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Are we beginning to sense a pattern here?

SGT. FRIDAY was born by a desire to try something new. PREDATOR had run its course, and a call was placed to erstwhile ex-TRAXX bassist Biff Malibu. Also closing in on this mix of peoples was the Pride Of Waukesha, King of the Sunset Bowl, one Pete Kneser (AKA Squeaky, Squoakster). He had just left the the inspired pop combo Eclipse and was a charter (and founding) member of the Charles Street Chubsters, Oshkosh Chapter (NW of North Fon Du Lac). In any language, he was a catch. The three of us had jammed that fall in Pete’s basement, where he wowed us with his Ludwig Octa Plus kit.

Tri Color no less, complete with Kevlar heads.

Biff and I had no idea why he’d need bullet proofing but figured he knew best and it might be safer not to ask. Peter did have real musical training, and could actually refer to percussion terms in conversation, but this would confuse Biff and I. So, we’d get Pete more beer, and that would stop him. (In a slightly related note, Pete was featured in a Stars of Tomorrow ad for Pro Mark sticks while still in Wisconsin. In that same ad was future COLD SWEAT drummer Anthony White. Who knew?)

We needed a fourth. That arrived back east in the form of Ralph (nee’ Scott) Alberts, he early of PresencE, and late of GIT in Los Angeles (In a not-so-slightly related geographic note Ralph and Biff were the real force behind getting us to move west a few months later). We all sat down and did some Madison market research. What was missing on the club scene? No one was having fun, that’s what. Front men were all the preening rage, and they were usually blond. We were all dark headed and smart-alecky, and although Ralph would bravely shed his guitar every now and then for a song, the band primly kept guitars on most of the time. Expect for Pete.

Ralph was the last piece for many reasons, some of them the obvious: he was by far the most experienced of all of us, and he had good gear. The most useful were that he had a very silly sense of humor, said the eff word in every sentence, liked every song imaginable, and confronted every problem with "Sure, man. No biggie." Perfect.

We wanted to be different, and we started succeeding in the Frozen Tundra to the point where other bands were changing their names to things like Judge Baxter.

No kidding.

Our set list was an eclectic mix of everything from the Monkees to W.A.S.P. to ZZ TOP to Bryan Adams. This was stuff pulled from Ralph's LP collection; he was impossible to stump. We played what we liked, and simply acted like chattering morons in between songs. It came naturally, it worked, and we drew big crowds quickly.

Oh, and we were loud.

One winter night at the Shuffle Inn, the panicking doorman told our soundman Lance (Boom Boom White Shoes Big Cat, etc…) that a pair of cops had showed up ready to cite us for disturbing the peace. He ran back inside and told Lance we were too loud, the neighbors were complaining and the band was two dB away from a ticket. Since we were about a mile from the nearest housing this last bit of info was puzzling, but still a legal concern.

While the almost-convinced cops listened to our doorman explain that Lance would be thrilled to comply and there-would-be-no-need-to-waste-your-time-writing-that-silly-ticket, the lights on the outside of the building began to shake. The man named Boom Boom figured a fine was inevitable, so he majestically raised the volume to an eight on the Richter scale.

The cops looked at each other, looked at the doorman and wrote us a ticket. Some thanks we get for naming the band after a police officer.

Lance had a different attitude than other soundmen in Madison, easily attributed to his attendance at the legendary 3/7/78 Van Halen Shuffle Inn gig. To hear Lance tell it, the band went on, pissed off headliner Steve Perry threw a hissy. The hissy fit meant he wouldn’t play Journey’s date at the Dane Co. Coliseum that night. Van Halen was going to play no matter what, and stacked their gear ceiling high on the Shuffle stage. They came, they saw, they conquered and Lance went to take a sip from his beer. It was warm from neglect. The mighty VH had impressed him so much he forgot to drink. In Wisconsin, this is close to heresy.

The band finished up and then après gig trashed the hotel, later thanking the Madison Sheraton on VH II for their understanding.

That night was Lance’s benchmark for all live performances, and he impressed it upon us many times. When we were good, we were Ruthless.  Then it became, "You guys are without Ruth tonight!" Soon, it evolved into "Where’s Ruth?" Eventually we would see Lance's hand-written signs sporting that question halfway through a set, then paging Ruth, then a simple, drawn "?" to alert the band to their effectiveness that night.

We lived to wonder where Ruth was. I still do.

Wherever she is, I'll bet she isn't writing Van Halen a ticket for disturbing the peace.