“Shut up!” he ordered. “Don’t… you… ever… yell… at… an… officer like that. Never! This is Chicago!” And then he ordered me to spread out against the truck as he searched me. Finding nothing, he told me to get back to work and let his men do their job. I couldn’t believe this was happening.

The detective went to the cab and I went to the stage where Mack and the union lads were trying to console Kim about the theft. The local lads told us it wasn’t the first time a truck had been broken into, that this had happened two weeks before. The police had figured it was someone who knew that the truck drivers left for their hotels after leaving rigs to be unloaded inside the gig. But, of course, whoever was doing this eluded them.

With all this action going on, setting up the equipment had taken a back seat to the commotion. Most of my crew busily tried to avoid me, keeping out of this mad man’s way. When everything was set up, I got my crew together and announced that it was time to go to the motor home for an “attitude adjustment.”

On my way to the loading dock, I saw John McLaughlin. He knew I was mad.

“So, Dinky, what’s going on?” he asked.

I told him what had happened since our arrival. John’s jaw dropped; he was flabbergasted. By now, I could at least manage a smile.

“Attitude adjustment time,” I said. “Me and the lads will be right back. I’ll feel good!”

“Ow, like I knew you would, now,” John replied, playing air guitar and doing his best James Brown impression. Then he smiled and headed for the stage. After a short visit to the motor home with the crew, I returned to the house console, now feeling no pain or anger. I had been so mad that I left without wiring the house console, but thanks to Bill Shaw, one of our roadies from Vermont, everything was set. I started a very intense sound check. John was working on some new tunes, but he knew by looking at me that I was feeling euphoric as he started a very emotional but calming tune. Narada Michael Walden liked working on these new songs during sound check, and we always had a hard time stopping Michael and John from playing too long at sound check.

As we started setting up for his band, Jeff Beck came over. He had already heard about what happened from his crew. Like any English lad, he couldn’t believe the detective had pulled a gun on me.

“Are you all right, mate?” he asked.

I told him I was feeling no pain but might pass out later. He laughed. We both started to reminisce about the late ’60s music scene in Boston. I reminded him of the time Don Law, who was then the booking agent for the Boston Tea Party, the rock club in Boston, picked up Jeff and his band in a ramshackle VW van from the airport. As they hit Cambridge, the van broke down. Don wanted to call a tow truck, but Jeff, who loved working on cars, jumped out of the van and lifted the bonnet (or hood for you on the American side of the pond). After about a half hour, he jumped back in, told Don to give it some gas, and off they went. We both had a chuckle over that memory!

As Jeff finished his sound check, Jim Akens, arm bandaged up and beard looking a little frizzy, sauntered to the monitor console. After leaving the hospital, he was feeling no pain, but we knew he needed to rest, so he spent the rest of the gig in the motor home. The concert was fine, but we were just glad to end the day with no further events.

The rest of May was unexceptional, other than a small incident in San Francisco. We were trying to park the motor home at the hotel when a car almost crashed into the passenger side. Immediately, three of us jumped out of the motor home and started yelling obscenities at the driver, who quickly reversed his car and scrambled away from the “MO/Beck Bunch.”

By June 8th, we were in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Before sound check, Bernard Purdie came to our motor home with two lovely ladies, who were covered in massive turquoise jewelry that they were selling. Bernard introduced us to his friends, and they set up shop in our motor home. Soon crews and stagehands were coming to the Executive, bringing cash and leaving with jewelry.

By late May at the Shrine in LA, the reviewers were writing that there were sound problems with feedback during every tune of Mahavishnu Orchestra’s set. Even John complained that all he could hear during his playing was constant feedback. After the show in Albuquerque, John again complained. I had to explain to him that it was really the incessant drone of Morley pedals being overused. John seemed to take my observation under consideration and slowly walked off in the direction of the dressing room, grabbing his sturdy double-neck Gibson on the way. He placed the six- and 12-string combination instrument on a heavy-duty stand and left to take a shower. Moments later, the stand pitched over and the guitar’s neck shattered into several pieces on the concrete floor. John nearly cried at the accident, a surprising one since the Gibson was not a poorly made product and hadn’t fallen from any height. One of John’s crew shook his head in disbelief. “That was weird. It just tipped over and completely shattered the end. Bad karma!’”