Sept 1-14, 1967, p8
FUGS IN BOSTON
For the Fugs, the reason to remember Boston came on a Monday night. After the last performance at the Fine Arts, Allen Jacobs, voted most valuable Fug the night before for reasons not fit to print, was crossing the street with versatile Dan, the two of them on the way back to the hotel to relax. Just behind them was Jeff Outlaw (outlaw for the same unprintable reason). As the first two crossed the street, a new Pontiac full of three fat men about thirty swerved and missed them by a foot. The Pontiac drove around the block and passed again, this time spewing out a soundtrack of classics beginning with "nigger-lovers" and ending with "you fucking fags." Not satisfied, the three jumped out of the car, and, apparently not knowing who these long-haired people were (not that it would have mattered), attacked Fugs Dan and Al, then split leaving Al with a bloody lip and an angry look.
Jacobs went back toward the theatre with versatile Dan and told us what had happened. The six of us, plus three females, now headed back for the hotel along Norway Street. Norway is a private street and, though it was dark and empty, we felt very secure, even protected, by the walls of the Mother Church. The silence was soon broken. Around the corner came same old headache, all white, with four headlights and three studs. The trio began again their dissonant concert, only this time they elaborated and threw in a couple of new phrases. The Mother Church (Christian Science) unable to withstand the vulgarity a moment longer, caused a small black VW to pull up to the sidewalk. From the sunroof the driver handed Fug Allen a sword, a real sword, I think, kind of heavy so Allen needed both hands to hold it. He said thank you to the savior, screamed "STOP" at the original sinners, and went on to berate them in their own language (to which the Mother Church closed her ears). The white car stopped. Holding the sword high in the air, Jacobs ran toward the car and attacked it from the rear. Stunned by such a weird occurrence (in the Twentieth Century), the three sat motionless as the wrath of god in the form of a long-haired swordsman battered the trunk, denting it and breaking the rear window. Regaining his senses, the driver threw the car in reverse and Fug Allen jumped clear and split. Trying to make a U-turn, the angered driver misjudged the car's power and backed onto the sidewalk and against the Mother's wall, leaving a hole there. By this time the Fugs were out of sight (as usual) and the Pontiac was left to chase the tiny VW around the city until the little bug out-maneuvered the big car and left the frustrated trio with no choice but to call the police.
The gathering in the hotel lobby, cops, thugs, and Fugs, ended in a complaint against the Fugs for attacking a car with a sword, The Fugs denied the charge, and the confused officer asked both parties to appear in court the next morning.
The seven Fugs never looked better than when they showed up promptly in court after four hours of sleep. Odds were seven to three against the undesirable looking. This case of a long-haired swordsman attacking an automobile had the judge confused too. After the traditional questions, he gave his decision. It could not be proved that Jacobs attacked the car, but he was fined twenty-five dollars anyway. The three got off with the judge's advice not to bother people, to learn to live with them even if they looked different. As he said, "You never know, maybe your next president will have long hair." A perfect morning in court.
The Fugs will remember Boston. They had feared this city and disliked it. They began a difficult seven days at the Fine Arts conservatively, but turned it on after the second night. They took out their grievances about the Hub of the nation (where there was no place to go) on the Cardinal and his boys.
Imagine the power to ban someone. Imagine the narrow-minded having all the power.
The Fugs spent their last night in Boston celebrating victory after a week-long battle in Back Bay.