In all the years I worked in a band with my brother, booked by an agent who did little to advance our career, we had little to be thankful for in regards to his lamentable efforts. One time, however, this agent, in response to a cancellation by one of his more favored acts, booked us into a job in a dance-hall showroom on the island of Bermuda. I say dance hall because this was the function that fell to us; I say show room for that was the role of the act with whom shared this billing.

These, some local islanders, were a group of musicians who performed three one hour-long shows nightly of an island-cum-funk-band type review and alternating with these we provided three sets concluding sometime in the wee hours usually about 4:00am. Our sets were to consist of dance numbers the better to enliven the crowd for the show band to follow, i.e. we were the warm-up act.

We performed admirably well as I recall. At the time, we were a rock and funk unit, performing the hits of the day (circa 1975). These comprised bits of Rolling Stones and other rock and roll interspersed with Sly and the Family Stone (among other timeless funksters) and such like ad infinitum. If memory serves, we acquitted ourselves laudably. I have quite a distinct memory of a hall full of young people, mostly female, perhaps a few hundred strong rather enthralled with our presentation.

This all took place on or about Spring Break, that annual Bacchanalia celebrated by teens across America in advance of their pending movement forward in their college matriculation. Each spring season these youths gather in tropical resort locales to celebrate with little or no reason necessary beyond their own sense of self-achievement. In the season in which our narrative takes place, some hundreds, if not thousands, gathered on the island of Bermuda.

Just getting there was somewhat of an adventure for us. In those pre-9/11 days, security was not quite as restrictive as it is today; however, as we were musicians and of the requisite appearance sartorially, upon entering Bermuda, customs officials were more than a little interested with what we may have been attempting to pollute their island community. Suffice to say, customs agents detained and searched us, futilely and without cause I might add, our instrument cases and persons scrupulously scrutinized.

Once clear of customs, we entered life on Bermuda and garnered much in the way of solicitude. First off there were the accommodations provided: a modest house for us to live in for the week replete with motor scooters for which each of us was to avail ourselves. Combined with this, our nightly schedule of three to four sets with lengthy breaks between (the previously mentioned show sets) put us squarely in seventh heaven. We summarily dismissed all previously remarked discord with the booking agent. We were living large, as the parlance of the times would have it.

Bermuda is a lovely setting for such activities: an idyllic island community replete with sun-splashed beaches, extremely temperate weather and a plethora of congenial citizenry to round out its general amiability. All was well in our island home-away-from-home. We rode our mopeds to and from the town during the daytime and at night, we enjoyed as near to rock star status idolatry as I would enjoy in all my years of rock and rolling. One night, during a mid-evening set, I stood on stage while young lovelies tugged at my pants leg and felt what I dreamt true rock icons knew: the rabid adoration of female throngs.

For our part, we were merely a trio of rock and rollers, not really much on which this multitude might heap their adoration. The show act was eight or nine strong, an assemblage of island male flesh on which the gathered honeys were more than willing to lavish their attentions, not to mention their affections.

These fellows had their routine down pat: they offered an amalgam of island inspired calypso based ditties blended with a ribald patter designed to enrapture a collection of college age girls - and it worked to near perfection. Towards the end of our week, the mass of girls were calling out the punch lines to some of the more racy jokes with a raucous enthusiasm better suited to the locker room than a night club but perhaps I am indulging my own Puritanism rather than their libidinousness.

In the end, these fellows did their job and we did ours: they provided the Showtime; we provided the necessary gyration inducing rhythms. All was well that ended well. They provided the laughs while we provided the rock and roll. This was perfectly amenable to us then and still affords me an affable memory today.

© Stephen Alexander 2008