I was a performer on a cruise in the 70s…

Have you ever spent time on the high seas? Perhaps you worked on one? James did and he will be sharing some memories of what it was like to be a struggling musician in the 1970s… 

It seemed idyllic: a South Pacific cruise on a luxury liner – the British ship, P&O Orcades. Playing music in a band on the high seas and being paid into the bargain – nirvana one might think! What could possibly go wrong? Just about everything, as it turned out! But first some background information…

It was 1971 or ’72 or maybe ‘73 and I was a member of a band called ‘The In Group’. The very name now makes you cringe, or at least it used to! We were a bunch of relatively talented musicians, trying desperately to appear ‘hip’, ‘trendy’, ‘clean cut’, ‘with it’, ‘up-to-date’, ‘in-the-know’. We were allegedly, in with the in-crowd to quote the lyrics by Billy Page, but we most certainly, were not! I’d suspect, however, that this was where the bandleader/saxophonist (John) got the idea for the name. The line-up for the band had changed a bit over the years. Fortunately, the version of ‘The In Group’ that I joined also included two brothers Steve (guitar) and Dave (bass) who really were the backbone or backbeat if you will, of the group. I was the less than competent drummer and our glam singer was Merrin who was also John’s wife. We were known as a ‘show group’. Nowadays, I’m not really sure what that means anymore.

We dressed in wine coloured suits that featured black velvet collars and trim with black stripes down the outside trouser legs with bell-bottoms. We also had black velvet bowties (clip-on variety) with pale pink shirts. Black leather boots with Cuban heels were of course, de rigueur! We rather looked like a 70s bridal party. You’d be right if you thought we were perhaps just a little twee! This was reflected in the music we played also – usually the blandest, most un-cool, middle-of-the-road pap, sorry…pop that was playing on the radio at the time. Who can ever forget Chirpy Chirpy Cheep Cheep or Beautiful Sunday or other cheesy and corny classics such as Running Bear, Tie a Yellow Ribbon Round The Old Oak Tree, Top Of The World, Joy to the World… And after listening again to some of this stuff on YouTube, so as to recall that 70s sound I’m thinking, Stop the world, I want to get off!

It was bad enough having to play these tunes appearing as if you were enjoying it, but we had to play them on a ship out in the middle of the ocean. Despite the fact that the Orcades was fitted with stabilisers, I regrettably was not, and so motion sickness was a constant companion. Indeed, we had barely cleared the heads of Port Jackson when the first bout struck. Consequently, I was well on the way to feeding the sharks, over the rail, most of the way across the Tasman Sea. A slight exaggeration admittedly, however, I did consult the ship’s doctor on the first day because our first engagement was scheduled for that night. ‘Oh dear, old chap, how beastly for you,’ exclaimed the young medico resplendent in crisp whites. ‘If you’ll just lower your bags, I’ll just give you an injection of antihistamine into your posterior. It’ll put you to sleep for awhile but you’ll be right as rain afterwards.’ ‘Must get along later to hear you batter the old skins, eh?’ I retreated to my cabin on ‘C’ deck, barely able to walk, and, true to his word, I was dead to the world in minutes.

When I awoke about two or three hours later, I felt fine! The retching had stopped; my head wasn’t spinning (much) and the shakes had subsided. Strangely enough I was feeling ravenously hungry, so I dressed for dinner (as one did!) in my newly acquired safari jacket. Very smart it was with epaulets and belt; only difference was mine had long sleeves. I sat down and met the other people with whom I would dine for the whole voyage. I remember that fish was the main course served in a white creamy sauce. I ate about three quarters and suddenly a feeling of nausea came over me once more. I tried to be stoic and told myself, ‘You can do this; don’t disgrace yourself!’ Alas, my body was not responding to direct commands from the nerve centre; I brought up the contents back onto the plate from whence they came! Lamentably, the afore-mentioned safari jacket was subject to some collateral damage. Goanese waiters came running from all quarters to assist. ‘Oh dear, sir has been most terribly sick, we must clean him up.’

Oddly enough, my dinner companions seemed to be rather unfazed and carried on as if nothing had happened. Either they were oblivious, uncaring or drunk. It could be that I was too insignificant for them to be bothered. For my part I was mortified and I left as soon as possible. I deposited my seriously compromised jacket with the laundry service and hastened to my cabin to change and get ready for that evening’s performance. The refurbished safari jacket was returned in due course but from that time on, it retained a slight ‘air’ about it. It might have been a psychosomatic reaction from me; nonetheless I only wore it sporadically from then on. My head was still reeling but I managed to find my way to the discotheque where we were to play; The In-Group alternating with Nikki the DJ – spinning the discs for your dancing pleasure – to quote the blurb from the Orcade’s entertainment guide.

The disco was located around ‘D’ or ‘E’ deck and looked vaguely like a seedy strip club in King’s Cross, only with portholes! There was (thankfully) a clear passage to the outside deck and fresh air; so I was able to zip quickly to the railing for a quick chunder if and when required between sets. The seas seemed quite rough that night – probably a five or six metre swell. We bobbed back and forth, in our preposterous suits, looking like a set of drunken bowling alley skittles. Ironically, our first tune that night was Up, Up and Away by The Fifth Dimension. At one point, when I was required to play a flourish around the drum-kit, half the kit tumbled to one side as the ship went down into a trough and I fell off the drum-stool and sprawled on my back on the floor! The audience howled with laughter and the others in the band were not far behind. My second humiliation for that day! Nikki, the spaced out DJ, said something like, ‘Wow groovy, all part of the act eh?’ And immediately took over and an ear-splitting burst of Sweet Soul Music by Arthur Conley came blasting through the sound system. Nikki would mumble something quite unintelligible into her mike between brackets of two or three tunes which, presumably, was meant to be hip, insightful. Whatever she said was completely ignored by all and sundry in an all pervading atmosphere of booze and other exotic substances. We played a few more times but our twee songs were largely ignored.

It was only our first night at sea and we were a band on ship. The way I felt at that moment was, however, that I wanted to abandon ship! The dream had soured and the realisation occurred to me that I was a very poor sailor indeed. Little did I know that further indignities awaited us in the balmy days and nights yet to come.

Were you ever in a band? How serious were you and how successful was the band? Tell us about your experiences in the comments below…