. At the end of the gig, I start packing up some gear and when I return to the stage I discover that my chromatic harmonica has been stolen. I spend the next 30 minutes looking for it before giving up and walking home.
Later that night, I'm sitting on my front porch, about a half-mile away. I hear someone walking down the street in front of my house, playing a chromatic harmonica. Poorly.
I decide to follow the sound, and discover it's a group of 4 college-aged guys. Keep in mind that I'm alone, unarmed, and not particularly well schooled in less polite types of discourse.
"Excuse me guys," I said, "but were you at ****** tonight?"
"Yeah, we were. It was awesome!"
"Great! I'm glad you had fun. I was playing with the band, and I can't seem to find... my harmonica. Could any of you guys help me out with this?"
At this point, one of the guys produces my chromatic harmonica from his pants pocket and nervously says "Oh yeah, I.. uh.. found this on the ground outside. Do you want it?"
"Absolutely. Thank you guys very much, and have a wonderful evening," I said, and walked away, harmonica in my pocket.
I probably could have caused a scene, and I may have exacted some revenge, but I had my instrument back in my pocket and it was a polite situation, so I decided to leave it as such. If only it were always that easy to recover stolen gear.. and have it inadvertently delivered back to your house.
The lead singer of a band is handed a note by the club owner, and proceeds to announce on the mic:
"License plate ***-***, your car's been hit. That sucks. Does anyone here own that car?"
"Anyone? Again, the license plate is ***-***."
We then hear his girlfriend and fellow singer shout "Baby! That's our car!"
Ladies and gentlemen, we're gonna take a short break..."