I just returned from a one week cruise in the Caribbean. You know–burning yourself to a crisp on the sun deck while imbibing umbrella drinks, visiting the buffet 18 hours a day while trying to fend off seasickness, cramming yourself into a 120 square foot “stateroom” with a a commode that, when flushed, is guaranteed to wake up half the ship’s passengers, and of course, endless games of shuffleboard and bingo.
Actually, our trip, while including all of the above, was a little different.
It was a music cruise on which about 30 musicians and groups provided entertainment at several venues on the ship from noon until 1 am almost every night.
What kind of music? I guess you’d call it folk, acoustic, indie, singer-songwriter, that sort of thing. Featured artists were John Prine, Lyle Lovett, and Lucinda Williams, among others. If none of those names ring a bell, well, then, I may have already lost you.
And actually some of them lost me almost from the start. You know, with folk music, the lyrics are the key. The artist is telling you something important, so when he sings (or mumbles), “Ah no fahrig glen hoo dow wavy mee sooma baldy doh!”, you know he’s pouring his heart into his song and you’ve got to sit up and take notice. And scratch your head. And wonder, “What the hell did he just say?!”
And then, while strumming his guitar thoughtfully, he continues: “Marno fay lamo howdy hoodoh potsy tokum!” At that point, I’m looking around at the rest of the crowd wondering if I’m the only one who’s not getting it. Everyone else, though, seems into it. Either that, or they’re faking it. Or I just mistakenly walked into a Ukrainian folk concert.
Between songs, the singer seemed a little more coherent and I could actually pick up some English words. Which was great except during the entire monologue, he was tuning his guitar. Every five minutes, he was plucking strings and twisting knobs and muttering that the damn guitar was out of tune! Seriously, can a musical instrument get that much out of tune in a five minute period? My guess is that it’s just a musician’s affectation or a way to calm his nerves so that he could get ready for the next tune, everybody’s favorite–“Mahno Hoo Blowy”.
But let me be fair. The music, for the most part, was sensational and inspiring. It made me jealous, as well, because musicians can do things the rest of us can’t. They can pick up a static instrument and make it sing; they can create beauty out of thin air. They can do it alone, they can collaborate, they can improvise.
Me? I look at a guitar, and I see a strangely shaped hunk of wood with strings. A piano? A bunch of black and white keys on which, if I really concentrate, I can play a haunting rendition of “Hot Cross Buns”.
But we can all appreciate music, and we did, all 2500 of us on board the ship. Most were in the 40s, 50s and 60s, and most were former hippies, wannabe hippies or current hippies. Good vibes everywhere.
Except for dinner on our last night of the cruise. It was “dress-up” night, which I was unaware of until I got there, so my soiled Carhartt T-shirt, shorts, and sandals had to suffice, but the couple at the table next to us, in their 50s, were appropriately attired.
But they weren’t smiling when they sat down, and when the man ordered dinner, he told the waitress, “THIS LADY would like the steak….” This lady?? What the hell? How about “my wife” or how about letting her make her own order? And later on in the meal, again when addressing the waitress, he said, “THIS LADY would like some butter…”
I don’t know, maybe it’s a Southern thing but it sure sounded peculiar and out of character for this particular cruise.
Not only that, but the grim-faced couple exchanged only a few words with each other while eating.
The capper came at the end of the meal when the man again addressed the waitress, a polite and timid Filipino: “Have we done something to offend you?” the man asked. He then listed a series of perceived slights they had suffered during their meal while the waitress, bewildered and shaking, tried to understand and apologize.
THIS GENTLEMAN and THIS LADY then proceeded to huffily leave the restaurant. I suspected they weren’t going to enjoy a rollicking night of romance in their 120 square foot stateroom that night.
So what else was there for them to do? Maybe order a cocktail and criticize the bartender for his inefficiency? Exchange glares under the moonlight on the sun deck? In any case, I certainly couldn’t see them joining in the festive singalong later that night of that beloved hippie anthem, “Homa Hooda Fidee Ho!”