In 1976, the combo from my first band, San Francisco, was booked, through an incredible feat of mismanagement, to play in the lounge of the Alameda officers' club the afternoon of the Army-Navy game.
The bar was crowded with young officers watching the game on TV, cheering a Navy advance, booing an Army recovery. In the corner was a quartet playing "Do the Hustle" and "Bye Bye, Blackbird." Every time we started a new tune, the patrons would shake their fists at us and tell us to shut the f**k up. A crazed lieutenant got in the bandleader's face. The bandleader said, "Just doing my job, sir," turned to the band and called up "A Foggy Day."
We only lasted three or four songs. The club manager came up to the bandstand and asked us to quit. He was nice about it, and handed us forty dollars for our trouble.
The occasion still stands out in my mind; it was, and still is, the only time in my life I have been paid to stop playing.
Frank Mullen's very unofficial source of poop, skinny and bitching for present and former U.S. Navy Musicians.
