On the road, danger lurks

I cannot be sure it remains so today because I’m not around large numbers of young people constantly, but in my youth there was this definite impression among youngsters that life on the road, for a travelling musician, was a series of joyful experiences. Mind you, I can see how that view came to be: after all, these travelling singers and players are going to exotic places, getting there in aeroplanes or comfortable cars, eating in highly rated restaurants, performing in popular hotels, and interacting with glamourous, even famous, folks in these metropolitan settings.  That notion is true but it captures only one part of the story; the other part is that as much as those qualities obtain, the picture is incomplete; other factors come into play that taint the experience somewhat: poor sound systems; dishonest promoters; cancellations, after check-in, leaving you to spend a sleepless night in an airport terminal; and other traumas. It’s a long list. 

In the early Tradewinds years, I recall a visit to a certain Caribbean island, which I will not name, where we arrived on the night of the function, wearing street clothes, and asked to be shown the dressing room to change into our performance duds.  The host of the event apologised for no dressing room but showed us to a private washroom instead.  We opened the door to find about half-an-inch of water on the floor, and with shouts of “music” already coming for the crowd, there was no time to waste.  I ended up standing on the toilet seat, with the show costume draped around my neck, while I wriggled out of my street clothes and into the performance gear.  One slip would have been disaster, with the water on the floor, but all four of us managed the exchange without mishap. After the show, however, the change back into regular duds didn’t go too well for me and I ended up, on the drive back to the hotel, sitting in pair of jeans that had fallen into the water on the floor.  I was soaked to my underwear. Life on the road.

Sometimes, the trauma can get severe. Tradewinds on a trip to Western Canada, for instance, found ourselves on a red-eye flight from Calgary returning to Toronto. The plane took off on time in the wee hours and we all settled in for a 4-hour sleep.  Twenty minutes after takeoff, however, the pilot came in to intercom to say, “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the captain speaking.  We believe there is nothing to this, we believe it is a hoax, but we have a report of a bomb on board this airplane.  I emphasise we are sure this is a hoax, but nonetheless we have to take precautions. We are, therefore, changing our flight plan to land in Edmonton and have security check the aircraft.  We will be landing there in one hour.  In the interim, please remain seated. Our flight crew will come around to serve you or assist you in any way, and I will get back to you with further instructions as we go in to land at Edmonton. Thank you for your attention.”

 That next hour was longest hour of my life.  I must have checked my watch 50 times. I was convinced it had stopped working and asked one of my guys for the time.  The plane became totally quiet.  No voices, no music, no one moving about; one was numb.  It seemed forever before the captain came back to say we were preparing to land in Edmonton. We were put through the landing-brace position and, in very strong language, ordered to stay in our seats after touchdown and not to move to the exit doors until instructed by a crew member.

We were also told: “To save time, we are not using the stairs. You will get to the ground by using the emergency slide; it is perfectly safe, and our staff will be there to guide you.  Please follow their instructions.” Whoever wasn’t scared before was certainly scared now. As we approached Edmonton airport, it was unbelievable to see the illumination on the ground. The airport was ablaze with light, emergency lights had been put up to augment the regular ones, and we learned later that some additional light was coming from scores of taxis parked with their lights on in the taxiways and various laneways fringing the terminal. It looked like Christmas down there. I was dreading a noise or a bang when we landed, but the pilot put us down perfectly and pulled off the runway to the nearest taxiway where there were taxis waiting to take us to the terminal. As the plane landed, there was no rushing for the door, no bumping – I later looked back and felt we were all in shock. I know I was. There were several doors with slides. As we got to them, crew members, all cool and calm, gently guided us onto the slide and away we went.  As we got to the ground, I heard the first sign of tension or panic: airline staff were standing on the tarmac near where the slide ended and they were shouting, literally shouting, “Get away from the aeroplane! Get away from the aeroplane!” It was a loud, simple, clear message. No questioning voice was raised; we all ran flat out for the terminal.

Inside the terminal, it was eerily quiet.  Whatever conversation was going on, was muted and brief.  Flight attendants came around handing out soft drinks and refreshments, but every sound was muted. Shock was in the air.

  Fortunately, it was indeed a hoax, and a couple hours later we boarded another aircraft and flew without further incident to Toronto. However, Brian Anderson, from St. Vincent, the first Tradewinds keyboard player – he hated flying – had come off the plane in Edmonton looking as if he had seen a ghost; his eyes were wide open and staring. Two weeks later, he was to tell me in Toronto that he was leaving the band. “I love the music and it’s great playing with you guys, but I can’t take this aeroplane thing.  If we were driving to the gigs, fine, but the flying, no; after that bomb scare, I have to pack it in.”

Many years later, on a Caribbean tour, Tradewinds came to perform in Trinidad at Carnival time and one engagement was at San Fernando in the southern part of the island. We left Port-of-Spain with two vehicles.  One was a minibus carrying the musicians, and other was a van with all our musical gear, both with very professional drivers who abstained from alcohol completely during the night of the show, not even one beer.  As the music ended, we supervised the reloading of the van with the instruments and the driver decided to leave before us. “That highway can be worries; I want to take my time going back.”  And away he went.  About two hours later we are halfway back to town and we see lights flashing ahead, indicating trouble.  As we pulled up, there were several police vehicles, and we immediately saw our instruments van on the grassy northbound shoulder with the front completely smashed in.  We stopped on the shoulder and walked up to the site.  As I got close to the van, a police officer next to me shone his flashlight on the ground. There, in the light’s glare, was the mangled body of our van driver on the ground; he had been driving north, and a truck driver attempting to overtake in a southbound lane, had veered into the northbound lane and run head on into our band truck killing our driver instantly. Life on the road for musicians can be exhilarating; but danger always lurks.