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.
