Well we never tire of this and since he’ll be making his Madison Square Garden debut this weekend with Furthur, we offer the legend of Sir Joe Russo…

It all began innocently enough…

Back in the summer of 2000, Modern Drummer magazine ran a short piece on (then just Mr.) Joe Russo, and his band at the time, Fat Mama. It was just another typical guitar-mag puff piece – a little bit of history about the band, followed by a brief interview with Russo, who answered questions about his gear, his influences, and so forth.

Most Americans don’t realize this, but if you ask your average tabloid-reading Brit, they’ll be well aware that their highest-ranking male monarch, Prince Charles, is an avid drummer, who frequently uses his power and influence to leverage jam sessions with many of the world’s greatest players. And it so happens that his sons, always eager to encourage their father’s hobbies, had bought him a gift subscription to Modern Drummer the previous Christmas.

Mostly the copies would just accumulate at his summer castle, but every now and then when Chaz got worn out from expanding his empire & ordering the beheadings of insubordinates, he would thumb through a copy, in the vain hope of finding a piece on one of the jazz drummers he idolized in his youth.

And so it was that fate brought the little Russo blurb to the monarch’s eye. Charles was immediately taken by the description of Fat Mama as ‘a cutting-edge fusion band incorporating hip-hop and electronic beats.’ Of course, he had no idea what hip-hop even is, but it occurred to him that this band might be something he and his sons would share an interest in, and could bond over. So he had his major domo order a Fat Mama album from Amazon, and when it arrived he was immediately captivated by the band’s unique, mysterious sound, and the obvious jazz chops each of them possessed. Charles spent weeks in the practice room (princes nowadays don’t really have much to do, truth be told…), playing the album on repeat in headphones, trying to emulate Russo’s drumming, but couldn’t capture his intensity, or the unfamiliar, complex rhythms he was hearing.

So he did what any irrelevant feudal holdover would in that situation: he summoned the drummer to England for a private lesson.

Needless to say, Joe, at the time broke and living in a shitty New York walk-up, was thoroughly confused when he started getting mail and voice messages from the English consulate. He was understandably afraid that this was fallout from an incident that had occurred on Fat Mama’s previous European tour (which is better left undiscussed), so he dodged them as best he could and went about his life.

Until, that is, the British ambassador himself was dispatched personally to track Russo down. Not willing to risk his ruler’s legendary wrath, he pounded the pavement of New York for weeks, always a step behind his elusive quarry.

He finally caught up with him one night at Wetlands – Russo wasn’t performing, but rather hanging out at a Guster show, taking advantage of the sadly-defunct club’s generous free beer policy and conspiring to corrupt underage girls. When the ambassador produced his credentials, our fearless hero did what any sane person would in his situation – he ran like hell, visions of a lifetime spent wasting in a Welsh jail ricocheting through his head. But of course the ambassador always travels with an extensive security detail, who apprehended Russo as soon as he made it through the doors, and hustled him into a waiting towncar.

When he saw that the car had a wet bar, Joe felt instantly at home, and his stress subsided greatly The ambassador explained the purpose of his mission, and that it would be very much in Joe’s best interest to take the Prince up on his generous offer. In fact, it soon became clear, he had little say in the matter, as the car was en route directly to Kennedy Airport, where a British Airways jet was being held on the ground awaiting the arrival of its distinguished passenger.

The story continues at www.sirjoerusso.com