When Jon and I were in At Random we spent a lot of time booking the larger clubs around Detroit, and it turned out that one of them was financed in part by some bikers. Because one of our guitarists, Larry “Goody” Goodman, had grown up around club members, we were occasionally hired to play shows for a Detroit-area motorcycle club. Anyone who has played that kind of gig knows how different a biker party is from a concert or show club. Things could get a little out of hand—especially as the substances flowed, the night wore on, and somebody decided an issue, or an imagined slight, required fisticuffs instead of words. Apparently, conflict resolution had a dress code, and it involved leather.
Fortunately, we never offended anyone. The bikers liked our music and paid better than any of the large venues. When we finished our scheduled sets, extra hundred-dollar bills—and the occasional unidentified object—would land onstage to encourage an encore. Nothing says “Play another one” quite like airborne cash and mystery merchandise.
In January 1981, I got a call asking whether we were available in February to play a birthday party for one of the MC’s vice presidents. Only after I confirmed the date and negotiated the price did I learn that the VP was at Milan FCI, a federal prison in Michigan. At Random was going to jail—and, for once, it was a booking. Somehow, someone had persuaded the warden to let us perform for the VP’s birthday. The how and why were never made clear. On the plus side, I figured the odds of a fight were lower inside a federal prison, which is not a sentence I had expected to say. Better yet, we were paid more for that show than for any previous one: the club paid us, and the government also had to pay union scale because we were performing at a federal facility. What a world.
After agreeing with the bikers, we had to deal with the prison officials. That meant background checks and a huge list of dos and don’ts for the band and crew. The only point I told the officials was nonnegotiable was our setup time. Our crew normally needed an hour and a half to move everything in, wire the stage, and run a sound check. We were told, “No problem,” which is usually when the problems begin.
On the day of the show, I sent our crew to the facility three hours early. I figured that would give them plenty of time to check in with the administration, submit themselves and the equipment to a search, and set up. Believing everything was under control—a belief the universe enjoys correcting—I arrived with the rest of the band an hour and a half early. In the reception area, I found our crew still sitting there with all our equipment resting inside enormous rolling laundry carts. Apparently, the guards had decided to mess with us, the inmates, or efficiency itself.
I finally convinced the person in charge that they had to let our crew through with the trusties to set up the stage—unless they wanted a roomful of unhappy inmates. Our show fell on visiting day, and a basketball exhibition was also scheduled. The inmates had to choose one activity, and those who chose us had not selected “stand outside in winter” as a bonus event.
At last, showtime arrived. Everything was wired except the stage monitors when we heard people pounding on the door. After ten minutes of this pounding, I told the band we had to start playing while the crew finished the monitors. Then I told the guards to open the doors. It was less of a carefully planned concert opening than a musical prison break in reverse.
If you ever want to see some angry people, keep prisoners standing outside in a Michigan winter while they wait for a concert hall to open. After our first song, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Zero. Nada. Zilch. After the second, one man clapped until every other inmate stared at him. Before the third song, I announced that we were going to play something from a new record we had just released. The VP called out, “We don’t buy no records in here.” I replied, “Hell, that’s okay—we ain’t selling many records out there.” That broke the ice.
As showtime drew to a close, the guys yelled for one more. I told them I had to check whether we had time for another song. Man, was that a mistake. Backstage, the guards looked both sick and furious. One shouted, “What the hell did you do that for? They’ll tear this place apart!” Apparently, the inmates had to return for a cell check. I asked the guards to give me a minute, went back onstage, and said, “Men, you’ve got to get back for cell check, so here’s a traveling song to leave by.” Then we broke into Elvis’s “Jailhouse Rock,” because subtlety had already left the building.
What a show. I can assure you it was the last time we played at a prison. I later tried to book us at Jackson State Prison, but the response was essentially, “We heard what you did at Milan, and it’s still a hell no!” That turned out to be fortunate: on the very day we would have been there, the prisoners rioted to protest overcrowded conditions. When the rest of the band heard that, they voted unanimously for a new touring policy: NO MORE PRISONS. It remains the only band decision nobody asked to reconsider in the light of day.
RLH 10.1.26
