Bobby "Blowhard" Chesterfield was certainly a man deserving of his nickname. Bobby blew a mean alto sax and he'd just flipped our collective lids with a non-stop 24 hour-long solo.
Joe "Chubby Digits" Brewster, our bass player, laid it out in four simple words, "Man, this cat's dynamite!" The observation proved nothing short of prophetic, for not only was Bobby dressed in a ridiculous home-made cat costume, but only seconds after Joe had succinctly articulated our delight at his playing, Bobby suddenly exploded into several pieces, showering the bandstand with blood and gore.
Blood rained down on the skins of my Slingerland drum kit as, what I believe was a section of Bobby's lower intestine, smacked, sticky and wet across the top of my head. Moe Brown jumped back startled as Bobby's left foot landed on the keys of his upright piano, pounding out a sloppy lower key blast. Slim Skinny, our guitar player, ducked, barely avoiding Bobby's rib cage as it splattered across the back wall of the bandstand.
Man, what a blast that session was, Jack!
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