Our ship was late leaving Grand Cayman due to a medical emergency. This happens from time to time. But this time the emergency was a guest entertainer. One of 'The Drifters', as a matter of fact. You will remember them for their hits 'On Broadway', 'Under the Boardwalk' and others.

Unfortunately the afflicted Drifter, Vernon, did not survive his emergency, and died in the hospital on Grand Cayman. I don't know what the emergency was.

The show must go on, and the group flew in a replacement who had worked with the them some 26 years ago. And we did, indeed, play their show last night. The program was dedicated to the memory of Vernon, but this was announced only at the end. It was an emotional time for the remaining Drifters, and I felt for them.

Groups like the Drifters won't be around much longer, and this event reminded me of a strange gig I once had with 'The Mills Brother'. That's right, there was only one left by the time I had an opportunity to work with 'them'.

It started innocently enough. I got a call from Jerry Fuller, the drummer (now deceased), asking me if I wanted to do a one-nighter gig with the Mills Brothers. It was on an island somewhere, he said. A Hallowe'en gig for some rich folks. Probably Muskoka, I thought.

I liked Jerry, so I said sure, why not. It was all very short-notice, and I had to be at Toronto Island Airport the next morning to meet the plane that was being sent for us.

Wow. A whole plane sent to pick up the drummer and bass player! They really must be rich folks.

We met the next day at the airport, and sure enough, a small twin-engine plane was waiting to take us to the island. It wasn't until then that I learned we were leaving Canada - that the island was in Lake Huron on the US side.

“But I didn't bring any ID with me”, I told the pilot. “I didn't know we were leaving the country.”

“Don't worry, you won't need it. We're flying directly to island. No customs or immigration hassels,” said the pilot, who looked kind of tough and suspicious to me.

What the hell, I thought. Let's see what happens. So we boarded the plane, took off, and a little over an hour later we were getting ready to land. The island wasn't far from Detroit as it turned out.

The pilot said, “This is the immigration check, in case you were wondering” and he buzzed a small island below us, waving the wings as we passed overhead. A uniformed official on the ground waved back.

We landed on a small, private strip on the island and were met by a 1930s era vintage Lincoln to take us over to 'the big house' (a huge mansion overlooking the lake) where we were to play that night. On the way there we passed some other vintage automobiles, and what appeared to be a film set – cameras, lights, people dressed in period costume.

The Mills Brothers were pre-Drifters, Platters, Temptations etc., having been around since the 1930s. Jerry had worked with the Mills Brothers before, and introduced me when we met at the house for the rehearsal. The lone remaining brother must have been close to 80 years old, but still a-singin'. His son served as his musical director and pianist. Very nice people, both of them.

We rehearsed a bunch of 1930s tunes to play at the party that night. The missing vocal parts were supplied on a tape we had to play along with, which was a bit tricky.

After the rehearsal we were pretty much left up to our own devices. Wandering around the grounds I watched as numerous helicopters landed, unloaded their period-costumed passengers, and flew off again. Then I headed over to the 'set' to watch a couple of scenes get shot. Gangsters, molls, guns, old cars.

I began to consider the possibility that this whole experience was some kind of lucid dream. What had I been up to last night, I wondered.

The gig itself was uneventful. We set up and played in a corner during dinner, just like any jobbing gig. Nobody listened to us, although there was a smattering of applause now and then. (I'm just thinking – the only time you really hear the word 'smattering' is when it refers to applause...)

We finished pretty early, and I began to wonder how I was going to get home. I asked Jerry, but he didn't know, and didn't seem to care (he was enjoying the free booze). Jerry said he was going to bunk in with the sound guys who had come over by ferry with their motorhome. He said they had some pot, and movies.

I hadn't told anybody I wasn't coming home that night. Nobody knew where I was (including myself). And I couldn't find out what arrangements had been made for us to either stay, or get back home. So, as it was getting late, I joined Jerry in the bus, drank a bunch of whiskey, and eventually passed out while Jerry and the sound guys smoked pot and played porn videos all night.

By the time morning finally came around I had lost my usual unlimited patience and good hunour and began making serious noise about getting home to anybody who would listen. Jerry was no help at all. Finally someone with some kind of authority assigned a pimply-faced kid, who looked barely old enough to drive, to look after my transportation needs.

I remember being crammed into a rusty old Ford station wagon with some other people (maybe it was a rusty old Chevy or something) and racing recklessly along the gravel roads at extremely high speed.

But I do not remember how I finally got home! I think we might have met a ferry and that my ride home was all by car. But I couldn't swear to that. I must have been in really bad shape that day...

***

Sorry to go off on a tangent like that, but it happens sometimes that some event triggers a memory. And it's probably worthwhile making note of some of these almost-forgotten, strange little epsiodes in the life of a jobbing bass-player.