That was the idea. The old Commissioners mu?sical ideas were not very interesting, because after all he was a cop, right? But his police ideas were interesting.

We had drills. Poured out of that mother-loving bus onto vacant lots holding our instruments at high port like John Wayne. Felt we were heroes already. Playing "Perdido," "Stumblin," "Gin Song," "Peebles." Laving the terrain with emotion stolen from old busted-up loves, broken marriages, the needle, economic deprivation. A few old ladies leaning out of high windows. Our emotion washing rusty Rheingold cans and parts of old doors.

He said one of our functions would be to be sent out to play in places where people were trembling with fear inside their houses, right? To inspirit them in difficult times. This was the plan. We set up in the street. Henry Wang grabs hold of his instrument. He has a four-九九藏书网bar lead-in all by him?self. Then the whole group. The iron shutters raised a few inches. Shorty Alanio holding his horn at his characteristic angle (sideways). The reeds dropping lacy little fill-ins behind him. Were cook?ing. The crowd roars.

It was kind of the Department to think up the Police Band. The original impulse, I believe, was creative and humanitarian. A better way of doing things. Unpleasant, bloody things required by the line of duty. Even if it didnt work out.

When we got to town we looked at those Steve Canyon recruiting posters and wondered if we re?sembled them. Henry Wang, the bass man, looks like a Chinese Steve Canyon, right? The other cops were friendly in a suspicious way. They liked to hear us wail, however.

We are subtle, the Commissioner said, never for?get that. Subtlety is what has previously been lack?ing in our line. Some of the old ones, the Commis?sion九_九_藏_书_网er said, all they know is the club. He took a little pill from a little box and swallowed it with his Scotch.

The old Commissioners idea was essentially that if there was a disturbance on the citys streets -- some ethnic group cutting up some other ethnic group on a warm August evening -- the Police Band would be sent in. The handsome dark-green band bus arriving with sirens singing, red lights whirling. Hard-pressed men on the beat in their white hats raising a grateful cheer. We stream out of the ve?hicle holding our instruments at high port. A skir?mish line fronting the angry crowd. And play "Perdido." The crowd washed with new and true emotion. Startled, they listen. Our emotion stronger than their emotion. A triumph of art over good sense.

We had drills and drills. It is true that the best musicians come from Detroit but there is some?thing here that you have to get in yo九_九_藏_书_网ur playing and that is simply the scream. We got that. The Com?missioner, a sixty-three-year-old hippie with no doubt many graft qualities and unpleasant qual?ities, nevertheless understood that. When wed play "ugly," he understood that. He understood the ris?ing expectations of the worlds peoples also. That our black members didnt feel like toting junk mail around Detroit forever until the ends of their lives. For some strange reason.

The Police Band was an idea of a very romantic kind. The Police Band was an idea that didnt work. When they retired the old Commissioner (our Commissioner), who it turned out had a little drug problem of his own, they didnt let us even drill anymore. We have never been used. His idea was a romantic idea, they said (right?), which was not adequate to the rage currently around in the world. Rage must be met with rage, they said. (Not in so many words.) We s9９ｌiｂ•ｎｅｔit around the pre?cinct houses, under the filthy lights, talking about our techniques. But I thought it might be good if you knew that the Department still has us. We have a good group. We still have emotion to be used. Were still here.

The Police Band is a very sensitive highly trained and ruggedly anti-Communist unit whose efficacy will be demonstrated in due time, the Commis?sioner said to the Mayor (the old Mayor). The Mayor took a little pill from a little box and said, Well see. He could tell we were musicians because we were holding our instruments, right? Emptying spit valves, giving the horn that little shake. Or coming in at letter E with some sly emotion stolen from another life.

The Commissioner (the old Commissioner, not the one they have now) brought us up the river from Detroit. Where our members had been, typi?cally, working the Sho Bar two nights a week. Sometimes the Glass Crutch. Friday and Saturday. And the rest of the time wandering the streets dis?guised as postal employees. Bitten by dogs and burdened with third-class mail.

This city is too much! Wed be walking down the street talking about our techniques and wed see out of our eyes a woman standing in the gutter screaming to herself about what we could not imagine. A drunk trying to strangle a dog somebodyd left leashed to a parking meter. The drunk and the dog screaming at each other. This city is too much!

What are our duties? we asked at the interview. Your duties are to wail, the Commissioner said. That only. We admired our new dark-blue uni?forms as we came up the river in canoes like In?dians. We plan to use you in certain situations, certain tense situations, to alleviate tensions, the Commissioner said. I can visualize great success with this new method. And would you play "En?tropy." He was pale, with a bad liver.