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At the late great age of nineteen I went with my high school chum Alan, then seventeen, to go see Buddy Rich and his band perform at High Point High School, which is in Maryland. The year was 1981. I was a fanatic about Buddy, having heard him for the first time only six years earlier. Alan was a rocker who played bass and I was taking him along to go see the "world's greatest drummer" in action. Now, at that age I was a fairly ambitious character and so I armed myself with a home cassette tape deck and two recording microphones, which were all stuffed into a small old suitcase that had Buddy's insignia carefully glued onto one of its sides by me. I knew, having recently graduated high school, that tonight's event would be sponsored by the school as part of a fund-raising event put on by the high school's band program.
We got to the location, parked in the parking lot, and swaggered toward the back entrance in an attempt to appear as though we belonged there. It worked. I came upon a young student and told him I was with the band, that we were there to record that evening's performance, and would he please direct me (the audacity!) to the orchestra pit, whereupon he gladly accommodated by leading us both to the orchestra pit, unlocking the door for us, and happily leaving. We were in, I thought! Alan and I set upon the work at hand: we opened up the suitcase, pulled up a school desk, (not believing our luck at finding one there) plugged in the tape deck, unreeled the microphone cables, and mounted the microphones on the edge of the stage, pointed at 45 degree angles facing the band plot and separated by about 25 feet, and began our wait. We hoped nobody would enter the orchestra pit and catch us.
Showtime came, I pushed the "record" button, the audience erupted enthusiastically as Buddy walked on and sat down at his drums while I checked to see that the tape was indeed turning and that the meter levels were good. Then we sat back and watched an incredible performance unfold in front of us. The band was in solid form and Buddy was in a good mood. Clearly, the band was having an "on" night. And I was pleased I was getting away with audio murder. Or so I thought.
After an incredible first set Buddy sauntered up to the front of the stage, bathed in sweat, and began his speech by thanking the audience. Alan and I were directly below him. Then he noticed us. I broke out in an immediate cold sweat as I realized we both should have walked underneath the lip of the stage to avoid being seen. It was too late:
Buddy: "What are you doing
down there?"
Me: (all my orifices now
beginning to pucker up) "We're watching you. You're great!"
Buddy: "Are you recording?"
Me: (blood now leaving my
extremities) "Yea."
Buddy: "You're recording?"
Me: (sheepishly) "Yeah."
Buddy: "You are?"
Me: (I'm catatonic now,
my friend has now become a statue) "Mm-hmm."
Buddy: "That's what you
think." (Audience laughs)
Buddy: "Don't you know there's
a rule against that?"
Me: (lying) "No."
Buddy: "Huh? You didn't
know that? (pause) You're under arrest." (Audience laughs)
Buddy: (To the audience)
"We're uh, (then motions to the side of the stage with
a thumb gesture and a whistle indicating he wants us removed)
we're going to take a short intermission, while we bust
this kid." (Huge audience laughter)
Buddy: "We'll be back. Thank
you everybody, see you soon."
The audience broke into sustained applause while the band got up to leave the stage and Alan and I contemplated what our new life in prison would be like. Within seconds I stopped the recording and told Alan to go over to one of the two microphones and pull it off the stage. I went to the other microphone. We quickly dismantled everything and put it back into the small suitcase. Any minute now I was expecting the orchestra pit door to open revealing the authorities. Some people from the audience were now leaning over to look into the pit at us. I started rambling on about how we were there from WCVT Towson State Radio, that we had permission to record, and that I didn't understand what was wrong!
Alan and I climbed out of the pit finally; forget the door! People were still looking at us. I kept up with my faked confusion and consternation (Oscar-winning performance) while we headed for the nearest exit. We opened the exit door and literally ran toward the back parking lot and my car. I looked like a cat burglar, running as quickly as I could with a suitcase underneath one arm. We both narrowly managed to steal away into the night. As I was running I thought regretfully how I was now going to miss the second half of an already incredible night of music. But we had the tape!
When I finally got home that night I listened to the tape. Did it even come out? Would it sound good? Is it possible I actually went through such a harrowing experience? It did come out. And it sounded just spectacular! I couldn't believe it. I put headphones on and evaluated the stereo imagery; it was near flawless! The balance was perfect. The band was clean and hot. There was no distortion whatsoever. And the performance was absolutely magnificent. And I had it on tape!
There are reasons, beyond my illicit efforts, why this tape is so good. First, Buddy's edition of his band then was really incredible. He had a phenomenal young bassist by the name of Wayne Pedzwatr who really lifted Buddy, his band, and the material they were performing to fresh new heights. He was a joy to watch and listen to as he interacted instrumentally with Buddy. The superb recording fidelity on this tape is a sheer stroke of good luck; somehow I intuitively understood where to place the microphones that evening in order to capture a completely dynamic yet balanced sound from the band. Buddy's drums and cymbals are as clear as a bell yet they do not manage to cover up the band. When I hear this tape it really sounds like I remember it sounded when I was there. I think that particular quality is the truest hallmark of any live recording.
I have never profited, except from a musical vantage point, from this tape. Nor have I ever made a copy of it. In telling this story I am compelled to release it to Cathy now so that she may do with it as she pleases; I hope she may one day find it worth sharing. Nobody has to tell me that what I did was wrong; I know that. But in doing something wrong when I was rather young I now can redeem myself a little by presenting to Buddy's daughter the fruit of my effort. In the end the recording itself justifies somewhat my act. While it was wrong to do what I did, I will never regret having done so.
And if one is to get "busted" for doing such a thing it might as well be done by "the master" himself. Long live the wonderful memory of Buddy Rich. ~Fred Marcin
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