In the '60s, our band had practice once a week at my house. We lived in a well-to-do residential neighborhood in Fullerton, California. One acre lots, long driveway up to the house and detached 3-car garage where we rehearsed. There was one man across the street, Mr. Stark, who called the Fullerton Police Department about every other time we practiced. The men in blue would mosey up the long driveway on foot to the garage and contact us about the noise complaint. The officers were always polite, but nonchalantly scoped out all the ash trays looking for the evil weed. Of course, we never partook at rehearsal as the parents were always home. We never had to shut it down completely, but we did have to lower the volume considerably (not that we were all that loud because we weren't). And we never had the coppers show up more than once in one day. Looking back, I guess I should have gone over to Mr. Stark's place to chat him up to try to coordinate a time for practice that he would be OK with.