It would be interesting to ask people, as they pass, why they're making a donation. Would they even know why, exactly? Maybe it’s such a split-second decision, it’s not possible to analyze it. On the other hand, it seems to me, from my own experience of giving on the street, that I am motivated in a variety of distinct ways.
As a busker myself, I’m curious about what those motivations are, not because I want to exploit them, but because I want to better understand the communication I’m having with these hundreds of strangers.
So, why do you give money to a busker?
The first, and probably most desirable reason for both parties, is that you like the music and you’re paying the musician as a form of saying “thank you”. The scenario might go something like this. You’re tired and grumpy and weighed down by packages during the Christmas season, and as you enter the subway station, a pretty melody lifts your spirits for a few moments. In return, you donate a dollar.
You might view the subway station as an alternate form of performance venue and contribute something in lieu of buying a concert ticket. At a busker's festival last summer, we heard professional street performers say things like “You’d pay $20 to see this flaming hoop juggling act on a flying trapeze in the Air Canada Centre” to elicit higher donations.
You might make a donation because you admire the musician’s skill and want to reward it, whether or not it’s really “your kind of music” or not.
I’ve also heard of people donating more money to particular buskers (not on the TTC) so that they’d quit and go home earlier.
On the other hand, I know that people also give to subway musicians for reasons that have nothing to do with music.
When I’m feeling sorry for myself, for any number of reasons, and I see someone in a physically challenging situation asking for money, I find myself reaching into my pocket as a way of putting my own problems in perspective. The act of giving, itself, is a leveller and a humbling gesture. It’s a way of acknowledging that my own problems are not quite so serious after all and that my own good fortune is as much about luck and timing as it is about being particularly deserving. Knowing that “there but for the grace of God go I,” making a cash donation to a person less fortunate is a way of expressing compassion and a willingness to try and balance the scales.
In the case of subway musicians, many of whom, like me, are middle-class professionals with roofs over their heads, an onlooker’s perception of us may be very different than the reality. A subway musician is very likely not worse off than you at all. In fact, he or she might actually be better off, considering that he’s playing the accordion most of the day instead of, say, fixing a roof.
Knowing that at times people mistake me for someone less fortunate, I feel a responsibility to keep passing contributions along. The easiest way to do that, over Christmas, was to simply drop a portion of my proceeds into the Salvation Army bowl as I left the subway station.
Of course, many people, especially in the culturally-savvy environment of downtown Toronto, do understand street performance as an important part of many artistic careers. For these folks, donating to a busker is perhaps a gesture of support for the arts community in general (whom I heard today described as “striving artists” instead of “starving artists”) as much as a thumbs-up to the specific musician.
Although some artists are better off than others, it’s widely understood that the majority of musicians (actors, painters, poets...) have to stretch their dollars to make ends meet. So when you give to a street musician, you do so with the confidence that the loonie will indeed make a difference and be appreciated. You also give with the expectation that the money won’t be spent on alcohol or drugs; you’re spared the internal debate of trying to figure out, in those few moments when you’re considering an outstretched hand, whether or not your money will be part of the solution or the problem.
Also, you’re spared the sense of futility that so often accompanies giving to any cause, whether spontaneously or with great care and deliberation.
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
Sunday, December 26, 2004
Boxing Day
The day after Christmas, I visited four stations without playing before setting up shop at Pape. First I went to Spadina, but it was extraordinarily quiet, and I thought if I were out today I might as well go where people actually are.
I tried Bay Station--a cellist was there. Yonge & Bloor? South American pan flutes. Broadview was a possibility, but today the Gateway Newstand and the Lottario booth were closed, making it seem particularly bleak. So, back to Pape I went.
Unfortunately, although it wasn't technically as cold as it had been on previous days, it was windy and damp, and for the first time--even with my fingerless gloves--I found that it was truly too cold to play. One woman pointed that out, quite kindly, as she passed by, and I had to agree with her. I played five songs and collected $8.50.
I reluctantly packed up my things, knowing that it would be the last time I'd be playing for a few days.
I tried Bay Station--a cellist was there. Yonge & Bloor? South American pan flutes. Broadview was a possibility, but today the Gateway Newstand and the Lottario booth were closed, making it seem particularly bleak. So, back to Pape I went.
Unfortunately, although it wasn't technically as cold as it had been on previous days, it was windy and damp, and for the first time--even with my fingerless gloves--I found that it was truly too cold to play. One woman pointed that out, quite kindly, as she passed by, and I had to agree with her. I played five songs and collected $8.50.
I reluctantly packed up my things, knowing that it would be the last time I'd be playing for a few days.
+++
Friday, December 24, 2004
Merry Christmas Spadina Station
I promised myself I'd sing today, even though it was Christmas Eve. I had forgotten that Dave had to work today...which left me without child care. Fortunately, our neighbours invited the kids for a playdate with their children, so I figured I could break away for a couple of hours. I told several people that I'd be at Spadina Station today between noon and two o'clock.
I planned to drive there, and pick up more giftwrap and last-minute gifts on the way home too, but my car was encased in a layer of ice from yesterday's storm. Clearly I was meant to take "The Better Way" today.
As I walked off toward the bus stop, one of my neighbours rolled down her window and gave me a big thumbs-up. Then, as I got off the bus at Pape Station, I heard a woman whisper to her friend: "That's the busker!!"
The performance area at Spadina is located in a spacious vestibule tiled in warm caramel brown. It's at the end of a long moving sidewalk (currently under repair) which connects this modern arm of Spadina Station (the north-south axis point) to the historic Bloor-Danforth line.
The vestibule feels a lot like an auditorium. It would seat more than one hundred people if it were used that way. Unfortunately, because there are two levels of trains at Spadina, there's also twice the noise. Also, in addition to the noise of the trains, a man at a pay phone directly across from me was carrying on a loud argument in Spanish. The altercation went on for a half-hour, even though I tried to calm the atmosphere with songs like "Silent Night".
I took the opportunity to sing all the religious Christmas songs I felt like singing, including "O Come All Ye Faithful" and "In the Bleak Midwinter". This year, I won't be in church at Christmastime. Looking out at the octagonal foyer in which I found myself, I thought: This is it.
Finally the man at the pay-phone finished his argument and walked away, glancing at me strangely. (Maybe my music had interfered with the argument?)
Shortly afterward, a man came by who I'd noticed at Bay Station a couple of times. He stopped to have a conversation and asked insightful questions about my career and my reasons for busking. He too was a musician and talked about his own experiences as a subway musician. (I was thrilled when he bought a CD.)
Then, later, another former busker also came along. This pattern of coincidences is proving to be the norm. I'll bump into the same person more than once at different stations...or I'll meet two people from the same former workplace within minutes of each other. What's the likelihood that I'd run into the same person three times? I'm only out for a few hours at a time...and not every day or at the same station. I'm starting to expect these serendipities. They always feel as if they're meant to be.
(The person I've run into the most--six times now--is Samuel, the Irish fellow with the connection to "Touched By An Angel". On Thursday, after coming home from busking, I turned on the television and by chance, "Touched By An Angel" was actually on. I could've sworn I spotted him in a crowd scene.)
The second former busker taught me the chords to The Beatles' "Norwegian Wood". I told him I'd learn it and play it next time we bump into each other. Which we will.
Meanwhile, a friend I'd agreed to meet at Spadina dropped by and bought my two CDs--for Christmas presents! Around that point, the batteries for my little amp gave out, so I offered to play one more song and asked which one he'd like. He suggested First Day of School.
I hadn't been playing that one very much in the subways. I didn't know if it would work, having such a specific (I thought) focus on children and growing up and parenting.
Then again, I had always felt that the song was not only about school itself--but about ongoing growth, challenge and risk. Ahah: maybe it was right for the subway after all.
As if on cue, along came a mother and her little girl, about my daughter's age. They stayed for the whole song.
Just like it was meant to be.
Merry Christmas.
I planned to drive there, and pick up more giftwrap and last-minute gifts on the way home too, but my car was encased in a layer of ice from yesterday's storm. Clearly I was meant to take "The Better Way" today.
As I walked off toward the bus stop, one of my neighbours rolled down her window and gave me a big thumbs-up. Then, as I got off the bus at Pape Station, I heard a woman whisper to her friend: "That's the busker!!"
+++
The performance area at Spadina is located in a spacious vestibule tiled in warm caramel brown. It's at the end of a long moving sidewalk (currently under repair) which connects this modern arm of Spadina Station (the north-south axis point) to the historic Bloor-Danforth line.
The vestibule feels a lot like an auditorium. It would seat more than one hundred people if it were used that way. Unfortunately, because there are two levels of trains at Spadina, there's also twice the noise. Also, in addition to the noise of the trains, a man at a pay phone directly across from me was carrying on a loud argument in Spanish. The altercation went on for a half-hour, even though I tried to calm the atmosphere with songs like "Silent Night".
I took the opportunity to sing all the religious Christmas songs I felt like singing, including "O Come All Ye Faithful" and "In the Bleak Midwinter". This year, I won't be in church at Christmastime. Looking out at the octagonal foyer in which I found myself, I thought: This is it.
Finally the man at the pay-phone finished his argument and walked away, glancing at me strangely. (Maybe my music had interfered with the argument?)
Shortly afterward, a man came by who I'd noticed at Bay Station a couple of times. He stopped to have a conversation and asked insightful questions about my career and my reasons for busking. He too was a musician and talked about his own experiences as a subway musician. (I was thrilled when he bought a CD.)
Then, later, another former busker also came along. This pattern of coincidences is proving to be the norm. I'll bump into the same person more than once at different stations...or I'll meet two people from the same former workplace within minutes of each other. What's the likelihood that I'd run into the same person three times? I'm only out for a few hours at a time...and not every day or at the same station. I'm starting to expect these serendipities. They always feel as if they're meant to be.
(The person I've run into the most--six times now--is Samuel, the Irish fellow with the connection to "Touched By An Angel". On Thursday, after coming home from busking, I turned on the television and by chance, "Touched By An Angel" was actually on. I could've sworn I spotted him in a crowd scene.)
The second former busker taught me the chords to The Beatles' "Norwegian Wood". I told him I'd learn it and play it next time we bump into each other. Which we will.
Meanwhile, a friend I'd agreed to meet at Spadina dropped by and bought my two CDs--for Christmas presents! Around that point, the batteries for my little amp gave out, so I offered to play one more song and asked which one he'd like. He suggested First Day of School.
I hadn't been playing that one very much in the subways. I didn't know if it would work, having such a specific (I thought) focus on children and growing up and parenting.
Then again, I had always felt that the song was not only about school itself--but about ongoing growth, challenge and risk. Ahah: maybe it was right for the subway after all.
As if on cue, along came a mother and her little girl, about my daughter's age. They stayed for the whole song.
Just like it was meant to be.
Merry Christmas.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
Paper Girl
I went back to Pape for a few hours this afternoon, despite a very messy day of weather. Last night we had a heavy snowfall, which today had turned to freezing rain. I got the feeling that nobody really wanted to be tramping around in it, but many people had no choice because Christmas was closing in.
I added several Christmas songs to my repertoire today, including Silent Night (with words now), I’ll Be Home For Christmas, Walking in a Winter Wonderland (only once, because it has a very tricky chord change) and, by request, Jingle Bells. (Until now, I hadn’t considered playing Jingle Bells because it’s so simple. But I realized as soon as I started to sing it, simple is always good. As a songwriter, I often have to remind myself of that. Jingle Bells is a good example.)
I was feeling a bit giddy today, because I hadn’t slept much the night before and I hadn’t eaten enough before coming out to play. I hadn’t slept much because I knew that an article about me was going to appear in a major newspaper today. Appear it did—and so I felt a bit self-conscious when I arrived, wondering how many people read the entertainment section of the Toronto Star.
I had the feeling that some people had indeed read the article this morning—many seemed particularly cheerful and were meeting my eyes and donating generously--but then again, they could have simply been reflecting the holiday mood and my own upbeat attitude. One woman said "I just finished reading about you! Congratulations!". The rest just smiled and gave me thumbs up and loonies.
As always, many wonderful things happened in those few hours, quite apart from the money I earned. The man mopping the floor, who had many floors to mop today, stopped to listen to me. (At first I thought he wanted me to move so he could mop the floor.) A mentally-disabled young woman joined me in singing "Jingle Bells". A man asked me if I knew any Joan Baez…and I managed to sing a verse of "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" (Yes, I know Bob Dylan wrote it, but she sang it too didn’t she?)
And finally, when I had been singing too long and was shivering, hungry and unable to quit, a man stopped and asked "Would you like one of these?"
I said, "Yes, I’d love one!"
And he placed a high-protein bar in my guitar case.
I added several Christmas songs to my repertoire today, including Silent Night (with words now), I’ll Be Home For Christmas, Walking in a Winter Wonderland (only once, because it has a very tricky chord change) and, by request, Jingle Bells. (Until now, I hadn’t considered playing Jingle Bells because it’s so simple. But I realized as soon as I started to sing it, simple is always good. As a songwriter, I often have to remind myself of that. Jingle Bells is a good example.)
I was feeling a bit giddy today, because I hadn’t slept much the night before and I hadn’t eaten enough before coming out to play. I hadn’t slept much because I knew that an article about me was going to appear in a major newspaper today. Appear it did—and so I felt a bit self-conscious when I arrived, wondering how many people read the entertainment section of the Toronto Star.
I had the feeling that some people had indeed read the article this morning—many seemed particularly cheerful and were meeting my eyes and donating generously--but then again, they could have simply been reflecting the holiday mood and my own upbeat attitude. One woman said "I just finished reading about you! Congratulations!". The rest just smiled and gave me thumbs up and loonies.
As always, many wonderful things happened in those few hours, quite apart from the money I earned. The man mopping the floor, who had many floors to mop today, stopped to listen to me. (At first I thought he wanted me to move so he could mop the floor.) A mentally-disabled young woman joined me in singing "Jingle Bells". A man asked me if I knew any Joan Baez…and I managed to sing a verse of "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" (Yes, I know Bob Dylan wrote it, but she sang it too didn’t she?)
And finally, when I had been singing too long and was shivering, hungry and unable to quit, a man stopped and asked "Would you like one of these?"
I said, "Yes, I’d love one!"
And he placed a high-protein bar in my guitar case.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Broadview
On a snowy afternoon three days before Christmas, I figured I should check out the subway station closest to home.
Broadview.
I like the name.
It makes me think about new perspectives, wider angles and new ways of looking at things. It makes me thinks about some good advice I once heard: to look ahead 25 years and see if whatever's bugging me today seems so important. Come to think of it, I guess it also says, "Hey, look at the broad!"...which is perfectly appropriate under the circumstances.
The subway station is located at Broadview and Danforth in Toronto’s Riverdale neighborhood. Broadview Avenue offers Toronto's best view of the skyline and I can't imagine a more beautiful cityscape anywhere in the world. As the subway trains travel west from Broadview Station under the stately Prince Edward Viaduct, they allow a brief glimpse of the outstretched Don Valley before returning underground.
I had checked out a few other busking locations this afternoon, but they were already taken. Buskers know that the pre-Christmas rush is an excellent time for donations. My first choice was Osgoode, but an accordion player was there, playing rousing holiday tunes to the delight of passers-by.
Then I realized that I really needed to be at Broadview. ("I’ll Be Home for Christmas".)
I knew that no other musician was likely to be there. Despite its optimistic name, Broadview is a somewhat homely spot for busking. The station itself has been under construction for months. Tracks are being refurbished, some mysterious digging has been going on outside, and a new elevator is being installed directly across from the performance area. Also, a large metal barrier was blocking the space between the yellow dots. I gently moved it off to one side and started setting up my gear.
+++
As I began to play Tall Trees (with its reference to "broad horizons"), I noticed a youngish woman scratching a lottery ticket at the counter beside me. (The busking spot at Broadview is less than ten feet away from both a lottery kiosk and a Gateway Newstand. It’s also directly across from a bank of pay phones and very close to two escalators. Although it’s not really the most acoustically-wonderful location, it’s a great spot for people-watching.)
She stayed at the lottery kiosk for more than twenty minutes. Eventually, having used up all her money (I assume) without winning anything, she gave up and headed off past me toward the trains. I wondered how much money she’d spent on the lottery tickets. She must have been convinced she’d win something. I played When You Wish Upon My Heart ("you can buy your ticket at the corner store, say a prayer at midnight for something more...") and thought, smugly, I don’t buy lottery tickets. Then I glanced at the CDs in my case and wondered if other people might see them as another kind of gamble.
+++
Many people came through with children today, because the kids are away from school for the holidays. When children passed by, I played a Christmas song like "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" or "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus". I felt awkward, though, when a little boy from my daughter’s Grade 3 class came through the station. He stared at me, probably wondering why his friend’s mom would be in a subway station singing for handouts. His mother looked shocked and embarrassed and quickly pulled him away as they passed.
+++
A woman gave me a bag of groceries: a jug of cranberry juice and a litre of milk. Because we’re two days away from Christmas and I’m out here busking instead of grocery shopping, her gift (the first of its kind) is deeply appreciated. Tonight my son wanted some of the juice, but I said we should save it for Christmas dinner.
+++
I have decided that I like Broadview more than any other station so far. I like the fact that it’s close to home and that I run into people I know there. I like the fact that it’s under construction. I like the humble little corner with the barrier that has to be moved out of the way. I like the floor littered with discarded lottery receipts: the evidence of misplaced hopes and the possibility of miracles. I like the fact that no other musician is ever there. I like the fact that it’s perched above a valley and that when you ride the train from Broadview you can see the city and the river and the sky. I like the name. The bigger picture. The view of the broad.
+++
(Later, when I go home, I pass through Pape Station—my old familiar territory. A woman about my age is there, singing "Silver Bells". She has an amplified microphone, which I’m not sure is officially allowed, and she doesn’t have a TTC Musician’s License on display. Her son, about the same age as mine, stands beside her. I don’t have the heart to ask if she has a license. I throw her two dollars.)
Broadview.
I like the name.
It makes me think about new perspectives, wider angles and new ways of looking at things. It makes me thinks about some good advice I once heard: to look ahead 25 years and see if whatever's bugging me today seems so important. Come to think of it, I guess it also says, "Hey, look at the broad!"...which is perfectly appropriate under the circumstances.
The subway station is located at Broadview and Danforth in Toronto’s Riverdale neighborhood. Broadview Avenue offers Toronto's best view of the skyline and I can't imagine a more beautiful cityscape anywhere in the world. As the subway trains travel west from Broadview Station under the stately Prince Edward Viaduct, they allow a brief glimpse of the outstretched Don Valley before returning underground.
I had checked out a few other busking locations this afternoon, but they were already taken. Buskers know that the pre-Christmas rush is an excellent time for donations. My first choice was Osgoode, but an accordion player was there, playing rousing holiday tunes to the delight of passers-by.
Then I realized that I really needed to be at Broadview. ("I’ll Be Home for Christmas".)
I knew that no other musician was likely to be there. Despite its optimistic name, Broadview is a somewhat homely spot for busking. The station itself has been under construction for months. Tracks are being refurbished, some mysterious digging has been going on outside, and a new elevator is being installed directly across from the performance area. Also, a large metal barrier was blocking the space between the yellow dots. I gently moved it off to one side and started setting up my gear.
+++
As I began to play Tall Trees (with its reference to "broad horizons"), I noticed a youngish woman scratching a lottery ticket at the counter beside me. (The busking spot at Broadview is less than ten feet away from both a lottery kiosk and a Gateway Newstand. It’s also directly across from a bank of pay phones and very close to two escalators. Although it’s not really the most acoustically-wonderful location, it’s a great spot for people-watching.)
She stayed at the lottery kiosk for more than twenty minutes. Eventually, having used up all her money (I assume) without winning anything, she gave up and headed off past me toward the trains. I wondered how much money she’d spent on the lottery tickets. She must have been convinced she’d win something. I played When You Wish Upon My Heart ("you can buy your ticket at the corner store, say a prayer at midnight for something more...") and thought, smugly, I don’t buy lottery tickets. Then I glanced at the CDs in my case and wondered if other people might see them as another kind of gamble.
+++
Many people came through with children today, because the kids are away from school for the holidays. When children passed by, I played a Christmas song like "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" or "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus". I felt awkward, though, when a little boy from my daughter’s Grade 3 class came through the station. He stared at me, probably wondering why his friend’s mom would be in a subway station singing for handouts. His mother looked shocked and embarrassed and quickly pulled him away as they passed.
+++
A woman gave me a bag of groceries: a jug of cranberry juice and a litre of milk. Because we’re two days away from Christmas and I’m out here busking instead of grocery shopping, her gift (the first of its kind) is deeply appreciated. Tonight my son wanted some of the juice, but I said we should save it for Christmas dinner.
+++
I have decided that I like Broadview more than any other station so far. I like the fact that it’s close to home and that I run into people I know there. I like the fact that it’s under construction. I like the humble little corner with the barrier that has to be moved out of the way. I like the floor littered with discarded lottery receipts: the evidence of misplaced hopes and the possibility of miracles. I like the fact that no other musician is ever there. I like the fact that it’s perched above a valley and that when you ride the train from Broadview you can see the city and the river and the sky. I like the name. The bigger picture. The view of the broad.
+++
(Later, when I go home, I pass through Pape Station—my old familiar territory. A woman about my age is there, singing "Silver Bells". She has an amplified microphone, which I’m not sure is officially allowed, and she doesn’t have a TTC Musician’s License on display. Her son, about the same age as mine, stands beside her. I don’t have the heart to ask if she has a license. I throw her two dollars.)
+++
Sunday, December 19, 2004
Minus Twelve, Pape Station
It was Sunday morning and I was keen to go out and sing.
But when we made our way down to the kitchen, Dave looked at the thermometer outside and said "You might re-think your subway playing today. It's minus twelve."
"But that's all part of the experience, isn't it?" I thought, as I put on five layers of clothing and packed the special gloves I created for myself yesterday. (Ninety-nine cents at the Dollar Store, with the fingers cut out of them.)
The car barely started, and I narrowly missed an accident as I drove frostily up to Pape Station and a chilly pedestrian recklessly darted across the street in front of me.
I expected John, the experienced full-time busker, to be at Pape this morning because he had told me he likes to catch the Sunday going-to-church crowd. But he wasn't there, which should have been my first clue that it really was too cold to busk today. My second clue was that I couldn't seem to get my guitar in tune. The periodic gusts of sub-zero air seemed to be doing a number on my strings.
But I set up anyway. By now my set-up feels very ritualistic, no matter what the time of day or the particular station. Unpack amp, open guitar, put strap on guitar, reach into pocket to find seed money, throw money into case, balance CDs in opened guitar lid, display official TTC Subway Busker's License... Then, plug guitar cable into guitar and tuner, tune guitar (it took forever this morning), unplug cable from tuner, plug into amp, turn on amp. Turn around. Face people. Play. Sing.
Because of that well-ingrained ritual, I forgot to put on my new gloves. And I didn't realize that I'd forgotten until I packed up to leave.
Today, I received a higher-than-average number of quizzical looks: "You really must be crazy". Also, fewer people seemed able to donate, because they themselves were bundled up and freezing, and it's harder to reach into your pocket for change when you're wearing mittens.
Many families were travelling on the subway, as they always are on the weekends, and many parents were awkwardly toting strollers up and down the subway stairs. This is a difficult thing to accomplish at any time of year, but it's particularly gruelling in the dead of winter. When I saw families, I started to sing a perky Christmas song like "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" but I didn't really expect them to stop for me. When you're transporting two toddlers in minus twelve weather on the Sunday before Christmas, you can't afford to lose any momentum.
At one point, two men and a woman in their twenties stopped in front of me to say a warm goodbye, embracing as if they weren't going to see each other again for some time. I felt they must be siblings. I was playing "I Would Recognize You" at the time ("I would recognize you anywhere because your heart is mine") which seemed appropriate. It was inspired by the book "No Great Mischief" by Alastair McLeod, which is the story of two brothers from Cape Breton and their ancestry. The brother and sister may not have even noticed me, they were so focused on each other, and I hoped that somehow I was providing an appropriate soundtrack for them, just for those few minutes. Maybe it's just background music...but I hope it adds something. I believe it does.
I could see my breath as I played. My strings kept wandering out of tune, in direct response to the sudden drop in temperature which occurred every time a strong gust of wind whistled through the station. I wondered for the first time whether I was putting my guitar (a Taylor, good quality) at risk by playing in the subways.
Choosing songs to play was tricky. I had positive response from Christmas material, but frankly the perky children's songs (Rudolph, Frosty the Snowman) seemed unrealistically cheerful. A more appropriate choice might be "In The Bleak Midwinter" ("frosty wind made moan") but it's very much a Christian song and out of respect for all the people of other faiths I see each day, I hesitate to play it (and other hymns like "Silent Night", "O Come All Ye Faithful" and "What Child is This?"--all of which I love and play very well) until the actual holiday.
I stuck with my seasonal subway favourite, "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas", which I'm now singing pretty darn well after several dozen plays. The other day I heard James Taylor (one of my idols) singing it over the loudspeakers of the Bulk Barn store...and even hearing that I felt pretty good about my own rendition. When I sang it today, I imagined what James Taylor would sound like if he was singing Christmas carols in the subway station.
I stayed 45 minutes and earned $7.50. As I left, I put on my new fingerless gloves (finally) and my outdoor gloves on top of them. I was tempted to stop at the nearby Tim Horton's for a coffee...but realized I was too bundled up to get to my change.
But when we made our way down to the kitchen, Dave looked at the thermometer outside and said "You might re-think your subway playing today. It's minus twelve."
"But that's all part of the experience, isn't it?" I thought, as I put on five layers of clothing and packed the special gloves I created for myself yesterday. (Ninety-nine cents at the Dollar Store, with the fingers cut out of them.)
The car barely started, and I narrowly missed an accident as I drove frostily up to Pape Station and a chilly pedestrian recklessly darted across the street in front of me.
I expected John, the experienced full-time busker, to be at Pape this morning because he had told me he likes to catch the Sunday going-to-church crowd. But he wasn't there, which should have been my first clue that it really was too cold to busk today. My second clue was that I couldn't seem to get my guitar in tune. The periodic gusts of sub-zero air seemed to be doing a number on my strings.
But I set up anyway. By now my set-up feels very ritualistic, no matter what the time of day or the particular station. Unpack amp, open guitar, put strap on guitar, reach into pocket to find seed money, throw money into case, balance CDs in opened guitar lid, display official TTC Subway Busker's License... Then, plug guitar cable into guitar and tuner, tune guitar (it took forever this morning), unplug cable from tuner, plug into amp, turn on amp. Turn around. Face people. Play. Sing.
Because of that well-ingrained ritual, I forgot to put on my new gloves. And I didn't realize that I'd forgotten until I packed up to leave.
Today, I received a higher-than-average number of quizzical looks: "You really must be crazy". Also, fewer people seemed able to donate, because they themselves were bundled up and freezing, and it's harder to reach into your pocket for change when you're wearing mittens.
Many families were travelling on the subway, as they always are on the weekends, and many parents were awkwardly toting strollers up and down the subway stairs. This is a difficult thing to accomplish at any time of year, but it's particularly gruelling in the dead of winter. When I saw families, I started to sing a perky Christmas song like "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" but I didn't really expect them to stop for me. When you're transporting two toddlers in minus twelve weather on the Sunday before Christmas, you can't afford to lose any momentum.
At one point, two men and a woman in their twenties stopped in front of me to say a warm goodbye, embracing as if they weren't going to see each other again for some time. I felt they must be siblings. I was playing "I Would Recognize You" at the time ("I would recognize you anywhere because your heart is mine") which seemed appropriate. It was inspired by the book "No Great Mischief" by Alastair McLeod, which is the story of two brothers from Cape Breton and their ancestry. The brother and sister may not have even noticed me, they were so focused on each other, and I hoped that somehow I was providing an appropriate soundtrack for them, just for those few minutes. Maybe it's just background music...but I hope it adds something. I believe it does.
I could see my breath as I played. My strings kept wandering out of tune, in direct response to the sudden drop in temperature which occurred every time a strong gust of wind whistled through the station. I wondered for the first time whether I was putting my guitar (a Taylor, good quality) at risk by playing in the subways.
Choosing songs to play was tricky. I had positive response from Christmas material, but frankly the perky children's songs (Rudolph, Frosty the Snowman) seemed unrealistically cheerful. A more appropriate choice might be "In The Bleak Midwinter" ("frosty wind made moan") but it's very much a Christian song and out of respect for all the people of other faiths I see each day, I hesitate to play it (and other hymns like "Silent Night", "O Come All Ye Faithful" and "What Child is This?"--all of which I love and play very well) until the actual holiday.
I stuck with my seasonal subway favourite, "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas", which I'm now singing pretty darn well after several dozen plays. The other day I heard James Taylor (one of my idols) singing it over the loudspeakers of the Bulk Barn store...and even hearing that I felt pretty good about my own rendition. When I sang it today, I imagined what James Taylor would sound like if he was singing Christmas carols in the subway station.
+++
I stayed 45 minutes and earned $7.50. As I left, I put on my new fingerless gloves (finally) and my outdoor gloves on top of them. I was tempted to stop at the nearby Tim Horton's for a coffee...but realized I was too bundled up to get to my change.
Of Churches and Subways
Until now, the most memorable performances of my life have taken place in churches.
This comes as something of a surprise to me. After all, as a contemporary singer-songwriter, I’ve spent quite a lot of time in café’s, clubs, concert halls, outdoor music festivals and even school auditoriums. But it’s the churches I remember.
I remember singing "She's Like the Swallow" while looking up at the domed ceiling of a Winnipeg church during the Kiwanis Music Festival. (I came in second.) And I remember singing "In The Bleak Midwinter" for the late-night service at our church on Christmas Eve.
I was brought up in a church-going family. My parents were both raised Baptist in the American South, and for a time my father considered becoming an ordained minister. He didn't do that, but gave guest sermons from time to time in the much more liberal United Church they happily discovered once they'd moved to Canada. For awhile, my mother directed the choir. These days my dad directs the church theatre troupe. Just last month I "came home" to give a concert at Immanuel United.
Music was very much connected to my idea of spirituality. When I started to play guitar, Bruce Cockburn was in his overtly Christian period, and I learned to play songs like "All the Diamonds In The World". My first songwriting collaborator, with whom I recorded a song while in high school, went on to become a successful Contemporary Christian performer.
Without being conscious of it, I found myself writing songs that included Christian messages and symbols ("Smooth Stones" for one). The majority of songs didn’t include overt Christian language, but did reflect an evolving faith which found reassurance and inspiration in the United Church creed: "We are not alone. We live in God’s world. We believe in God, who has created and is creating…"
And yet, I found myself drifting away from church itself.
My husband and I had different backgrounds when it came to spirituality. When we were a young couple, church-going was strictly a solo activity for me. When the kids arrived, we made a go of trying to attend as a family, but I soon discovered that trying to get a spiritually-ambivalent spouse and two preschoolers off to church was a special kind of Hell.
I also felt guilty about my church membership, because I didn’t volunteer enough, teach Sunday school, bake very well…or, too often, even show up. So I quietly withdrew from several warm and welcoming Toronto congregations, with lots of mumbled excuses and a hope that nobody would take it personally.
As luck would have it, a dear woman from one of those congregations keeps running into me on the subway.
She always asks about Dave and the kids and asks, delicately, "Are you alright, Dear?"
However, even if I'm not in church this Sunday, some of it is with me. Not the least of which is the message that we are called to give whatever gifts we have.
In the message of all faiths, the faces of which I see on the subway, I hear the refrains: "give to others", "open your heart", "speak your truth", "blessed be the peacekeepers", "give thanks", "forgive" and simply "love one another".
And I hear the Eastern wisdom, "Be here now."
As an artist living in a commercial culture that seems to question whether what I offer is even necessary, I am deeply grateful for the great spiritual teachings. I find myself using them, almost daily, to listen for calls and follow them...and to give to others in a spirit of generosity and trust.
I remind myself that although I may not be able see the Grand Scheme of Things, there’s evidence everywhere that there is one.
There is evidence that we are all connected, that love can overcome fear and tragedy, that harmony can exist even in the most challenging of circumstances.
The music I hear, this time of year especially, is a powerful reminder of a greater Love that I believe in yet do not fully understand.
Love one another.
Be here now.
This comes as something of a surprise to me. After all, as a contemporary singer-songwriter, I’ve spent quite a lot of time in café’s, clubs, concert halls, outdoor music festivals and even school auditoriums. But it’s the churches I remember.
I remember singing "She's Like the Swallow" while looking up at the domed ceiling of a Winnipeg church during the Kiwanis Music Festival. (I came in second.) And I remember singing "In The Bleak Midwinter" for the late-night service at our church on Christmas Eve.
I was brought up in a church-going family. My parents were both raised Baptist in the American South, and for a time my father considered becoming an ordained minister. He didn't do that, but gave guest sermons from time to time in the much more liberal United Church they happily discovered once they'd moved to Canada. For awhile, my mother directed the choir. These days my dad directs the church theatre troupe. Just last month I "came home" to give a concert at Immanuel United.
Music was very much connected to my idea of spirituality. When I started to play guitar, Bruce Cockburn was in his overtly Christian period, and I learned to play songs like "All the Diamonds In The World". My first songwriting collaborator, with whom I recorded a song while in high school, went on to become a successful Contemporary Christian performer.
Without being conscious of it, I found myself writing songs that included Christian messages and symbols ("Smooth Stones" for one). The majority of songs didn’t include overt Christian language, but did reflect an evolving faith which found reassurance and inspiration in the United Church creed: "We are not alone. We live in God’s world. We believe in God, who has created and is creating…"
And yet, I found myself drifting away from church itself.
My husband and I had different backgrounds when it came to spirituality. When we were a young couple, church-going was strictly a solo activity for me. When the kids arrived, we made a go of trying to attend as a family, but I soon discovered that trying to get a spiritually-ambivalent spouse and two preschoolers off to church was a special kind of Hell.
I also felt guilty about my church membership, because I didn’t volunteer enough, teach Sunday school, bake very well…or, too often, even show up. So I quietly withdrew from several warm and welcoming Toronto congregations, with lots of mumbled excuses and a hope that nobody would take it personally.
As luck would have it, a dear woman from one of those congregations keeps running into me on the subway.
She always asks about Dave and the kids and asks, delicately, "Are you alright, Dear?"
However, even if I'm not in church this Sunday, some of it is with me. Not the least of which is the message that we are called to give whatever gifts we have.
In the message of all faiths, the faces of which I see on the subway, I hear the refrains: "give to others", "open your heart", "speak your truth", "blessed be the peacekeepers", "give thanks", "forgive" and simply "love one another".
And I hear the Eastern wisdom, "Be here now."
As an artist living in a commercial culture that seems to question whether what I offer is even necessary, I am deeply grateful for the great spiritual teachings. I find myself using them, almost daily, to listen for calls and follow them...and to give to others in a spirit of generosity and trust.
I remind myself that although I may not be able see the Grand Scheme of Things, there’s evidence everywhere that there is one.
There is evidence that we are all connected, that love can overcome fear and tragedy, that harmony can exist even in the most challenging of circumstances.
The music I hear, this time of year especially, is a powerful reminder of a greater Love that I believe in yet do not fully understand.
Love one another.
Be here now.
Tuesday, December 14, 2004
Common Ground
Midway through my shift, a woman I know from folk music circles came by and said hello. Very much a free spirit, she wears her gray hair long and goes by the colourful name she adopted in the Sixties. Right now she’s between jobs and taking a retraining course.
She was sorry to see me in my current role.
"So, you’re busking…" she said. "That’s too bad."
("That's too bad". It was the first time anyone had said it so directly. In a funny way, I had to admire her forthrightness.)
"No, it’s great," I assured her quite honestly. "It's a way for me to work regularly without travelling a lot while my kids are young. And besides, it pays."
She looked skeptically at my case.
"But it doesn’t look like you make, y'know, very much."
I explained that I had just scooped out some change so it doesn't pile up and discourage donations.
She still didn’t seem convinced. For her, busking was obviously a sign of failure.
At that point, I started to play a little instrumental loop to keep the passers-by entertained and to end the conversation. (Speaking of which, I’ve been discovering that without much extra effort, I can add these little instrumental bridges between songs to keep the flow happening. I’m improvising more and feeling a lot more confident on the guitar...which is no surprise, considering I'm now playing about ten times as much as I used to.)
Meanwhile, my acquaintance and I had run out of things to say to each other. When she said goodbye, I was relieved to not have to justify myself any more. Even though I feel good about busking—I love the challenge, the opportunity to reach people, the steady pay—I know that many people simply can’t get over that it looks like begging.
They’re different activities, obviously. But reluctantly, I must admit there is some common ground.
This afternoon, a man selling the Outreach newspaper was further along the corridor from me. He’s not supposed to be selling the paper (which benefits the homeless) on TTC property. When he saw me, he verified that I had a license and seemed worried that I was going to report him. He anxiously asked if he could stay for a few more minutes and I said that was fine by me.
In fact, I often buy the Outreach paper, which is actually a pretty good read. I’ve gotten to know the man who sells them outside our local LCBO store. When I told him that I'd gotten my subway musician's license, he was interested and encouraging.
Obviously, there are huge differences in our lives. I don’t know if the man at the LCBO is actually homeless. I tend to assume he’s not because he’s clearly a smart, nice man—how’s that for stereotyping? Meanwhile, I’m a middle-class, reasonably financially secure woman with a house, a husband and two small kids. I can’t claim to have experienced anything close to the level of adversity a homeless person encounters on the streets each day.
Now, though, I do share the experience—however cushioned by my circumstances—of being looked down upon.
I now know what it feels like to receive a glance of disdain and annoyance from a well-dressed passer-by. I know what it feels like to be laughed at (twice, by teenagers). I know what it’s like to have other people think I have no choice, that I am down and out, that perhaps I am insane.
Meanwhile, a female photographer came up to me this afternoon and eagerly asked if she could take my picture.
She was sorry to see me in my current role.
"So, you’re busking…" she said. "That’s too bad."
("That's too bad". It was the first time anyone had said it so directly. In a funny way, I had to admire her forthrightness.)
"No, it’s great," I assured her quite honestly. "It's a way for me to work regularly without travelling a lot while my kids are young. And besides, it pays."
She looked skeptically at my case.
"But it doesn’t look like you make, y'know, very much."
I explained that I had just scooped out some change so it doesn't pile up and discourage donations.
She still didn’t seem convinced. For her, busking was obviously a sign of failure.
At that point, I started to play a little instrumental loop to keep the passers-by entertained and to end the conversation. (Speaking of which, I’ve been discovering that without much extra effort, I can add these little instrumental bridges between songs to keep the flow happening. I’m improvising more and feeling a lot more confident on the guitar...which is no surprise, considering I'm now playing about ten times as much as I used to.)
Meanwhile, my acquaintance and I had run out of things to say to each other. When she said goodbye, I was relieved to not have to justify myself any more. Even though I feel good about busking—I love the challenge, the opportunity to reach people, the steady pay—I know that many people simply can’t get over that it looks like begging.
They’re different activities, obviously. But reluctantly, I must admit there is some common ground.
+++
This afternoon, a man selling the Outreach newspaper was further along the corridor from me. He’s not supposed to be selling the paper (which benefits the homeless) on TTC property. When he saw me, he verified that I had a license and seemed worried that I was going to report him. He anxiously asked if he could stay for a few more minutes and I said that was fine by me.
In fact, I often buy the Outreach paper, which is actually a pretty good read. I’ve gotten to know the man who sells them outside our local LCBO store. When I told him that I'd gotten my subway musician's license, he was interested and encouraging.
Obviously, there are huge differences in our lives. I don’t know if the man at the LCBO is actually homeless. I tend to assume he’s not because he’s clearly a smart, nice man—how’s that for stereotyping? Meanwhile, I’m a middle-class, reasonably financially secure woman with a house, a husband and two small kids. I can’t claim to have experienced anything close to the level of adversity a homeless person encounters on the streets each day.
Now, though, I do share the experience—however cushioned by my circumstances—of being looked down upon.
I now know what it feels like to receive a glance of disdain and annoyance from a well-dressed passer-by. I know what it feels like to be laughed at (twice, by teenagers). I know what it’s like to have other people think I have no choice, that I am down and out, that perhaps I am insane.
+++
Meanwhile, a female photographer came up to me this afternoon and eagerly asked if she could take my picture.
She’s working on a project about the face of working women in Toronto.
+++
Better Not Pout
As I travelled to Bay Station by subway, Santa Claus and his elves got on at Yonge.
Bill, the man from the TTC who had approved my amp, was one of the elves. Santa Claus said hello to me as if he knew me. I said a familiar "hi" back even though I immediately realized I had no idea who he was (other than Santa, of course). They were travelling the system today, doling out candy canes.
In their honour, I played "Santa Claus is Coming To Town" as my first song.
+++
Today was my third day at Bay Station and one of my best performance days yet. I stayed for an hour and a half and earned more than $55.00. One woman bought a CD right at the beginning of my set, which put me in a good frame of mind for the duration. But even before she did, I knew things were going better.
On Sunday, the donations had been up because of the Christmas shopping crowd. On Monday though, the mood had changed (probably due to the fact that everyone was gloomily back at work) and donations were down. Not coincidentally, my mood was down a bit too on Monday and I'm sure my performance suffered for it.
The big difference on Tuesday was that I decided to focus entirely on my performance and put as much feeling and emotion into my singing and playing as I could, and to not focus as much on the people around me. I generally like to make eye contact with some people as I play, but today I did that a little less, and more importantly I didn’t think much about whether or not they were making a donation.
At Bay Station, you can watch people approach from one hundred feet away, so it’s easy to slip into the habit of identifying them as a prospect before they get to you. "Ahah, he looks like my target market" sort of thing. A bad idea. And, thinking about my experience on Sunday, I had started to judge many of the passers-by because of their evident income level. Obviously, one of the quickest ways to distance yourself from your audience is to judge them.
So today I left that attitude at home...and felt immediately more at home in the Bay Station corridor. My voice sounded better, I was in a better mood, and lo and behold, along came the smiles and nods and change.
Bill, the man from the TTC who had approved my amp, was one of the elves. Santa Claus said hello to me as if he knew me. I said a familiar "hi" back even though I immediately realized I had no idea who he was (other than Santa, of course). They were travelling the system today, doling out candy canes.
In their honour, I played "Santa Claus is Coming To Town" as my first song.
+++
Today was my third day at Bay Station and one of my best performance days yet. I stayed for an hour and a half and earned more than $55.00. One woman bought a CD right at the beginning of my set, which put me in a good frame of mind for the duration. But even before she did, I knew things were going better.
On Sunday, the donations had been up because of the Christmas shopping crowd. On Monday though, the mood had changed (probably due to the fact that everyone was gloomily back at work) and donations were down. Not coincidentally, my mood was down a bit too on Monday and I'm sure my performance suffered for it.
The big difference on Tuesday was that I decided to focus entirely on my performance and put as much feeling and emotion into my singing and playing as I could, and to not focus as much on the people around me. I generally like to make eye contact with some people as I play, but today I did that a little less, and more importantly I didn’t think much about whether or not they were making a donation.
At Bay Station, you can watch people approach from one hundred feet away, so it’s easy to slip into the habit of identifying them as a prospect before they get to you. "Ahah, he looks like my target market" sort of thing. A bad idea. And, thinking about my experience on Sunday, I had started to judge many of the passers-by because of their evident income level. Obviously, one of the quickest ways to distance yourself from your audience is to judge them.
So today I left that attitude at home...and felt immediately more at home in the Bay Station corridor. My voice sounded better, I was in a better mood, and lo and behold, along came the smiles and nods and change.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
Dollar-Go-Round
I spent a few hours Sunday afternoon at the Bay-Yorkville subway station.
Bay is located in the heart of a very high-end shopping corridor. Without going above ground, you can walk from the subway train to Holt Renfrew, William Ashley and many other very expensive stores. I have never shopped there. Okay, I’ve been to the nearby Chapters, but that’s it.
On Sunday afternoon, I spotted several people who could obviously afford to shop at Holt’s and Ashley’s. Some of them stopped and donated a few dollars, which was much appreciated. But of course many did not and I today found that annoying.
I knew I was being ridiculous. Nobody has an obligation to give me money, even if they are toting shopping bags imprinted with names like Gucci and Chanel. It’s completely their choice whether to donate or not.
I know that.
But I prefer being ignored by people who aren't quite so well-dressed.
At one point, a rough-looking man came weaving into the station, clearly drunk. Like the aggressive drunk I met at Queen’s Park, he started singing (sort of) in response to my music. When I saw him I was immediately wary and looked away so as to not encourage him. To my relief, he ambled past me down the corridor.
A few minutes later, he returned, proudly holding up a quarter and a nickel which he then dropped into my case.
I suddenly understood. He had just gone up to the street and begged for it.
Sometimes I think certain dollars just go round and round, especially the ones passed along by buskers and other members of the street community.
Today, when I arrived at my location, a flamenco guitar player was there. (He was really good and had a man watching him…making me briefly consider actually going home.) He said he'd finish up in about fifteen minutes, which was fine, so I gave him a dollar and went for coffee.
Later, when I was playing, another musician came by (maybe TTC, maybe not) and gave me a dollar.
When I went home, I gave a dollar to the man who begs at the Beer Store near my house.
I like the idea of these dollars passing from hand to hand.
Bay is located in the heart of a very high-end shopping corridor. Without going above ground, you can walk from the subway train to Holt Renfrew, William Ashley and many other very expensive stores. I have never shopped there. Okay, I’ve been to the nearby Chapters, but that’s it.
On Sunday afternoon, I spotted several people who could obviously afford to shop at Holt’s and Ashley’s. Some of them stopped and donated a few dollars, which was much appreciated. But of course many did not and I today found that annoying.
I knew I was being ridiculous. Nobody has an obligation to give me money, even if they are toting shopping bags imprinted with names like Gucci and Chanel. It’s completely their choice whether to donate or not.
I know that.
But I prefer being ignored by people who aren't quite so well-dressed.
+++
At one point, a rough-looking man came weaving into the station, clearly drunk. Like the aggressive drunk I met at Queen’s Park, he started singing (sort of) in response to my music. When I saw him I was immediately wary and looked away so as to not encourage him. To my relief, he ambled past me down the corridor.
A few minutes later, he returned, proudly holding up a quarter and a nickel which he then dropped into my case.
I suddenly understood. He had just gone up to the street and begged for it.
+++
Sometimes I think certain dollars just go round and round, especially the ones passed along by buskers and other members of the street community.
Today, when I arrived at my location, a flamenco guitar player was there. (He was really good and had a man watching him…making me briefly consider actually going home.) He said he'd finish up in about fifteen minutes, which was fine, so I gave him a dollar and went for coffee.
Later, when I was playing, another musician came by (maybe TTC, maybe not) and gave me a dollar.
When I went home, I gave a dollar to the man who begs at the Beer Store near my house.
I like the idea of these dollars passing from hand to hand.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Tokens
These days when I ride the subway, I have to remind myself not to smile and nod at everyone I see. After all, I’m officially sanctioned to smile and nod in my role as a subway musician—but not as a subway passenger.
+++
I was speaking to a friend today, a young singer-songwriter also from Winnipeg. I last spoke to her in September, just before I started working on the subways. She confided in me that busking had always terrified her—she couldn’t imagine doing it. Today she told me that after our conversation, she went out to Queen Street and sang for over an hour. A few days later, she did it again.
+++
A young man called to interview me. He’s a first-year journalism student writing an article about subway musicians. Twenty-three years ago, I was a first-year broadcasting student producing a radio documentary about subway musicians.
+++
During the past week, two friends have asked, "Are you still singing in the subways?" When I say yes, they say "really?!" as if they’re genuinely surprised. Tomorrow will be my two-month anniversary as a subway musician. Did they really think I’d only last that long?
+++
I was speaking to a friend today, a young singer-songwriter also from Winnipeg. I last spoke to her in September, just before I started working on the subways. She confided in me that busking had always terrified her—she couldn’t imagine doing it. Today she told me that after our conversation, she went out to Queen Street and sang for over an hour. A few days later, she did it again.
+++
A young man called to interview me. He’s a first-year journalism student writing an article about subway musicians. Twenty-three years ago, I was a first-year broadcasting student producing a radio documentary about subway musicians.
+++
During the past week, two friends have asked, "Are you still singing in the subways?" When I say yes, they say "really?!" as if they’re genuinely surprised. Tomorrow will be my two-month anniversary as a subway musician. Did they really think I’d only last that long?
Reasons to Stay at Wilson
This morning I headed up to Wilson, a faraway station near the end of the north-western line. The performance area was in a drafty corridor below the Kiss-N-Ride bus loading bays.
The fact that the corridor was drafty didn’t surprise me. Is there no performance area that isn't in the path of a wind tunnel? Now that it’s mid-December, there’s no getting around the fact that subway stations are cold.
When I arrived at Wilson, it was 10:40 a.m. Not exactly a "high-traffic" time. When I play in a quiet location at a slow time of day, I probably do look a bit out-of-place. I sense that people feel uncomfortable about that, and therefore they're less likely to donate. I try to smile and looking as happy as I can to make them feel at ease—but of course that’s a challenge when I'm lonely and freezing.
I considered turning around and going home—I was cold before I’d even started—but I reminded myself that I must be here for a reason. And it's moments like these that I wonder, what was that reason again?
For just such occasions, I've come up with a handy little set of Reasons that I can pull out at a moment's notice. They're little philosophical affirmations that help me make the most of busking. I’m finding that they’re every bit as essential as my portable amplifier and they serve much the same purpose.
Reason #1: "This is My Rehearsal Time" – If I were at home, would I be working through my repertoire faithfully each day? Probably not, if I’m honest with myself. So, if I arrive at a quiet stop and fear I’ll be wasting my time, I remind myself that I do need to practice.
Reason #2: "It Builds Character" – Remember "Katimavik", that wilderness-challenge experience for Canadian youth that was popular in the 70’s? I avoided it. In fact, when I was a young adult (the time of life when most people do whatever scary and breathtaking things they’re likely to do) I avoided most character-building experiences. Perhaps now that I’m in my forties I’m making up for lost time. I remember that Eleanor Roosevelt once said "you must do that thing you think you cannot do" and someone else said "that which does not kill me makes me stronger". I remember feeling that way after giving birth: Now that I’ve done this, I can do anything.
Reason #3: "It Sounds Good" – I have discovered that even if nobody’s around and few people are donating, I still enjoy singing these songs. I like the way they sound and I like the way I feel when I sing them. When the world doesn’t seem to be giving anything back to me, I simply enjoy the music and feel grateful that I can make more of it.
Reason #4: "If It Reaches Just One Person…" This is my favourite Reason, and it doesn’t have to do with selling CDs or becoming better-known. Sometimes I get the feeling that the music is reaching someone--even if that person doesn't show it by saying hello or making a donation. Often there’s something in a hurried, slightly embarrassed glance that tells me that what I’m doing is valuable. I see an unspoken request, a hint of response just beneath the surface, and I sing to that.
Reason #5: "The Next Person Could Give Me Money". It’s like fishing. You never know when a big one is going to come along. You can play for nothing for an hour and then someone comes along and buys two CDs. That possibility of income, however slight, is almost always a Reason to sing another song.
Reason #6: "I Can Write About It".
+++
I stayed at Wilson about 45 minutes and earned exactly four donations. In that time, I played about 12 songs.
After awhile with no money coming my way, I remembered yesterday's experience of getting disproportionately positive response from a couple of new songs that I wasn't sure were any good. I decided to play the songs again, just to see what happened.
Played one: bingo--a dollar. Played a couple of songs from the regular repertoire, nothing. Played the other new one: bingo again--a toonie this time. Huh. Out of a grand total of $4.50 for the hour, $3.00 came from the two new songs that I didn't think were worth much.
Could this be telling me something? Could this be a Reason?
The fact that the corridor was drafty didn’t surprise me. Is there no performance area that isn't in the path of a wind tunnel? Now that it’s mid-December, there’s no getting around the fact that subway stations are cold.
When I arrived at Wilson, it was 10:40 a.m. Not exactly a "high-traffic" time. When I play in a quiet location at a slow time of day, I probably do look a bit out-of-place. I sense that people feel uncomfortable about that, and therefore they're less likely to donate. I try to smile and looking as happy as I can to make them feel at ease—but of course that’s a challenge when I'm lonely and freezing.
I considered turning around and going home—I was cold before I’d even started—but I reminded myself that I must be here for a reason. And it's moments like these that I wonder, what was that reason again?
For just such occasions, I've come up with a handy little set of Reasons that I can pull out at a moment's notice. They're little philosophical affirmations that help me make the most of busking. I’m finding that they’re every bit as essential as my portable amplifier and they serve much the same purpose.
Reason #1: "This is My Rehearsal Time" – If I were at home, would I be working through my repertoire faithfully each day? Probably not, if I’m honest with myself. So, if I arrive at a quiet stop and fear I’ll be wasting my time, I remind myself that I do need to practice.
Reason #2: "It Builds Character" – Remember "Katimavik", that wilderness-challenge experience for Canadian youth that was popular in the 70’s? I avoided it. In fact, when I was a young adult (the time of life when most people do whatever scary and breathtaking things they’re likely to do) I avoided most character-building experiences. Perhaps now that I’m in my forties I’m making up for lost time. I remember that Eleanor Roosevelt once said "you must do that thing you think you cannot do" and someone else said "that which does not kill me makes me stronger". I remember feeling that way after giving birth: Now that I’ve done this, I can do anything.
Reason #3: "It Sounds Good" – I have discovered that even if nobody’s around and few people are donating, I still enjoy singing these songs. I like the way they sound and I like the way I feel when I sing them. When the world doesn’t seem to be giving anything back to me, I simply enjoy the music and feel grateful that I can make more of it.
Reason #4: "If It Reaches Just One Person…" This is my favourite Reason, and it doesn’t have to do with selling CDs or becoming better-known. Sometimes I get the feeling that the music is reaching someone--even if that person doesn't show it by saying hello or making a donation. Often there’s something in a hurried, slightly embarrassed glance that tells me that what I’m doing is valuable. I see an unspoken request, a hint of response just beneath the surface, and I sing to that.
Reason #5: "The Next Person Could Give Me Money". It’s like fishing. You never know when a big one is going to come along. You can play for nothing for an hour and then someone comes along and buys two CDs. That possibility of income, however slight, is almost always a Reason to sing another song.
Reason #6: "I Can Write About It".
+++
I stayed at Wilson about 45 minutes and earned exactly four donations. In that time, I played about 12 songs.
After awhile with no money coming my way, I remembered yesterday's experience of getting disproportionately positive response from a couple of new songs that I wasn't sure were any good. I decided to play the songs again, just to see what happened.
Played one: bingo--a dollar. Played a couple of songs from the regular repertoire, nothing. Played the other new one: bingo again--a toonie this time. Huh. Out of a grand total of $4.50 for the hour, $3.00 came from the two new songs that I didn't think were worth much.
Could this be telling me something? Could this be a Reason?
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Small Change at Woodbine
Today at Woodbine, people donated quarters and smaller change. By the end of my two-hour shift, there was only one loonie in my case, along with the Mexican coin that looks like a toonie that someone gave me and which I now use to "sweeten the pot".
At one point, I considered scooping out lots of quarters and replacing them with loonies, in an effort to influence the average donation. But then I realized that people aren’t actually looking into my case before they decide what to give. They’ve already decided what to throw in before they get there, based on what’s in their pockets.
For whatever reason (first day of December? end of the week?) the available cash seemed to be much slimmer. Also, many people today were calling out jovial encouragement instead of giving change. "Great voice, by the way!" and "Nice music!". One couple surprised me by throwing in some change while I was taking a break and tuning my guitar. (It always surprises me when people donate something when I’m not actually playing.) "We’ve seen you before!" they called out happily, as if that alone was worth something.
One woman stopped and very deliberately put three cents into my case.
Another man donated a quarter, saying earnestly "Everyone has to eat, you know?". I thanked him and realized that this was the first time anyone had mistaken me for a homeless person, and that I felt neither ashamed nor apologetic to accept his quarter.
+++
As I played this afternoon, I saw two (separate) elderly people who were having so much difficulty getting around, I was worried that I would witness a catastrophic fall down the subway stairs and that I would be called upon to provide emergency first aid.
As I watched them precariously balance, one step at a time, I wondered if I should stop playing and offer to help them, or at least call out to see if they needed assistance, but I concluded that if I did, they’d probably be startled and indeed fall down the stairs, so I kept on playing.
+++
As I had promised myself, I played my two new songs--the ones I hadn't been sure enough about to put into "official" performances. As it turned out, each of them elicited the strongest responses I received in the entire afternoon. Why was that, I wondered? After all, my other songs got strong reaction on other days. But today, the songs that I needed to "try out"—to see if they were "good enough"—were the ones that were noticed.
"In Good Time" caused another middle-aged man to stop and consider buying a CD (even though, as I told him, this new song wouldn’t be on it). Reluctantly, he admitted he couldn’t afford it. I sensed that giving it to him outright would be awkward, so I gave him my business card instead.
"Creature of Habit" caused a good-looking musician in his thirties to take notice. (He had to be a musician judging from his high-quality performer duds: leather jacket, cowboy boots and nicely-styled long hair. He might even belong to the--gasp--Commercial Music Industry.) Anyway, he stopped at the top of the subway stairs, came over to make a donation and then hesitated again as he was heading for the exits as if he wanted to come back and speak to me. He seemed to think better of it. (Might he be late for lucrative studio session or glamourous photo shoot? Or did he just hear me play the wrong chord?)
At one point, I considered scooping out lots of quarters and replacing them with loonies, in an effort to influence the average donation. But then I realized that people aren’t actually looking into my case before they decide what to give. They’ve already decided what to throw in before they get there, based on what’s in their pockets.
For whatever reason (first day of December? end of the week?) the available cash seemed to be much slimmer. Also, many people today were calling out jovial encouragement instead of giving change. "Great voice, by the way!" and "Nice music!". One couple surprised me by throwing in some change while I was taking a break and tuning my guitar. (It always surprises me when people donate something when I’m not actually playing.) "We’ve seen you before!" they called out happily, as if that alone was worth something.
One woman stopped and very deliberately put three cents into my case.
Another man donated a quarter, saying earnestly "Everyone has to eat, you know?". I thanked him and realized that this was the first time anyone had mistaken me for a homeless person, and that I felt neither ashamed nor apologetic to accept his quarter.
+++
As I played this afternoon, I saw two (separate) elderly people who were having so much difficulty getting around, I was worried that I would witness a catastrophic fall down the subway stairs and that I would be called upon to provide emergency first aid.
As I watched them precariously balance, one step at a time, I wondered if I should stop playing and offer to help them, or at least call out to see if they needed assistance, but I concluded that if I did, they’d probably be startled and indeed fall down the stairs, so I kept on playing.
+++
As I had promised myself, I played my two new songs--the ones I hadn't been sure enough about to put into "official" performances. As it turned out, each of them elicited the strongest responses I received in the entire afternoon. Why was that, I wondered? After all, my other songs got strong reaction on other days. But today, the songs that I needed to "try out"—to see if they were "good enough"—were the ones that were noticed.
Maybe it was something in the urgency or the newness of my performance? I figured that was possible, remembering that my producer David likes to record songs when they’re brand new and therefore fresh and spontaneous. They’re usually full of mistakes too and ultimately we have to re-record them…but , hey, we've got that fresh and spontaneous version too!
"In Good Time" caused another middle-aged man to stop and consider buying a CD (even though, as I told him, this new song wouldn’t be on it). Reluctantly, he admitted he couldn’t afford it. I sensed that giving it to him outright would be awkward, so I gave him my business card instead.
"Creature of Habit" caused a good-looking musician in his thirties to take notice. (He had to be a musician judging from his high-quality performer duds: leather jacket, cowboy boots and nicely-styled long hair. He might even belong to the--gasp--Commercial Music Industry.) Anyway, he stopped at the top of the subway stairs, came over to make a donation and then hesitated again as he was heading for the exits as if he wanted to come back and speak to me. He seemed to think better of it. (Might he be late for lucrative studio session or glamourous photo shoot? Or did he just hear me play the wrong chord?)
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
Songwriting: On and Off the Rails
Today I decided to skip the subway in favour of staying home and actually writing songs.
Busking gives me a valuable opportunity to play regularly—one that strengthens my hands, my voice, my fingertips and my resolve. On the other hand, it doesn’t provide an opportunity to create new songs, which is the activity that has always been at the heart of my musical experience. If I had to choose between the three main parts of my musical life—the songwriting, the performing or the recording—I'd keep the songwriting.
So I have to find time to keep doing it.
In theory, it would be possible for me to work on songs-in-progress while I'm playing in the subway. But in practice, I'm always aware that somebody may be listening (even if they're halfway around the corner), so I rarely noodle around with new chord patterns or try out impromptu lyrics. (I suddenly realize that perhaps I'm missing an opportunity to become a better improviser or rap artist?) Even if people are just passing by and my music seems to be only a part of the scenery, I consider busking a performance. And I find that the more focused and practised I am, the more money I make and the more at home I feel.
Songwriting is a mysterious process. It's a process I know intimately and one I think I'll never completely understand.
Sometimes I think I'm so familiar with what's going on, I believe I can document the steps I take to create a song. It goes something like this. "Hey, that's a nice chord change...now let's make up a little finger picking pattern…here’s a lyric phrase that fits into it…there's my chorus...lets develop those lines to strengthen the main idea…change the melody to make a verse…" and so on. Sometimes the steps come in different order (the lyrics arrive first, for example) but there's a consistency to the experience that often seems, for me anyway, reassuring and reliable.
But as soon as I think I've "got it", I don't.
After sailing along comfortably on a new song idea for awhile, sometimes I realize that I don't have anything in particular to say--or that whatever I thought I had to say doesn't seem sensible or wise or note-worthy anymore. Sometimes I realize that I didn't really want to write a song at all, I just wanted to have another song in my repertoire, like another Brownie badge. When I realize that, the song promptly dissolves into shallow nonsense.
Other times, I really do have a good idea to begin with, but I become self-critical in the middle of the writing and start undermining what I’ve done so far. ("Come on, you’ve used that chord change hundreds of times" or "That finger picking pattern is pretty darn repetitive" or "Hey, you just rhymed 'twist' with 'drift'.") This is also the point at which I often compare my songs to those of others, and that's when things really go off the rails.
+++
So, inspired by his performance, today I felt keen to write some new material, and, for that matter, to practice my scales. Needless to say, I was also at high risk of comparing myself with others. ("Okay, where’s that chord if I play it on the 8th fret? Betcha Terry knows"…etc.)
My tendency to compare myself to others reminded me of something Cheryl Wheeler had said to me when I took a songwriting workshop from her once. She said that we tend to second-guess the ideas that arise most naturally from our individual songwriting minds. We think that the ideas (words, melodies, riffs) that come most easily to us are somehow inferior and not worth sharing. In fact, they are the ones that are most true and valuable. "That is your gift", I remember her saying.
After trying unsuccessfully to come up with a fascinatingly sophisticated new riff for the guitar, I decided to leave that to Terry. Instead, I turned to a file of songs that I had started but not finished, or finished but not yet performed. It's a large file.
This morning I re-learned two songs I had written and left behind, songs I will take with me into the subway.
Busking gives me a valuable opportunity to play regularly—one that strengthens my hands, my voice, my fingertips and my resolve. On the other hand, it doesn’t provide an opportunity to create new songs, which is the activity that has always been at the heart of my musical experience. If I had to choose between the three main parts of my musical life—the songwriting, the performing or the recording—I'd keep the songwriting.
So I have to find time to keep doing it.
In theory, it would be possible for me to work on songs-in-progress while I'm playing in the subway. But in practice, I'm always aware that somebody may be listening (even if they're halfway around the corner), so I rarely noodle around with new chord patterns or try out impromptu lyrics. (I suddenly realize that perhaps I'm missing an opportunity to become a better improviser or rap artist?) Even if people are just passing by and my music seems to be only a part of the scenery, I consider busking a performance. And I find that the more focused and practised I am, the more money I make and the more at home I feel.
Songwriting is a mysterious process. It's a process I know intimately and one I think I'll never completely understand.
Sometimes I think I'm so familiar with what's going on, I believe I can document the steps I take to create a song. It goes something like this. "Hey, that's a nice chord change...now let's make up a little finger picking pattern…here’s a lyric phrase that fits into it…there's my chorus...lets develop those lines to strengthen the main idea…change the melody to make a verse…" and so on. Sometimes the steps come in different order (the lyrics arrive first, for example) but there's a consistency to the experience that often seems, for me anyway, reassuring and reliable.
But as soon as I think I've "got it", I don't.
After sailing along comfortably on a new song idea for awhile, sometimes I realize that I don't have anything in particular to say--or that whatever I thought I had to say doesn't seem sensible or wise or note-worthy anymore. Sometimes I realize that I didn't really want to write a song at all, I just wanted to have another song in my repertoire, like another Brownie badge. When I realize that, the song promptly dissolves into shallow nonsense.
Other times, I really do have a good idea to begin with, but I become self-critical in the middle of the writing and start undermining what I’ve done so far. ("Come on, you’ve used that chord change hundreds of times" or "That finger picking pattern is pretty darn repetitive" or "Hey, you just rhymed 'twist' with 'drift'.") This is also the point at which I often compare my songs to those of others, and that's when things really go off the rails.
+++
Last night I went to the Groovy Mondays open stage, where Terry Tufts was featured. Terry is a highly-accomplished singer-songwriter and fingerstyle guitar player: the kind of guy who really knows where every note is on the guitar, how to play chords in about a thousand different positions, and how to tune his guitar apparently effortlessly while talking to the audience, playing a song and no doubt standing on his head. The songs he writes are sophisticated and yet simple and accessible. They're catchy, moving and full of wisdom.
So, inspired by his performance, today I felt keen to write some new material, and, for that matter, to practice my scales. Needless to say, I was also at high risk of comparing myself with others. ("Okay, where’s that chord if I play it on the 8th fret? Betcha Terry knows"…etc.)
My tendency to compare myself to others reminded me of something Cheryl Wheeler had said to me when I took a songwriting workshop from her once. She said that we tend to second-guess the ideas that arise most naturally from our individual songwriting minds. We think that the ideas (words, melodies, riffs) that come most easily to us are somehow inferior and not worth sharing. In fact, they are the ones that are most true and valuable. "That is your gift", I remember her saying.
After trying unsuccessfully to come up with a fascinatingly sophisticated new riff for the guitar, I decided to leave that to Terry. Instead, I turned to a file of songs that I had started but not finished, or finished but not yet performed. It's a large file.
These are songs that had been written easily, when I was in a free and non-comparing frame of mind, but that I hadn't considered "good enough" to play in public. (Interestingly, When I Walk (I Run) had also been in that category once. And I remember at one time asking my singing teacher if Complicated Things was worth recording.) Interesting that I seem to need outside affirmation (that is, other peoples' approval) before recognizing the value of my songs.
This morning I re-learned two songs I had written and left behind, songs I will take with me into the subway.
Friday, November 26, 2004
Know Any CCR?
This afternoon at Union Station I had an unusual encounter with another musician.
A well-dressed man in his early twenties, he came up and asked if I knew any CCR (Creedence Clearwater Revival).
After thinking about it for a few moments, I sang the chorus of "Have You Ever Seen the Rain", but (probably because I felt a bit nervous) couldn’t come up with anything else. He seemed interested anyway, and told me he was also a musician, playing "blues mostly and my own stuff".
Then he surprised me.
"I’d never take money for my music."
(Huh?)
Still trying my best to connect with him, I smiled and agreed that it’s usually best to share music in a generous way, without expectation of return.
"It’s great to give it away," I said. "But I’ve found it’s really rewarding when people pay you for what you do well." He didn’t seem convinced.
"Play me one of your songs," he said.
The slight edge of challenge in his tone should have been my second cue to take a break. But gamely I started to play Stage, because he was another musician and because that had been yesterday’s most successful song at Union Station.
He didn’t seem to like it much but he stuck around anyway. As the song was ending a friend of mine dropped by and I introduced the two of them. This would have been an excellent time for him to leave, but he didn’t, staying firmly installed two feet from me, directly in between my guitar case and people passing by.
At the end of my next song (Maybe I Was Wrong…to assume you were a nice guy) his girlfriend showed up. Ahah, so that’s why he was hanging around.
After watching me play for almost 15 minutes, not donating anything, and talking with me and my friend, Mr. CCR walked away with his girlfriend, without saying goodbye or even glancing in my direction.
A well-dressed man in his early twenties, he came up and asked if I knew any CCR (Creedence Clearwater Revival).
After thinking about it for a few moments, I sang the chorus of "Have You Ever Seen the Rain", but (probably because I felt a bit nervous) couldn’t come up with anything else. He seemed interested anyway, and told me he was also a musician, playing "blues mostly and my own stuff".
Then he surprised me.
"I’d never take money for my music."
(Huh?)
Still trying my best to connect with him, I smiled and agreed that it’s usually best to share music in a generous way, without expectation of return.
"It’s great to give it away," I said. "But I’ve found it’s really rewarding when people pay you for what you do well." He didn’t seem convinced.
"Play me one of your songs," he said.
The slight edge of challenge in his tone should have been my second cue to take a break. But gamely I started to play Stage, because he was another musician and because that had been yesterday’s most successful song at Union Station.
He didn’t seem to like it much but he stuck around anyway. As the song was ending a friend of mine dropped by and I introduced the two of them. This would have been an excellent time for him to leave, but he didn’t, staying firmly installed two feet from me, directly in between my guitar case and people passing by.
At the end of my next song (Maybe I Was Wrong…to assume you were a nice guy) his girlfriend showed up. Ahah, so that’s why he was hanging around.
After watching me play for almost 15 minutes, not donating anything, and talking with me and my friend, Mr. CCR walked away with his girlfriend, without saying goodbye or even glancing in my direction.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Union Station and a Voice of Experience
This morning I sang at Union Station for a couple of hours, in an unusual walkway between the main subway station and the Go Train terminal. At first, when I was looking for the little dots, I went too far and ended up in an adjoining mini-mall. The shopping concourse near the Go Trains looks a lot like a subway station, except for the number of snack food chains and—horror of horrors—the piped-in music over the loudspeakers! That was a pretty obvious clue that I was in the wrong place. But I was glad to experience Muzak near a subway station, so I could appreciate how completely wrong it seemed.
Of course, when I say "I sang at Union Station", you might imagine the gloriously historic train station itself, with one blissful singer (me) smack dab in the middle of it. (Has any major celebrity done this? I must look it up on Google.)
Yes, singing in that part of Union Station would be a peak life experience. But actually, singing in the walkway between the subway and the Go Train station isn’t half bad either. The acoustics are great (who knows exactly why)—and it’s even more fun when people donate and buy CDs as they did this morning.
+++
On my way back home, I met Roger, an experienced subway musician. He was singing at Yonge/Bloor, the station I consider the psychic centre of the TTC. It’s a huge, multi-leveled subway station that serves as the axis for both a north-south and east-west line, and frankly, it intimidates me. (Maybe it’s like concert venues: I’m comfortable in my own local clubs and feel a little queasy at the thought of playing the Air Canada Centre. Not that I need to worry about that any time soon.)
Roger Ellis is a sweet-voiced, gentle bear of a man whose calming presence is a genuine gift to all who hear him. In keeping with his personality, his original songs have a balanced, peaceful quality. A professional musician for many years, he sings and plays with ease and grace, whether it’s his own song or somebody else’s. (I have to admit, I never grow tired of hearing Simon & Garfunkel's "The Boxer", which he was playing today when I arrived.)
The first time I met Roger, we were both playing at a small outdoor festival. From the stage, he made a point of welcoming his fans from Davisville subway station. That made a big impression on me. It was impressive that people had followed him from the subway to a larger venue—and inspiring that he was so publicly positive about his underground experience.
Today, Roger took a break from "The Boxer" to speak to me and provide helpful advice. He talked to me about how to save my voice and about the possibility of cooperating with other musicians to make best use of time at certain stations. Once again, I was struck by his generosity in sharing the tricks of the trade. In some other music circles, I had encountered a certain competitiveness (even if it was unconscious) but I hadn’t found that so far on the subway system.
As much as I enjoyed talking to Roger, I was very conscious of not wanting to over-stay my welcome. Dozens of people had passed by as we were talking. I wanted him to start playing again so he could make more money.
I was halfway down the stairs to get onto the Danforth line when I heard him pick up exactly where he’d left off, ten minutes ago. "When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy, in the company of strangers, the quiet of the railway station, running scared, laying low…seeking out the poorer quarters where the ragged people go…"
Of course, when I say "I sang at Union Station", you might imagine the gloriously historic train station itself, with one blissful singer (me) smack dab in the middle of it. (Has any major celebrity done this? I must look it up on Google.)
Yes, singing in that part of Union Station would be a peak life experience. But actually, singing in the walkway between the subway and the Go Train station isn’t half bad either. The acoustics are great (who knows exactly why)—and it’s even more fun when people donate and buy CDs as they did this morning.
+++
On my way back home, I met Roger, an experienced subway musician. He was singing at Yonge/Bloor, the station I consider the psychic centre of the TTC. It’s a huge, multi-leveled subway station that serves as the axis for both a north-south and east-west line, and frankly, it intimidates me. (Maybe it’s like concert venues: I’m comfortable in my own local clubs and feel a little queasy at the thought of playing the Air Canada Centre. Not that I need to worry about that any time soon.)
Roger Ellis is a sweet-voiced, gentle bear of a man whose calming presence is a genuine gift to all who hear him. In keeping with his personality, his original songs have a balanced, peaceful quality. A professional musician for many years, he sings and plays with ease and grace, whether it’s his own song or somebody else’s. (I have to admit, I never grow tired of hearing Simon & Garfunkel's "The Boxer", which he was playing today when I arrived.)
The first time I met Roger, we were both playing at a small outdoor festival. From the stage, he made a point of welcoming his fans from Davisville subway station. That made a big impression on me. It was impressive that people had followed him from the subway to a larger venue—and inspiring that he was so publicly positive about his underground experience.
Today, Roger took a break from "The Boxer" to speak to me and provide helpful advice. He talked to me about how to save my voice and about the possibility of cooperating with other musicians to make best use of time at certain stations. Once again, I was struck by his generosity in sharing the tricks of the trade. In some other music circles, I had encountered a certain competitiveness (even if it was unconscious) but I hadn’t found that so far on the subway system.
As much as I enjoyed talking to Roger, I was very conscious of not wanting to over-stay my welcome. Dozens of people had passed by as we were talking. I wanted him to start playing again so he could make more money.
I was halfway down the stairs to get onto the Danforth line when I heard him pick up exactly where he’d left off, ten minutes ago. "When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy, in the company of strangers, the quiet of the railway station, running scared, laying low…seeking out the poorer quarters where the ragged people go…"
Tuesday, November 23, 2004
The Pape Station Hit Parade
I visited Pape Station today after having lunch with a friend who is a successful advertising writer and published author. He’s been a sounding board for me over the years as we both have wrestled with the questions of why we write and what we should do with what we’ve written.
Like most of my friends, he’s interested to hear about my subway experiences. Over lunch today he asked me about the responses I was getting from the public. When I told him that I appreciate any and all expressions of interest, he asked me half-jokingly how many "hits" I got per shift.
He was kidding when he used the word, which is usually used for website visits, but I knew exactly what he meant and it seemed oddly appropriate. He wasn’t just talking about donations but about eye contact, positive comments, little nods in my direction.
I thought about it for a second. Twenty or thirty an hour? Possibly more? I’d been counting money, but I hadn’t been counting points of connection.
I headed to Pape Station after lunch, determined to try to count the "hits".
+++
As usual, I started out feeling a bit concerned that it might be an "off" day. Today I thought it had more to do with the general mood of the public than anything I myself was doing. Let’s see…it’s November 23rd, that’s getting close to the end of the month…it’s almost exactly a month before Christmas so people are starting to feel pressured…did that account for the higher-than-average number of sour faces I noticed this afternoon?
Or maybe it was the weather: damp, cloudy and increasingly cold. And at Pape Station, the wind was blowing through the corridor with even greater ferocity than I remembered. At one point, an entire crumpled section of newspaper flew through the hallway in front of me.
Anyway, I started singing as usual. For the first few songs, nobody seemed to glance in my direction, although a few people donated money anyway (which counts as a "hit" even though there’s no personal contact).
I got warmed up by the time I sang When I Walk (I Run) and the crowd seemed to really like that one. (When I started my busking, I thought that some songs would be surefire subway "hits", that is, donation magnets. So far, though, I haven’t found this to be the case—except that some songs end up being hits on particular days. For example one day might be a Room To Love day and another day might be an I've Been Busy day.
As I kept singing, the hits did start to come. Today there were several women who stopped in the middle of the walkway and took the time to dig in their purses for change. I felt badly for one woman who did this and then turned away before I could properly thank her. She started to run as she heard the train pull in, and I realized she probably missed her train because she took the time to make a donation. (Guilt: another excellent emotion for today’s subway musician.)
A number of people donated in a particular way that I feel I should describe. They toss in their coins with a sort of defiant pitch—a little angry fling--and they almost never accept a "thank you" in return or make eye contact. It’s not that they don’t want me to be there (I’ve seen that expression too and it’s quite different). No, this is a "damn-it-all-here’s-a-dollar" kind of gesture, as if they’re mad at the world but giving back to it anyway. I like these people. I’d even listen to them if they wanted to get up and sing something or stand on a milk crate and rant for awhile.
Then there was another kind of hit. A middle-aged man came up to me as I was singing and started belting out "Out in the West Texas town of El Paso…" at full volume. In case you're not familiar with the song, it’s called "El Paso" and it was a hit for Marty Robbins who wrote it, as well as The Grateful Dead. After trying to carry on with my own song for a bar or two, I gave up and obligingly tried to play the Marty Robbins tune, immediately failed, and stopped playing. To explain why he’d interrupted me, the man said the song I was playing sounded "just like it". (My new song "Music Everywhere" sounds nothing like "El Paso".)
I also met my friend John, who was calling it a day after busking since 7:00 this morning. (John is definitely my Number 1 Hit Subway Musician.)
Six musicians passing through nodded in a collegial kind of way, including two keyboard players and a man with a guitar who paused beside the garbage can as if he was scheduled for this station and was preparing to bump me from the spot. Something told me he wasn’t a licensed TTC musician, but I wasn't sure. After waiting a few minutes, he smiled at me and headed back to the subway before I could ask him if he wanted to play.
+++
Predictably, I lost count of the hits—the moments of personal contact--with people at Pape Station today. I’m sure it was at least thirty or more. And now, writing at my computer alone in my house, I realize why that seems so amazing and valuable.
As a writer and musician, I can go through whole days in which the only contact I have is with my family and a few friends. If I have a particularly busy day I might talk to three or four clients on the phone, maybe see six friends on the way to and from school, have contact with a sales clerk at the grocery store or the post office. My personal contact is limited to people I know well—a small circle—and casual contact is usually confined to something very transactional, like buying stamps.
When I perform for large audiences, I get aggregate contact: one large group made up of lots of individuals.
On the subway, I get regular personal contact and positive encouragement from dozens of complete strangers.
I give to them. Each of them.
Like most of my friends, he’s interested to hear about my subway experiences. Over lunch today he asked me about the responses I was getting from the public. When I told him that I appreciate any and all expressions of interest, he asked me half-jokingly how many "hits" I got per shift.
He was kidding when he used the word, which is usually used for website visits, but I knew exactly what he meant and it seemed oddly appropriate. He wasn’t just talking about donations but about eye contact, positive comments, little nods in my direction.
I thought about it for a second. Twenty or thirty an hour? Possibly more? I’d been counting money, but I hadn’t been counting points of connection.
I headed to Pape Station after lunch, determined to try to count the "hits".
+++
As usual, I started out feeling a bit concerned that it might be an "off" day. Today I thought it had more to do with the general mood of the public than anything I myself was doing. Let’s see…it’s November 23rd, that’s getting close to the end of the month…it’s almost exactly a month before Christmas so people are starting to feel pressured…did that account for the higher-than-average number of sour faces I noticed this afternoon?
Or maybe it was the weather: damp, cloudy and increasingly cold. And at Pape Station, the wind was blowing through the corridor with even greater ferocity than I remembered. At one point, an entire crumpled section of newspaper flew through the hallway in front of me.
Anyway, I started singing as usual. For the first few songs, nobody seemed to glance in my direction, although a few people donated money anyway (which counts as a "hit" even though there’s no personal contact).
I got warmed up by the time I sang When I Walk (I Run) and the crowd seemed to really like that one. (When I started my busking, I thought that some songs would be surefire subway "hits", that is, donation magnets. So far, though, I haven’t found this to be the case—except that some songs end up being hits on particular days. For example one day might be a Room To Love day and another day might be an I've Been Busy day.
Sometimes I think that if I just tune in clearly enough to the mood of the station, I’ll be able to pick the precise songs that everyone needs. Although I realize it must sound nutty to do so, I do find myself believing that hundreds of seemingly unconnected individual people, streaming through a subway station on a Tuesday afternoon, might need the same song at the same time, and that I might have written it. Now there's an artist's ego for you.
As I kept singing, the hits did start to come. Today there were several women who stopped in the middle of the walkway and took the time to dig in their purses for change. I felt badly for one woman who did this and then turned away before I could properly thank her. She started to run as she heard the train pull in, and I realized she probably missed her train because she took the time to make a donation. (Guilt: another excellent emotion for today’s subway musician.)
A number of people donated in a particular way that I feel I should describe. They toss in their coins with a sort of defiant pitch—a little angry fling--and they almost never accept a "thank you" in return or make eye contact. It’s not that they don’t want me to be there (I’ve seen that expression too and it’s quite different). No, this is a "damn-it-all-here’s-a-dollar" kind of gesture, as if they’re mad at the world but giving back to it anyway. I like these people. I’d even listen to them if they wanted to get up and sing something or stand on a milk crate and rant for awhile.
Then there was another kind of hit. A middle-aged man came up to me as I was singing and started belting out "Out in the West Texas town of El Paso…" at full volume. In case you're not familiar with the song, it’s called "El Paso" and it was a hit for Marty Robbins who wrote it, as well as The Grateful Dead. After trying to carry on with my own song for a bar or two, I gave up and obligingly tried to play the Marty Robbins tune, immediately failed, and stopped playing. To explain why he’d interrupted me, the man said the song I was playing sounded "just like it". (My new song "Music Everywhere" sounds nothing like "El Paso".)
I also met my friend John, who was calling it a day after busking since 7:00 this morning. (John is definitely my Number 1 Hit Subway Musician.)
Six musicians passing through nodded in a collegial kind of way, including two keyboard players and a man with a guitar who paused beside the garbage can as if he was scheduled for this station and was preparing to bump me from the spot. Something told me he wasn’t a licensed TTC musician, but I wasn't sure. After waiting a few minutes, he smiled at me and headed back to the subway before I could ask him if he wanted to play.
+++
Predictably, I lost count of the hits—the moments of personal contact--with people at Pape Station today. I’m sure it was at least thirty or more. And now, writing at my computer alone in my house, I realize why that seems so amazing and valuable.
As a writer and musician, I can go through whole days in which the only contact I have is with my family and a few friends. If I have a particularly busy day I might talk to three or four clients on the phone, maybe see six friends on the way to and from school, have contact with a sales clerk at the grocery store or the post office. My personal contact is limited to people I know well—a small circle—and casual contact is usually confined to something very transactional, like buying stamps.
When I perform for large audiences, I get aggregate contact: one large group made up of lots of individuals.
On the subway, I get regular personal contact and positive encouragement from dozens of complete strangers.
I give to them. Each of them.
And I am losing track of who is giving to whom.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Busking Addiction?
The other night I went to a friend's CD release party where I met another singer-songwriter who had an unusual take on busking. When I mentioned I was singing on the subway, he immediately frowned and became very serious.
"You have to watch out for that, you know."
What?
"You can burn out. I've heard it happens. You need to be careful."
I wondered what he meant. Did he mean that you get demoralized after awhile when so many people pass you by? Do you get tired of your own songs? Do you get sick of singing and playing?
Or is it something more sinister, like obsessive gambling? Is subway busking the crack cocaine of musical performance?
+++
"You have to watch out for that, you know."
What?
"You can burn out. I've heard it happens. You need to be careful."
I wondered what he meant. Did he mean that you get demoralized after awhile when so many people pass you by? Do you get tired of your own songs? Do you get sick of singing and playing?
Or is it something more sinister, like obsessive gambling? Is subway busking the crack cocaine of musical performance?
+++
I was still thinking about this, two hours into my second day at Yorkdale.
Despite the cold, I was doggedly working my way through my entire repertoire. In any given subway shift, I try not to repeat songs very often. I stick mostly to my own songs, adding a few covers I know well. (At the moment, this is exactly three, not counting Christmas songs.) I usually don't play long enough to get through my entire list of 48 songs, but I came pretty close at Yorkdale today.
This was interesting, because I was cold from the moment I got there. I wasn't feeling as energized as I had on Thursday, and because I'd been to Yorkdale once already, the second day didn't have the same novelty value. The crowds seemed equally receptive today, but not exceptionally so, as most people seemed pretty focused on getting to the mall and getting their shopping done. I saw several people rushing by with large wrapped gifts today and in their honour I broke out my first official Christmas song: "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas".
So why did I stay as long as I did: almost two and a half hours without a break?
I figured it had to be the Pavlovian lure of instant payment each time I played another song. I thought of gambling addiction: "If I just play one more song...just one more!...maybe somebody will buy a CD!" Was that it?
I told myself I'd quit after the next donation...then someone would toss in a loonie and I'd say I'd just finish the song...and then another crowd would be passing through so I'd start another. I told myself I should finish with something great...something definitive...some appropriate send-off for two and a half solid hours of playing in a cold walkway. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas?
(I finally did switch my amp off, collect my change and go home. It was my biggest donation day yet: $56.63.)
Despite the cold, I was doggedly working my way through my entire repertoire. In any given subway shift, I try not to repeat songs very often. I stick mostly to my own songs, adding a few covers I know well. (At the moment, this is exactly three, not counting Christmas songs.) I usually don't play long enough to get through my entire list of 48 songs, but I came pretty close at Yorkdale today.
This was interesting, because I was cold from the moment I got there. I wasn't feeling as energized as I had on Thursday, and because I'd been to Yorkdale once already, the second day didn't have the same novelty value. The crowds seemed equally receptive today, but not exceptionally so, as most people seemed pretty focused on getting to the mall and getting their shopping done. I saw several people rushing by with large wrapped gifts today and in their honour I broke out my first official Christmas song: "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas".
So why did I stay as long as I did: almost two and a half hours without a break?
I figured it had to be the Pavlovian lure of instant payment each time I played another song. I thought of gambling addiction: "If I just play one more song...just one more!...maybe somebody will buy a CD!" Was that it?
I told myself I'd quit after the next donation...then someone would toss in a loonie and I'd say I'd just finish the song...and then another crowd would be passing through so I'd start another. I told myself I should finish with something great...something definitive...some appropriate send-off for two and a half solid hours of playing in a cold walkway. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas?
(I finally did switch my amp off, collect my change and go home. It was my biggest donation day yet: $56.63.)
More Yorkdale
The Yorkdale busking stop is right in the middle of a glass-domed walkway that looks out over the Allen Road expressway (a short four-lane highway) and the subway trains themselves, which come above ground at that point. The walkway is just wide enough for four narrow lanes of pedestrian traffic, which is to say, it's pretty cozy.
At many of the stations I played at, there was a lot of space between the busker and the public--so much space that each one could comfortably ignore the other. This wasn't true in the Yorkdale pedestrian walkway. In fact, people tended to bump into me here. While it seemed a bit claustrophobic at first, it seemed to ultimately work to my advantage. When forced to meet eyes with a performer, people actually did and seemed to enjoy it. They smiled, nodded, said hello and threw change. Thursday had turned out to be an excellent day for me, with lots of money and encouragement coming my way.
Thursday had been a beautiful fall day too (this November in Toronto feels more like September) and the walkway was quite warm. By Saturday, however, the weather was rainy and several degrees chillier, which was definitely noticeable in the busker stop.
I kept my coat on and unpacked enthusiastically, remembering my positive experience of the day before. I set out my CDs, which looked especially festive with Christmasy ribbons attached (hopefully a good marketing idea). As I started to sing, I had my usual out-of-place feeling for few seconds but quickly got into the rhythm of things. I realized when you're a busker, starting to sing is much like getting into a swimming pool. It seems cold at first but you quickly get used to it.
At many of the stations I played at, there was a lot of space between the busker and the public--so much space that each one could comfortably ignore the other. This wasn't true in the Yorkdale pedestrian walkway. In fact, people tended to bump into me here. While it seemed a bit claustrophobic at first, it seemed to ultimately work to my advantage. When forced to meet eyes with a performer, people actually did and seemed to enjoy it. They smiled, nodded, said hello and threw change. Thursday had turned out to be an excellent day for me, with lots of money and encouragement coming my way.
Thursday had been a beautiful fall day too (this November in Toronto feels more like September) and the walkway was quite warm. By Saturday, however, the weather was rainy and several degrees chillier, which was definitely noticeable in the busker stop.
I kept my coat on and unpacked enthusiastically, remembering my positive experience of the day before. I set out my CDs, which looked especially festive with Christmasy ribbons attached (hopefully a good marketing idea). As I started to sing, I had my usual out-of-place feeling for few seconds but quickly got into the rhythm of things. I realized when you're a busker, starting to sing is much like getting into a swimming pool. It seems cold at first but you quickly get used to it.
+++
It's remarkable to me that now I can simply break into song in public. Even after I started working as a "professional singer", actually singing in front of anyone was challenging for me unless I had a certain amount of architecture around me (ie. lights, a stage, and some distance between me and the audience).
Today I noticed how freely I simply picked up my guitar, tuned up and started singing even though nobody was listening. It seemed to go against all the social conventions I'd been brought up with. Don't speak too loudly in public! Don't call attention to yourself! Don't speak unless spoken to! Maybe that's why busking seems so uncomfortable to many people: it seems to go against some basic values. Even though I have an official license displayed in my case, when I start to sing it always feels as if I'm doing something without permission.
Friday, November 19, 2004
Yorkdale
I made it to Yorkdale as planned.
I ended up parking miles and miles away from the subway stop, because the mall is under construction and the most convenient parking lot was out-of-service. So, hefting my guitar and amplifier-laden backpack, I hiked my way through the mall.
Yorkdale is the kind of mall I can't afford to shop at. Since I decided to become a mother and singer-songwriter simultaneously, I've been a devoted Value Village shopper. Today I was sporting an Italian-made asymmetrical tapestry-quilted jacket for which I paid $14.99. I'm so accustomed to paying second-hand prices for clothes, I can't imagine paying "real" prices for anything, not even that beautiful floral leather-and-shearling jacket in Calla's size in the Gap Kids window... I was tempted to go into the store, not to actually buy it, but just to see how much it cost.
But when you're barging through a mall with an amplifier on your back, you have a certain momentum. So I kept on walking.
When I arrived at the busking stop, another musician was already playing, so I let him know that I was scheduled there and offered to come back in fifteen minutes. That would give me time to find the Lewiscraft hobby supply store and hopefully the pillow-stuffing materials for Calla's class.
Fortunately, the store was right next to the subway entrance and it had exactly what I was looking for.
The only problem was, after I finished busking I'd have to walk all the way back through the mall with my guitar, my amp and a five-pound bag of Fibrefill.
When I returned to the busking post, the other musician started packing up and was eager to give me advice, like all the other musicians were when I saw them. I realized then, for the first time, that it must be somehow obvious that I'm brand new to subway busking.
I ended up parking miles and miles away from the subway stop, because the mall is under construction and the most convenient parking lot was out-of-service. So, hefting my guitar and amplifier-laden backpack, I hiked my way through the mall.
Yorkdale is the kind of mall I can't afford to shop at. Since I decided to become a mother and singer-songwriter simultaneously, I've been a devoted Value Village shopper. Today I was sporting an Italian-made asymmetrical tapestry-quilted jacket for which I paid $14.99. I'm so accustomed to paying second-hand prices for clothes, I can't imagine paying "real" prices for anything, not even that beautiful floral leather-and-shearling jacket in Calla's size in the Gap Kids window... I was tempted to go into the store, not to actually buy it, but just to see how much it cost.
But when you're barging through a mall with an amplifier on your back, you have a certain momentum. So I kept on walking.
+++
When I arrived at the busking stop, another musician was already playing, so I let him know that I was scheduled there and offered to come back in fifteen minutes. That would give me time to find the Lewiscraft hobby supply store and hopefully the pillow-stuffing materials for Calla's class.
Fortunately, the store was right next to the subway entrance and it had exactly what I was looking for.
The only problem was, after I finished busking I'd have to walk all the way back through the mall with my guitar, my amp and a five-pound bag of Fibrefill.
+++
When I returned to the busking post, the other musician started packing up and was eager to give me advice, like all the other musicians were when I saw them. I realized then, for the first time, that it must be somehow obvious that I'm brand new to subway busking.
"You'll think that you're not getting anything," he advised, "but don't give up. It'll come."
I nodded.
As he packed up his stuff, he loaded it onto a compact little baggage cart. "You need to get one of these," he said. "Ten bucks at Honest Ed's." Good advice, I thought, remembering the five-pound bag of fibrefill.
He also urged me to come back on Saturday "and stay right 'til 9:00 o'clock!" when the stores close. I hadn't planned on doing that, but I realized he was probably right. It would be one of the first big shopping Saturdays before Christmas. He seemed very tuned in to the holiday season and its potential for busking.
"What stop do you have at Christmas?" he asked.
I looked at him blankly.
Hmm...I guess it IS obvious that I'm a beginner.
Wednesday, November 17, 2004
Next Stop Subject to Change
Today I'm off to Yorkdale: a large stop connected to a big affluent shopping mall. It'll be my first time busking in nine days. I can't wait to get back to it.
I had intended to go on Tuesday, but Calla was home from school with a bad cough...and yesterday I was on school lunch duty plus I had freelance writing work to do for a small advertising company.
My time is always parceled out in little chunks. Little chunks...oh, that reminds me, I must stop by Lewiscraft craft supply store in Yorkdale Mall to buy stuffing for the pillow-making project in Calla's class. And I must stop at bank machine to avoid paying for it entirely in coins.
Last month I posted my subway schedule on my website, as accurately as I could, with the caveat that "all times are subject to change". I suddenly realize that's actually quite a clever pun that I didn't recognize when I wrote it. And it's turned out to be true: all times I've shown up on the subway have been subject to change--and sometimes in large quantities.
But back to what I meant the first time: "all times are subject to be changed as my schedule changes." Truth was, my schedule kept changing so often, I couldn't keep it updated and a few people came by to see me and were disappointed. (Sorry, Ken, Eva and Jim!) So, given the chaotic and unpredictable nature of my life, I figure I should keep my ever-changing schedule to myself.
In some ways, I feel a bit envious of John, whose personal schedule is so free he can actually spend 8 hours a day playing cover tunes on the subway system. And then I hesitate to even express that thought: after all, I'm in the enviable position of having a family, a husband who works (though that too can change, and not for the better, at any moment as we've discovered through several layoffs, and his current contract only runs until March), a house and ways other than busking of making money (such as a few small advertising jobs I'm procrastinating on as I write this).
So far, I don't have to work the subway for a living. But all things could change.
I had intended to go on Tuesday, but Calla was home from school with a bad cough...and yesterday I was on school lunch duty plus I had freelance writing work to do for a small advertising company.
My time is always parceled out in little chunks. Little chunks...oh, that reminds me, I must stop by Lewiscraft craft supply store in Yorkdale Mall to buy stuffing for the pillow-making project in Calla's class. And I must stop at bank machine to avoid paying for it entirely in coins.
Last month I posted my subway schedule on my website, as accurately as I could, with the caveat that "all times are subject to change". I suddenly realize that's actually quite a clever pun that I didn't recognize when I wrote it. And it's turned out to be true: all times I've shown up on the subway have been subject to change--and sometimes in large quantities.
But back to what I meant the first time: "all times are subject to be changed as my schedule changes." Truth was, my schedule kept changing so often, I couldn't keep it updated and a few people came by to see me and were disappointed. (Sorry, Ken, Eva and Jim!) So, given the chaotic and unpredictable nature of my life, I figure I should keep my ever-changing schedule to myself.
In some ways, I feel a bit envious of John, whose personal schedule is so free he can actually spend 8 hours a day playing cover tunes on the subway system. And then I hesitate to even express that thought: after all, I'm in the enviable position of having a family, a husband who works (though that too can change, and not for the better, at any moment as we've discovered through several layoffs, and his current contract only runs until March), a house and ways other than busking of making money (such as a few small advertising jobs I'm procrastinating on as I write this).
So far, I don't have to work the subway for a living. But all things could change.
Saturday, November 13, 2004
The Zen of Guitar String Maintenance
I was especially happy with tonight's performance.
Last night went well too, but making the transition between singing on the subway and singing on stage proved trickier than expected.
Tonight I felt at home once again on an actual stage.
Before the show, I did several things to prepare myself psychologically (having felt that I'd been somewhat unprepared the night before). Both nights, I had about an hour to fill at the venue before my performance. Tonight I filled it by knitting (something I hadn't done for months, but which I hoped would be relaxing, and was) and by reading a copy of Shambhala Sun, a Zen Buddhist magazine my father lent to me.
The November '04 issue focuses on "the art of spiritual practice, and the spiritual practice of art". I was especially moved by an article about writing which reminded the reader that it's the being (not the producing) that matters: an important reminder for writers like me who are prone to publishing, recording and, uh, blogging. The editorial was helpful as well, suggesting that inspiration comes from becoming comfortable with situations as they are, even if they're irritating, and of making an ally of the unpredictability of the mind.
That phrase "unpredictability of the mind" really rang true for me, as I remembered my mind's revved-up hyperobserving of the night before. Between the magazine and the knitting, something worked. I felt accepting and responsive throughout tonight's show, even when I broke a guitar string in the middle of it.
This is a public "thank-you" to the opening act singer (his name is Dave Cramer) who so graciously changed my string when I spontaneously asked him to. Hopefully, if I keep up with the Zen spirit of relaxed response to irritating circumstances, someday I'll be able to change my own strings on stage. (I've seen Fred Eaglesmith do it.) So, something else to aspire to. (I say that without judging myself. Much.) In the meantime, thank you Dave.
Last night went well too, but making the transition between singing on the subway and singing on stage proved trickier than expected.
Tonight I felt at home once again on an actual stage.
Before the show, I did several things to prepare myself psychologically (having felt that I'd been somewhat unprepared the night before). Both nights, I had about an hour to fill at the venue before my performance. Tonight I filled it by knitting (something I hadn't done for months, but which I hoped would be relaxing, and was) and by reading a copy of Shambhala Sun, a Zen Buddhist magazine my father lent to me.
The November '04 issue focuses on "the art of spiritual practice, and the spiritual practice of art". I was especially moved by an article about writing which reminded the reader that it's the being (not the producing) that matters: an important reminder for writers like me who are prone to publishing, recording and, uh, blogging. The editorial was helpful as well, suggesting that inspiration comes from becoming comfortable with situations as they are, even if they're irritating, and of making an ally of the unpredictability of the mind.
That phrase "unpredictability of the mind" really rang true for me, as I remembered my mind's revved-up hyperobserving of the night before. Between the magazine and the knitting, something worked. I felt accepting and responsive throughout tonight's show, even when I broke a guitar string in the middle of it.
This is a public "thank-you" to the opening act singer (his name is Dave Cramer) who so graciously changed my string when I spontaneously asked him to. Hopefully, if I keep up with the Zen spirit of relaxed response to irritating circumstances, someday I'll be able to change my own strings on stage. (I've seen Fred Eaglesmith do it.) So, something else to aspire to. (I say that without judging myself. Much.) In the meantime, thank you Dave.
Friday, November 12, 2004
1st Non-Subway Show
Tonight I'm in Winnipeg, after playing the first of two concerts at local churches. They're the first full-evening shows I've done since I started playing in the subway.
I had anticipated that my busking would affect my "official" performances in interesting ways. The first change I noticed was that my rehearsal time, to prepare for the shows, was streamlined. Because I previously played only a couple of shows a month, I had to work pretty hard to get an entire evening's material up to speed. No more! As I began to prepare for this weekend's performances, I realized that I had some forty songs well-memorized and rehearsed. I even remembered what key I played them all in.
What wasn't up-to-speed, however, was patter--the between-song banter that touring performers (the ones that play hundreds of dates per year) are so good at. My idols, the Canadian alt-country songwriter Fred Eaglesmithand American folksinger Cheryl Wheeler, are so funny between songs they could legitimately have careers in stand-up comedy.
On the subway, of course, I don't have to say anything between songs. I don't even have to finish songs.
Predictably, my patter was a little rough around the edges last night. I'd start funny little stories and realize, mid-anecdote, that I didn't have a snappy ending. (O-kaaaay...back to singing!) The audience, though, was warm and appreciative. So warm and appreciative, I found it a little unsettling.
No stranger to what¹s called "imposter syndrome", I have at many times in my life felt as if I was faking it.
I felt like that when I was working as a comedy writer. I felt like that when I was working as a screenwriter. And I felt like that tonight, even though my songs sounded stronger than ever.
I made fewer mistakes than usual on the guitar and recovered from any glitches a lot more smoothly. Same went for lyrics. In one song ( "Stage") I sang verse three instead of verse two, but realized quickly enough to sing the missed verse the next time around (with no eye-rolling, grimace or self-deprecating explanation, either). My voice was in great shape and I sang well and tried to enjoy the fact that one hundred people were sitting in their seats and looking straight at me and listening to every word I sang and noticing what I was doing with my guitar and I wonder what they're thinking for instance that man over there doesn¹t seem to be enjoying it but the lady next to my mother is smiling and how many people are here anyway and I wonder if I should sing two more songs before the break or three and did I put lipstick on before going onstage and...aaaiiiiieeeeeee!!
At one point, it crossed my mind that I might not be able to handle the pressure and might have to actually leave the stage.
Despite this loud and irritating inner dialogue, I managed to keep singing.
Since I started playing on the subway, I've gotten used to an amazing amount of background noise. If the audience isn't making it, looks like I'm capable of creating it myself.
I had anticipated that my busking would affect my "official" performances in interesting ways. The first change I noticed was that my rehearsal time, to prepare for the shows, was streamlined. Because I previously played only a couple of shows a month, I had to work pretty hard to get an entire evening's material up to speed. No more! As I began to prepare for this weekend's performances, I realized that I had some forty songs well-memorized and rehearsed. I even remembered what key I played them all in.
What wasn't up-to-speed, however, was patter--the between-song banter that touring performers (the ones that play hundreds of dates per year) are so good at. My idols, the Canadian alt-country songwriter Fred Eaglesmithand American folksinger Cheryl Wheeler, are so funny between songs they could legitimately have careers in stand-up comedy.
On the subway, of course, I don't have to say anything between songs. I don't even have to finish songs.
Predictably, my patter was a little rough around the edges last night. I'd start funny little stories and realize, mid-anecdote, that I didn't have a snappy ending. (O-kaaaay...back to singing!) The audience, though, was warm and appreciative. So warm and appreciative, I found it a little unsettling.
No stranger to what¹s called "imposter syndrome", I have at many times in my life felt as if I was faking it.
I felt like that when I was working as a comedy writer. I felt like that when I was working as a screenwriter. And I felt like that tonight, even though my songs sounded stronger than ever.
I made fewer mistakes than usual on the guitar and recovered from any glitches a lot more smoothly. Same went for lyrics. In one song ( "Stage") I sang verse three instead of verse two, but realized quickly enough to sing the missed verse the next time around (with no eye-rolling, grimace or self-deprecating explanation, either). My voice was in great shape and I sang well and tried to enjoy the fact that one hundred people were sitting in their seats and looking straight at me and listening to every word I sang and noticing what I was doing with my guitar and I wonder what they're thinking for instance that man over there doesn¹t seem to be enjoying it but the lady next to my mother is smiling and how many people are here anyway and I wonder if I should sing two more songs before the break or three and did I put lipstick on before going onstage and...aaaiiiiieeeeeee!!
At one point, it crossed my mind that I might not be able to handle the pressure and might have to actually leave the stage.
Despite this loud and irritating inner dialogue, I managed to keep singing.
Since I started playing on the subway, I've gotten used to an amazing amount of background noise. If the audience isn't making it, looks like I'm capable of creating it myself.
Wednesday, November 10, 2004
"So...how's it going?"
Today I went to a meeting of songwriters who give workshops in Toronto schools. All of us are experienced performers who get a kick out of encouraging children and teenagers to write their own songs. It's funny though...they look at us as if we're enormously successful (I guess it's just a matter of perspective). I'm sure many of us have noticed the contrast between their image of us as "successful musicians" and the reality that it's hard to earn income from our artistic pursuits.
After the meeting, we mingled and caught up on each other's news. And I noticed that a pattern was recurring. Lately, whenever I go to gatherings of other musicians, people say things like "So, I hear you're singing on the subway."
Long pause. "So...how's it going?"
They inevitably seem a bit taken aback when I honestly say, "It's fantastic!" And they're perhaps a bit concerned for me when I gush about how it's changed my life for the better.
"Really?" they ask. (Long pause.) "Well, that's great!"
A few weeks ago, a songwriting friend confided that she thought I'd be too shy a person to enjoy busking. I was surprised by that at first, but then I realized that when I'm not actually performing, people usually take me to be a quiet and reserved person. I remember someone even called me "retiring" once. (I can't remember who said that now, and it's probably for the best.)
Last night, at an open mic, another licensed TTC musician was the featured performer. He had a theatrical and athletic style of performance, which involved dramatic leaps toward the audience and exaggeratedly beckoning hand gestures. (I was reminded of a hypnotist. "You WILL throw me change!") Retiring he ain't.
Anyway, I remember reading once that one should re-invent oneself often. I guess my subway musician jaunt is turning out to be a dramatic reinvention. Maybe this is me coming out of "retirement".
After the meeting, we mingled and caught up on each other's news. And I noticed that a pattern was recurring. Lately, whenever I go to gatherings of other musicians, people say things like "So, I hear you're singing on the subway."
Long pause. "So...how's it going?"
They inevitably seem a bit taken aback when I honestly say, "It's fantastic!" And they're perhaps a bit concerned for me when I gush about how it's changed my life for the better.
"Really?" they ask. (Long pause.) "Well, that's great!"
A few weeks ago, a songwriting friend confided that she thought I'd be too shy a person to enjoy busking. I was surprised by that at first, but then I realized that when I'm not actually performing, people usually take me to be a quiet and reserved person. I remember someone even called me "retiring" once. (I can't remember who said that now, and it's probably for the best.)
Last night, at an open mic, another licensed TTC musician was the featured performer. He had a theatrical and athletic style of performance, which involved dramatic leaps toward the audience and exaggeratedly beckoning hand gestures. (I was reminded of a hypnotist. "You WILL throw me change!") Retiring he ain't.
Anyway, I remember reading once that one should re-invent oneself often. I guess my subway musician jaunt is turning out to be a dramatic reinvention. Maybe this is me coming out of "retirement".
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
Warming Up at Osgoode
Today I came back to Osgoode, prepared to freeze.
I was also meeting a friend for lunch. This was a very generous and supportive friend who, it turned out, was not only happy to stand in a subway station listening to me for seven (seven!) songs, but who also called out requests (songs from my first CD…at first I wondered whether or not I'd remember them) and even applauded. She encouraged me to keep playing for several minutes after I would have called a lunch break, resulting in a few more precious loonies.
As expected, my hands were cold by the time I reached the station. I had always wondered how musicians managed to play outdoor winter gigs here in Canada and had assumed I’d be hopeless at it myself. What I hadn’t realized, until today, was that because your hands are constantly moving—and moving quickly for that matter—they are exercising and warming up. (Okay, so this is why I didn't become a doctor or a physiotherapist.)
For years I’d avoided cross-country skiing because I assumed I’d turn into a popsicle (like I had, for instance, on the winter hayrides of long-ago Girl Guide trips, which were horribly cold because we were completely inert and sitting on the back of a tractor). When I finally went skiing, I sweated—and loved it!
Today at Osgoode, I didn’t exactly work up a sweat, but I didn’t freeze either, and I managed to play a full hour without getting frostbite. (I know, I know, my new friend John probably does four hours at a stretch in mid-February, but we all have to start somewhere.) The more vigorously I played, the warmer my fingers got and the better the music sounded. Good plan.
Early in my shift, a man came up and enthusiastically donated. Then he picked up the CDs and looked at them as if he might buy one. I stopped my song and chatted with him (trying to sell the CDs) and then he took me by surprise.
"Do you have a capo?" he asked.
"Um, yeah, why?" I responded.
Turned out HE wanted to play a song. Before I knew it, I’d taken off my guitar (what was I thinking?!) and was listening to him play HIS song in MY spot. (I had no idea I was so territorial.) I also realized immediately that he didn’t have a license and this sort of impromptu jamming with friends (newfound or otherwise) was specifically frowned upon.
He was a nice guy and it was a sweet song. But as I listened to him as politely as possible, I just kept thinking, please, please let this be the last verse.
Note to self: figure out what to say next time this happens.
I was also meeting a friend for lunch. This was a very generous and supportive friend who, it turned out, was not only happy to stand in a subway station listening to me for seven (seven!) songs, but who also called out requests (songs from my first CD…at first I wondered whether or not I'd remember them) and even applauded. She encouraged me to keep playing for several minutes after I would have called a lunch break, resulting in a few more precious loonies.
As expected, my hands were cold by the time I reached the station. I had always wondered how musicians managed to play outdoor winter gigs here in Canada and had assumed I’d be hopeless at it myself. What I hadn’t realized, until today, was that because your hands are constantly moving—and moving quickly for that matter—they are exercising and warming up. (Okay, so this is why I didn't become a doctor or a physiotherapist.)
For years I’d avoided cross-country skiing because I assumed I’d turn into a popsicle (like I had, for instance, on the winter hayrides of long-ago Girl Guide trips, which were horribly cold because we were completely inert and sitting on the back of a tractor). When I finally went skiing, I sweated—and loved it!
Today at Osgoode, I didn’t exactly work up a sweat, but I didn’t freeze either, and I managed to play a full hour without getting frostbite. (I know, I know, my new friend John probably does four hours at a stretch in mid-February, but we all have to start somewhere.) The more vigorously I played, the warmer my fingers got and the better the music sounded. Good plan.
+++
Early in my shift, a man came up and enthusiastically donated. Then he picked up the CDs and looked at them as if he might buy one. I stopped my song and chatted with him (trying to sell the CDs) and then he took me by surprise.
"Do you have a capo?" he asked.
"Um, yeah, why?" I responded.
Turned out HE wanted to play a song. Before I knew it, I’d taken off my guitar (what was I thinking?!) and was listening to him play HIS song in MY spot. (I had no idea I was so territorial.) I also realized immediately that he didn’t have a license and this sort of impromptu jamming with friends (newfound or otherwise) was specifically frowned upon.
He was a nice guy and it was a sweet song. But as I listened to him as politely as possible, I just kept thinking, please, please let this be the last verse.
Note to self: figure out what to say next time this happens.
Monday, November 08, 2004
First Signs of Winter at York Mills
It’s starting to get cold.
I noticed it yesterday when I dropped in at York Mills, where I was scheduled, for an hour. The busking post at York Mills (in the upper reaches of the city) is in a long corridor, like the kind you find in airports. When I arrived, John was there, the musician I met first at Pape Station.
He explained that the acoustics were pretty good here.
"That is, when nobody’s around."
He took a break and I started to play, and realized what he was talking about. The sound was all rich and echoey, until huge crowds of high school students came streaming through, all talking to each other and laughing.
When they did (every few minutes) I could have actually stopped playing, the sound disappeared so completely. Then they disappeared around the corner and my guitar and voice came back again. It was weird.
I find that crowds aren’t terrific for donations. It’s too hard to break away from the pack, and people are happily engaged in simply getting from one place to another, which is fine with me. Sometimes when people try to make an effort to donate, it can be downright dangerous as they unexpectedly cut in front of another person’s path. Better in that case to just keep walking. I understand completely (and I don’t want to be at the scene of a collision).
Because the corridor seemed so long and far from the exits, I was surprised to discover it was cold.
And so, to honour the changing temperature and the tiny ice-flakes that I saw drifting down today, I sang "Snow", one of my small handful of official "winter" songs.
(This gets me thinking, am I expected to learn Christmas carols?)
I noticed it yesterday when I dropped in at York Mills, where I was scheduled, for an hour. The busking post at York Mills (in the upper reaches of the city) is in a long corridor, like the kind you find in airports. When I arrived, John was there, the musician I met first at Pape Station.
He explained that the acoustics were pretty good here.
"That is, when nobody’s around."
He took a break and I started to play, and realized what he was talking about. The sound was all rich and echoey, until huge crowds of high school students came streaming through, all talking to each other and laughing.
When they did (every few minutes) I could have actually stopped playing, the sound disappeared so completely. Then they disappeared around the corner and my guitar and voice came back again. It was weird.
I find that crowds aren’t terrific for donations. It’s too hard to break away from the pack, and people are happily engaged in simply getting from one place to another, which is fine with me. Sometimes when people try to make an effort to donate, it can be downright dangerous as they unexpectedly cut in front of another person’s path. Better in that case to just keep walking. I understand completely (and I don’t want to be at the scene of a collision).
Because the corridor seemed so long and far from the exits, I was surprised to discover it was cold.
And so, to honour the changing temperature and the tiny ice-flakes that I saw drifting down today, I sang "Snow", one of my small handful of official "winter" songs.
(This gets me thinking, am I expected to learn Christmas carols?)
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