That bizzare day horror vixen Caroline Munro recorded music with Eric Clapton and Cream, 1967
Before she was battling latex-clad space monsters, tangling with Christopher Lee, or dodging Roger Moore’s double entendres in The Spy Who Loved Me, Caroline Munro was just another convent schoolgirl with a nice voice and some serious luck. And like so many unlikely 1960s stories, hers involves an open-topped Jaguar, David Bailey, and a certain trio of soon-to-be rock gods. Because, yes, there was that one surreal moment in 1967 when the future horror icon, barely 16 years old, found herself in Abbey Road Studios cutting a pop single… backed by Cream.
The whole chain of events kicks off like some lost scene from Blow-Up. A photo of young Caroline taken by her friend’s mother won the Evening News’ Face of the Year contest, judged by none other than swinging London’s camera king, David Bailey himself. Suddenly, the teenager from Windsor was being courted for modelling gigs, commercials, and then, improbably, a record deal. Munro had sung in her church choir, but this was a whole different league. The suits figured she could be the next Petula Clark or Sandie Shaw. The fact that she had no real experience didn’t seem to bother anyone.
Enter producer Mark Wirtz, hot off the acid-pop psych bubble of A Teenage Opera, who figured Caroline’s breathy, naïve vocals would pair perfectly with some light orchestral pop. But Wirtz didn’t just bring in studio hacks. No, this session had Eric Clapton on guitar, Jack Bruce on bass, Ginger Baker on drums, and – because this tale wasn’t already ridiculous enough – a young Steve Howe (later of Yes) filling out the sound. Imagine this lot cramming into Abbey Road’s Studio 2, knocking back cigarettes and tea while trying not to drown out Munro’s delicate voice.
The resulting A-side, Tar and Cement, is pure 1967: swirling strings, gentle harmonies, and Munro’s soft delivery floating above it all. Listening to it now, you can hear faint echoes of Lulu and Marianne Faithfull, but also that slightly dislocated air of a teenage girl singing lyrics she’s too young to fully understand. The sound is all misty-eyed, post-summer of love pop, with Clapton’s guitar respectfully subdued. Considering who’s playing behind her, it’s charming…and just a little fucking bizarre.
But it is the B-side, ‘This Sporting Life’, that’s the real oddity. Munro, in her schoolgirl uniform one day, was suddenly purring out world-weary lyrics about being worn down by nightclub excess and romantic exhaustion. “I’m getting tired of hanging around, think I will marry and settle down…” she coos, sounding like a 40-year-old lounge singer trapped in the body of a convent sixth-former. Even she later laughed about how absurd it was: “It was ridiculous, really. I didn’t know anything about living a sporting life.”
Listening to these tracks now on scratchy YouTube uploads, you can hear how tight Cream already were even while moonlighting on pop fluff. Baker’s drumming on ‘This Sporting Life’ has that sly swing he’d soon unleash fully on White Room. Bruce’s bass is melodic and confident, while Clapton restrains his bluesy tendencies to fit Wirtz’s candy-coated vision. There’s an underlying coolness here: the Cream boys knew this wasn’t their bag, but they still delivered. It’s a fascinating glimpse of these legends flexing their chops on pure commercial pop, just before they would unleash Disraeli Gears on the world.
Of course, this brief brush with Swinging London pop stardom didn’t lead to a music career. Munro was soon swallowed up by modelling, Hammer horror, and Bond girl immortality. But for one sunny afternoon in 1967, she fronted what might have been the strangest supergroup in British rock history. Abbey Road has seen its share of ghosts, but somewhere in the ether, the ghost of teenage Caroline Munro still hums along to the most surreal Cream session that never made the rock history books.