Joey Sweeney reports: Hi everybody, this is Joey. Here at Philebrity, we’re very persnickety about maintaining the royal “we,” but the events of last night were so truly bizarre that they merit a brief break in format. So.
Regular readers of this site will know that for the last few weeks, we have been PUMPED about Echo & The Bunnymen coming to the TLA. So pumped, in fact, that at some point a few weeks ago, we decided to throw an afterparty at the Pontiac Grille in the hopes that the group would come after the show and we’d get to meet them. Or at the very least, just get to hang out with other people who know who Orange Juice and The Teardrop Explodes are. I was kind of leading the charge with this, being an Echo & The Bunnymen superdork and all. At first, everything was going fine…
It seemed like a lot of friends and whatnot were coming to the party, and a few friends who were working the show at the TLA said they’d try their damnedest to get some Bunnymen up in there.
The show was fucking amazing. They opened up with “Goin’ Up,” one of my favorite top million songs of ever, and it just got awesomer from there. They did “Over The Wall,” “Villiers’ Terrace” (complete with a capella breakdown in the middle, Ian McCulloch scatting an old Sinatra tune, just fucking ruling, man) and so on. Throughout the show, I’d been passing around some flyers — not a ton, but enough to get the word out, especially since those TLA shows let out early and people are always looking for somewhere to go. Philebrity had no real monetary stake in the afterparty; more than anything else, we were doing community outreach for Echo & The Bunnymen fans. Because, really, you should have seen this crowd. They were practically begging for social interaction.
So, show’s going great, encore comes, and I jet to go get the party set up down the street. I check in, make sure my fellow DJs are there, distribute some giveaway stuff we had, and all is well. At this point, it’s kind of a hurry-up-and-wait thing because the show hasn’t ended yet, and so, realizing that I still had a handful of flyers, I pop back up to the sidewalk outside the TLA. Then shit gets weird.
As I’m standing there, flyers in hand (but not passing them out), a cop calls me over. Looks at the flyers, and says, “Alright, step over here.”
Apparently — and this is good to know, I guess — distributing handbills is verboten on South Street, if not anywhere else. Normally, you’d think that one would get a verbal warning, told to skedaddle, whatever. But no sir. Not me.
The cops ask for ID, which I give right away, and then proceed to search me. And man, do I have a lot of shit in my pockets. But not what they were looking for. As the one dude is rustling through PocketTown, he pulls a guitar capo out of my pocket, which produces the following exchange:
“What the hell is this thing?”
“It’s a capo.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Well, it’s for a guitar. You fasten it around the frets so you can play in a higher key.”
“I’ve never seen such a thing in my life!”
Ok. Search over, Officer Friendly is now taking down my info. As he does, I keep putting my hands in my pockets (nervous habit), and when I do, one or more of the cops (about four were amassed out on the TLA sidewalk) immediately shouts: “YO! PUT YOUR HANDS ON YOUR GODDAMN HEAD!”
Whoops. And so I do.
Now, while this all happening, I believe I’m being written a ticket or a summons. So I’m just standing there waiting, hands on head. The officer finishes up the ticket, and just as I’m thinking he sends me on his way, he says:
“Ok. Please put your hands behind you. I’m going to cuff you now. It’s for your protection and mine.”
“Are you serious? Look at me. I am the biggest pussy on this entire street.”
Apparently, he did not believe me. He then tells me that a police car will be coming shortly, and that I’ll be taken to the little South Street precinct thing, processed, and then given a citation. Now, people who know me know that this is usually right about the time I’d start mouthing off, but you all — Mom, Dad, Gabe, everybody — will be proud that for once, I kept my big mouth shut.
As soon as the cuffs are on me, like clockwork, the show lets out. All these people are walking by. And suddenly, I am doing that thing you always see dudes who just got arrested on COPS do: Standing next to the officer, hands behind my back, watching the pretty girls go by and just acting like, oh, you know, I was just out for a gentlemanly stroll and here I am now chatting with my policeman friend with my hands ever-so-casually behind my back. Perhaps we’ll meet up later for a friendly game of checkers in the park?
But you know what? Even though I’m standing there, shackled, I kinda can’t help smiling about it. I’ve been picked up by the law for handing out flyers to the Philebrity Echo & The Bunnymen Afterparty. C’mon, that is fucking cosmically funny. And in my head, all I’m thinkin’ is, Look at you, Joey Sweeney! Makin’ memories!
The moment is a little too good to let pass without doing anything, so right at that moment I spy rock critic Barry Gutman, who used to write for Philadelphia Weekly years ago. Barry is a sweet man, and the kind of guy who will always say hi and chat with you about the current whereabouts of bands like Aztec Camera. But I’m sorry, Barry, I just really felt like freaking somebody out right then. I catch Barry’s eye, he puts up his hand and says “Hey, man! How are you?”
I flash him a ten-million-dollar grin and quickly turn around, and flash him my gleaming cuffs, offering no context or anything. The cop next to me sees this and gets PISSED.
“JESUS CHRIST WILL YOU PLEASE STOP ACTING LIKE AN IDIOT!!”
I oblige. Just then, the police car finally arrives. Arresting Officer throws me in and gives the officer driving the lowdown on me. As he’s explaining, I swear it seems like the officer in the car is cutting the other cop a look that says, “Are you kidding me? This guy is the biggest pussy on the entire street!”
From there, I have to admit, it’s easy peasy. If Arresting Officer was bad cop, this new guy is definitely good cop. He knows that this is nonsense, and essentially a waste of everyone’s time. I could have been out of everyone’s hair 45 minutes ago with a simple warning.
He and I hit it off. He’s trying to get his son into St. Joe’s Prep (where I went to high school) and he also seems curious about me being a writer and stuff. When we get to the station, he uncuffs my one hand and attaches the other cuff to a pole in the little waiting room. (See photo at top). After a minute, when the lady is putting all my info into the computer, he walks over and says, “Hey, do you want these flyers back?”
I thought this was joke and totally crack up. But here’s how sweet the guy was: He’s serious. Officer Mellody, you’re the man. It was a truly kind gesture.
As they’re writing me up, I get a peep at life inside the little South Street precinct thingy next to Fresh Fields. I kinda feel bad for the officers stationed there. The carpet is moldy, it smells a little weird and the lady officer who was doing my paperwork seemed to have a sinus cold. To really drive the pathos home, in the corner of the station, there’s a TV playing reruns of Friends through very static-y reception. How the fuck is it that this city’s got free wifi, but the cops can’t even watch ESPN during downtime?
And then poof! I get sprung. I walk back to the Pontiac, get the hero treatment, have a few shots of tequila poured down my throat, and like magic, ACTUAL BUNNYMEN START SHOWING UP AT OUR PARTY! One Bunnymen, two Bunnymen. I can’t even believe it. It’s a little too much. I walk out onto the sidewalk and smack into IAN McCULLOCH, my teenage hero, my psychedelic Morrissey, my hair inspiration for 1988 and other short intervals ever since. Walker and Dryw are just standing there, stunned. (See picture.) Gerhard is like whhhhhoaaaaaa daddy. (See picture.)
Ian doesn’t really know what’s up with the party. I think someone just told him to go there and that was it. I tell him I’m a huge fan, we’re spinning all this stuff he’s gonna love, and he’s into it. And then, I can’t resist:
“You might not believe it, but I just got arrested for this shit.”
He says, “Are you serious, mate? You look like the biggest pussy on this entire street.”
Sike. He didn’t say that. But he did come in. I started spinning, he got way into a T. Rex jam I spun, and I couldn’t believe it. When he asked me where the afterhours scene was, I tried to call a buddy at my favorite bar, who wasn’t working. At this point, I was a little too crazed to speak properly. I think what I said was “I-i-is MMMMMMicah there?” and sputtered a bit before the girl hung up on me when what I really needed to say was HOLY FUCK KEEP THE BAR OPEN I’M BRINGING ECHO AND THE BUNNYMEN OVER TO DRINK ALL NIGHT OH AND ALSO I JUST GOT ARRESTED! FUUUUUUUUUUUCK!
But you know, sometimes you just can’t get the words out right. Echo & The Bunnymen disappeared into the night, and I went home.

God I fucking love rock and roll.

THE END.

This entry was posted on Friday, May 13th, 2005 at 1:09 pm.