In 1978 or 79, the band was playing a small joint called the JR Ranch just outside of Hudson, Wisconsin. Later that eve Artie got in a small (DWI) jam.

Don't ask me how, but somehow he managed to wrangle a personal appointment with a judge the following morning (Saturday) in a teeny weeny county courthouse in Menomonee, Wisconsin. There we sat - hung over from the night before and into the judge's chambers walks this itsy bitsy old (80ish) shrunken up judge who can hardly see over the desk when he sits down in this huge chair. Artie and I just sat there waiting for the death sentence. The judge said, "I understand you live in Michigan and are leaving tomorrow." - "What do you do for a living?" Well, we both thought his goose was cooked. "I'm a musician," replied the hung-over hippie-type. Waiting for what we were sure was going to be a stiff penalty, the little old judge says, "Hey, my son's a musician with Maynard Ferguson's orchestra!" The two chatted a bit about music and, after about 10 minutes, the little judge stood up, shook Artie's hand and told him, "Next time you come to Wisconsin, see if you can follow the rules." And we left!!!! Walked outside and asked ourselves - what the hell just happened in there? I'll never forget it.

- Lauri Neisius