I was out at the Cascabel Blues Festival outside of Tucson, Arizona. We had just arrived and it was hot as hell - and so was the music which had started at noon.

We had jammed at an old tavern fifteen miles from Mexico in the village of Patagonia the night before. The whole damn town had turned out. Jammin' Jeff had thrown a party for his bride to be and we had gotten pretty shit faced. Now it was one o'clock in the burning sun and I couldn't get enough water - I was feeling faint.

When they told me about this gig I had my doubts. I thought then that it could be one of the coolest things I'd ever done - or it could be a complete cluster fuck! What with no rehearsal and no set list, it was becoming quite apparent that we could easily crash and burn in front of a large crowd. These bands were sounding good, too!...Blind Dog Cooley from Texas, Common Ground from Phoenix, Hans Olsen, and a bunch more great blues bands from around the Southwest. Man, I really didn't feel like making a complete fool out of myself in front of all this great talent. Hey! Too late now.

Three nights before I had been picked up in Pagosa Springs at nine PM at the Bear Creek Saloon by a stranger from Boulder. She was the bass player's girlfriend and she drove like shit. (She got stopped ten minutes out of town.) We picked up my drums and bag, and threw them in the back of her quad-cab Dodge. We headed west past Durango to the bass man's pad. Hadn't seen him in years. The three of us crashed there Wednesday night. The next morning we set off for Patagonia, Arizona and the big cluster fuck. The ride was actually fun - but longer than shit! (She only got stopped two more times.)

Now it was Saturday afternoon and the minutes were ticking away to show time. I acquainted myself with the promoter, the stage manager, stage hands, the deputies, the Tucson Blues Society staff of forty, and the soundmen. I was also very liberal with my compliments to the other players that I met. Most of them didn't ask if I was in the line up so I didn't volunteer any unnecessary information.

Then it was five thirty: time for me to get my drums set up back stage. The bassman and I were to go on with Jammin' Jeff and do a few tunes for a good sound check and then turn the stage over to Jeff and the incredible Hans Olson. We were to go on at nine with the old man from Florida.

Jammin' showed up in the limo with the old man et al and my old friend Diamond Dave, his body guard. We did our little stint with Jeff and left the stage for him to get down on solo lap guitar for the rest of his set.

By this time the sky was filled with stars. Hans went out and knocked them dead. Festive people were spread out all over the grounds under mesquite trees and umbrellas making a lot of noise and getting ready for the headliner. You could feel the excitement building by the minute!

Finally, I took a deep breath and got behind my drums under the lights. On this occasion I used two floor toms and a four inch piccolo snare that I built myself, along with the rest of my tubs. Rocky, the seasoned harp player, came out and we were complete - except for the old man.

Security cleared an opening in the crowd and the white stretch limo slowly made its way to the stage. Diamond Dave got out and helped the old fart up to front and center. The crowd went nuts. The limo carefully backed out and hundreds of people crushed around the stage - front and both sides. Beautiful women smiled at me and I grinned back. Three or four drummers came up from backstage and settled in near me on stage right. Everyone was wondering what we were going to do - and so was I! This was it.

The old man got his square guitar on and tilted his old black hat. The crowd settled down as the mighty voice of God himself proclaimed: "Ladies and Gentleman. It is my extreme pleasure to introduce to you...a true legend...the inimitable...BO DIDDLEY!"

For the next hour and fifty minutes I tore Mr. Diddley a new asshole - and had the time of my life! At one point Bo gave me a good drum solo and he came back, grabbed a pair of sticks, and joined me for at least five minutes. There we were, beating the shit out of my drums, staring each other down, not a foot apart; laughing and sweating. He did some of the most righteous syncopation I have ever heard - just on my lower floor tom, a crash and china cymbals.

For a moment I thought a was dreaming. I looked around the stage at old friends and players I hadn't seen in years, a huge adoring crowd, and to my great relief - four talented drummers smiling affectionately and giving me the thumbs up.

The rest of the night was perfect and, now, we were treated like stars. It was anything but a cluster fuck.

If I were to die tomorrow my life would be complete.