Friday After Work - Jane Station

Jane Station, dusk, Friday afternoon.

This was one of the yellow stations--like Yonge--tiled in a shade that might have been called "Harvest" or "Goldenrod". My performance area looked onto a large open vestibule, much like a large change room at a public pool. The acoustics were fantastic.

Trickling through the station were people coming home from work, all looking very, very tired.

I myself was tired. Before my shift, I had a meeting with a writing client in the neighborhood. Before that I had gone to the garage to have two tires changed (re: yesterday's flat), written two press releases for another client, made lunch for my 7 1/2 year old daughter and carved ten jack-o-lanterns as a parent volunteer in her Grade 3 classroom.

One of the reasons I enjoy singing so much is that I have to be completely present. I can't be multi-tasking. In order to attract donations, I have to put myself completely into the song and let the rest of my day fall behind.

That said, it took me several minutes to acclimatize myself to today's performance. It was hard to adjust from being a busy professional person to being a busker.

Maybe because of that adjustment, I started my shift with the strong feeling of being out-of-place and of this enterprise being completely futile and silly. My songs, instead of sounding reassuring and calming, sounded somehow naïve. Where Do You Call Home?and Complicated Things, sounded too pretty for this stark urban environment. I tried to counter this by singing a more "gritty" song (I've Been Busy) but still had the feeling of being a fish out of water.

Everyone seemed to be ignoring me, so I tried imagining that the half-rectangle of yellow dots that enclosed me was actually a protective and loving force field. I also tried singing solely for myself, remembering that at the heart of it, this is rehearsal time. As I glanced at the $3.50 in "seed money" that was still there by itself after five songs, I wondered whether this would be the first subway stop at which I'd earn absolutely nothing.

Then (thank you, thank you, thank you) an elderly woman dressed in a bright fuschia blazer walked deliberately over to give me some change. As she did so, she said "Such lovely music."

She was followed shortly afterward by a woman dressed entirely in purple, with purple leggings and purple-and-silver hair. (Right, I remembered, it's the Friday before Hallowe'en.) She seemed to want to say something to me, but was too polite to interrupt in the middle of a song.

One person who did run up to interrupt was a girl about my daughter's age. She came within a foot of the guitar and said breathlessly, "You're a very good singer!" and then she started to strum the guitar herself, forcing me to stop.

"Thank you," I said, "I'm glad you enjoy my songs. Do you like to sing?"

"Yes!" said the girl, still strumming.

"That's great," I said. "What's your name?"

"Shania," she said.

+++

Finally, a man came along while I was singing Room To Love. He stopped and picked up both of my CDs, which I always display in my case. While continuing to sing, I managed (not sure exactly how) to show him that it was Track #5 on "Lynoleum". When I finished the song, he requested Where Do You Call Home?to see what it sounded like, so I played that one for him on the spot. He bought both CDs and thanked me for making his day.

I hope he realized how much he'd made mine.

Chickening Out at Eglinton

Today I planned to sing at Eglinton station because I had a meeting in that part of town. (I'm helping out with some organizational duties for a local music festival.)

Unfortunately, on my way to the station I got a flat tire. (I know, I know, I’m supposed to take the TTC.) While I was waiting for the CAA man to come replace it (and yes, I should learn to do that myself) I took a peek at Eglinton station.

I remembered Eglinton from the time of my life when I was a highly paid television scriptwriter, working for TVOntario, which is located there. Back then, I shopped in the adjoining mall for new clothes, I ate out frequently at spiffy restaurants nearby and I didn’t mention to any of my professional colleagues that I was a songwriter. If I had a nagging feeling that I wasn’t on exactly the right path, it was neatly compensated for by the large paycheques I was receiving.

If my Former Self, zipping in and out of meetings at Eglinton and Yonge, could see me now, what would she say? Congratulations for following your dream and your creative spirit? Or, what were you thinking, stepping off the lucrative commercial writing ladder?

Looking at the crowds at Eglinton Station—clearly a good prospect for busking—I didn’t have the heart to find out.

Because of the flat tire, I was delayed and therefore hungry. If a former client ran into me here while I was singing—no matter how well—I’d probably burst into tears. Talk about deflated.

+++

Instead, after lunch, I headed back to my beloved Woodbine.

Another interesting detail of this station is that the busking post is directly across from a reflective panel of glass: you can watch yourself while you’re singing. I like that. It reminds me that I actually look pretty good.

Today, several people actually apologized that they didn’t have any change handy. A few people stopped at the top of the escalators leading down to the train, so they could listen to me for as long as possible before the train arrived.

One man stopped, apparently delighted, as I was singing my song "Luminous Veil". Not exactly a peppy song, it’s about the suicide barrier over the Don Valley Parkway near Broadview Station. (Broadview is currently overtaken by construction, but it’s the closest station to my home and I have my eye on it.)

Later, a lovely Irish man, himself carrying a guitar, stopped to talk and donated a toonie. It turns out he’s a licensed street musician. (I didn’t know Toronto issued licenses for street buskers too!) He invited me to the Yonge Street Mission on Thursday nights, where another subway musician whom I know also plays. He kindly suggested that it’d be okay for my husband to come along, if it would make us both feel more comfortable.

Also, if I understood him correctly, he said he'd made an appearance once on the TV show "Touched By An Angel". I could believe it.

He urged me to keep singing. "By God, it’s good."

+++

When I was driving around today, I heard CBC Radio talking about Joni Mitchell, who has just received an honourary doctorate from McGill University. In honour of the occasion, they played one of my favourite Joni songs, "Help Me".

Shelagh Rogers suggested, wisely I think, that it would be interesting to study the theme of freedom in Joni Mitchell songs. She remembered the lyrics "We love our loving, but not like we love our freedom" and "I was a free man in Paris."

I remembered another lyric. "He was playing real good, for free."

Famous at Osgoode - Oct. 26th

Today I really did run into a famous person. It wasn’t Prince, but I’m pretty sure it was The Artist I Think It Was. I recognized him because we’d met before. Not only that...he kept hanging around, probably to figure out if I, too, was The Person He Thought I Was. ("Yes, as a matter of fact, I am!")

Toronto being the centre of the cultural universe that it is, many famous people ride the subway. This must be a huge challenge for them. When I sing on the subway and people notice me, at least I don’t have to stop and politely answer the question, "Aren’t you Lynn Harrison"? ("Why yes!")

This particular Famous Person (name withheld) is primarily famous in Canada, although he has had some success in the States as well. Twenty years ago he and I were involved in the same amateur performing organization. (He was, it should be noted, an Artist More Likely To Succeed Than Me even then.) We didn’t know each other well, but as I watched him today I could tell he had a nagging feeling he knew me. He gave himself away when he casually drifted over near my post and back again several times.

Today I played and sang better, at times, than I ever have in the subway. In fact, if some form of evaluation were possible, I bet that my rendition of Smooth Stoneswould be the best I’ve ever done. (This is one of my older songs, written in the mid-nineties. Over the course of my career, I have probably played it hundreds of times—and twenty times this last week alone. So: you only need to sing your songs four hundred times to make them sound fantastic in a subway station!)

However, the song I was playing when Famous Person kept casually walking by was Einstein's Brain, and I managed to screw it up magnificently—not only forgetting a chord but saying "Rats!" a couple of times when I missed it. (At least I won’t be cited for profanity on the TTC.) It was weird. I rarely red-flag my mistakes anymore—even on stage.

Of course, I did say "rats" ("@#%$!" "*#@#@!", etc.) a lot when I was just starting out…that is, when Famous Person used to know me.

Anyway, he didn’t stop, and I hardly blame him. After all, I would have said hello, and confirmed that we had this long-ago tenuous connection. He’d think I’d want him to somehow assist my career in some way, which actually I wouldn’t. I know he can’t really do anything. He’s probably wondering what his own next gig is going to be.

And he’s so famous, he can’t sing on the subway.

(If you’re reading this, Mr. Famous Person: Yes, we did used to know each other. I love your work. I hope you liked the song and can use it in your next movie or something. I promise I won’t screw it up, but if I do I’ll be very funny and charming.)

+++

Osgoode must be my unofficial Lucky Station so far. Another person asked the magic question "Did you write that?!" (In Spite of It All). He bought a CD.

King Station - 4 p.m.

The first set of yellow dots I found was in a modern walkway adjacent to the actual subway station—-but it was full of construction equipment and a recycling bin. Guess I’m not supposed to play there.

When I found the right place, I liked it immediately. It was a warm little corner tiled in daffodil yellow, off to the side of the bottom of an escalator. It even had a little bench close by where someone could sit down. I was close enough to the trains to actually see them—which was a first. I found it inspiring. (Besides, I had my amp.)

When I started to sing, though, I realized the problem.

As soon as people got to the bottom of the escalator, they swung away from me and darted toward the train. Also, it quickly became clear that I needed to use discretion while meeting their eyes as they got off the escalator. Nobody wanted a singer-songwriter to pounce on them.

All of this added up to a pleasant performance environment, but not very much money.
At first, this rattled me. After several minutes of feeling like a piece of furniture (as I glanced empathetically at the bench beside me) I wondered whether I could actually stick it out in this location. Today I was feeling a bit insecure. A bit out-of-place. Superfluous. (Note to self: learn Elvis Costello’s "All This Useless Beauty".)

Then my eyes fell on the TTC’s promotional poster on the wall beside the escalators. It read "Achieve peace and tranquility. Take the TTC." It was illustrated with a lovely picture of bamboo.

So I decided to sing while staring at the poster.

While trying my best to achieve peace and tranquility, I sang "I’ve Been Busy", "Crossing My Mind", "It’ll Grow on You", "Complicated Things", "Einstein’s Brain" and "Room to Love". People looked my way and smiled, but few dropped money into my case.

Maybe I wasn’t achieving the perfect measure of tranquility?

Or maybe it wasn’t me at all…just the feng shui of the performance area?

Or maybe all was indeed well in the universe. (Second note to self: learn "You Can't Always Get What You Want".) Something must have been working, because regardless of how many people came by, next time I looked at my watch, I'd been singing for two hours at King Station.

Two friends visited me and donated. Another friend tried, but only found the performance area with the recycling bin.

Saturday Afternoon, Pape Station

This afternoon I returned to Pape, my comfortable little neighborhood station. Today is Saturday, and a beautiful fall day at that, so lots of people were going somewhere.

As always, I ran into people I knew. I’m already getting much better at responding to acquaintances who are concerned that I’m busking. I immediately try to put them at ease. ("My music career is going really well...I'm doing this as an interesting side project." Yeah, that's the ticket.)

But here's an interesting thing. A surprising number of friends who’ve encountered me here by accident have left without contributing any money. The vast majority in fact.

Why is that? It must be socially awkward, somehow. They must think it’s condescending to give me some change. They must not know what to say. (How about "here’s a quarter"?) Like the people at Sheppard pretending not to see me, people who know me seem to prefer to stop and chat about my music career—-but will do almost anything to avoid acknowledging that money is changing hands. ("Eew!")

Meanwhile, people who seem all but unable to contribute anything continue to do just that. Today a very downtrodden looking fellow laboriously emptied out his own pockets of pennies. Pennies!

I also had my first repeat customer: a man who said he’d seen me at Woodbine a few days ago but hadn’t stopped because he was in a hurry. When he donated (a toonie!) he did it with a flourish and a well-placed overhead lob.

+++

The other night I went to one of my favourite open mics and played three songs.

Two experienced subway musicians were there that night as well and they were full of helpful advice. One of them, it turns out, does well at Sheppard. ("Were you on the upper level or the lower level ?" he asked. I had no idea.) They suggested staking out a regular location and time. ("After a few months, people get to know you." A few months at Sheppard?!)

The other subway musician at the open mic admitted that when he learned I’d gotten my license, he considered trying to talk me out of it.

When I got up to play, I told the audience that I’ve been playing in the subways for a couple of weeks now and I’m getting pretty used to it.

"So," I said, "Would you mind standing up, walking back and forth and throwing change at the stage?"

It got a big laugh.

But when I got home, having not earned anything, I felt a bit deflated.

Where’s my dollar a song?

Then I recalled that, in fact, one of my subwaying friends had left the venue early, to head downtown and make some money.

Sheppard Revisited

When I arrived at Sheppard Station today, I deliberately entered by the doors closest to the performance area so I wouldn’t get lost.

Often when I arrive, I tell the ticket attendant that I’m here to play, and he or she lets me in without paying a token.

Unfortunately, the Harlendale Avenue entrance was an unmanned one, where you have to pay a token to get in the automated doors. I went to the machine to buy a token, and promptly got my toonie stuck in the machine. I started doing mental math: I’ve just spent $4.50 at the Green P parking, and I’ve lost $2.00 buying a token. Trying another machine, I successfully bought a token for $2.50. So far the trip to Sheppard has cost me $9.00.

Yesterday hadn’t been very financially successful, so I changed a few things today. First of all, I brought my newly-licensed amp along. Second, I arrived 45 minutes earlier, in an effort to catch the morning rush of commuters. And third, I positioned myself across the hallway from where I was yesterday (there were two sets of yellow dots here—this is a posh station!) hoping that the traffic flow would be more advantageous.

+++

As I played at Sheppard, I felt that in general, people seemed less receptive to the idea of a musician in their environment compared to other stations. When I watched more closely, I recognized a range of openness in people’s expressions. Most people, it seemed, were simply not registering my presence on their faces. For some of them, this was likely a deliberate choice ("Oh no, a subway musician! I know, I’ll pretend not to see her!") Other people may have been genuinely less aware of me, especially those wearing headphones. (Oddly, however, a surprising number of headphone-wearers DID seem to notice me—maybe because they were more engaged in the act of listening itself?)

When hundreds of people act as if you’re not there, it’s really possible to believe that you’re invisible. Have you ever had that feeling in a restaurant, when the waiter inexplicably forgets about you? Have you ever wondered how they could possibly not see you, even as you’re raising your hand into the air and trying to catch their eye?

That’s the feeling you get when you’re playing and singing your best, when you know you’re playing good songs, when you know you’re in tune, and hundreds of people simply pretend you’re not there. (In some ways, it might be better if someone came up and said, "That song really sucked".)

Once again, I was reminded of Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, and for that matter, the Cone of Silence in that old 70’s sitcom, "Get Smart".

The Cone of Silence would comically descend when activated by private eye Maxwell Smart, enclosing him and his confidante in a space-age plexiglass tube, so that they could have their conversation in secret. The Cone was always uncomfortably small and it never really worked. You always COULD hear poor Max talking conspiratorially with Chief or Agent 99, until they got fed up with it and demanded that Max de-activate the Cone.

Likewise, I noticed that the people who seemed determined not to see me often inadvertently looked in my direction, despite themselves.

Whenever that happened, I didn’t know whether to smile understandingly or look away too. ("Don’t worry! I don’t see you either!")

On mornings like these, the (precious) few people who DO smile and nod, or donate some change, instantly melt away the invisible layer of ice that seems to surround me.

And I have to admit, that layer of ice isn’t comfortable.

+++

Oh yeah. I made $5.75 at Sheppard today. Yesterday I made $8.80, but my friend put in $5.00.

Oct. 20 - Sheppard & Osgoode

This morning I intended to get to Sheppard station, in the upper reaches of the city, to catch the morning rush hour. But I had an actual gig last night that went late, and it was hard to get out of bed. I was surprised at how different it felt, last night, to be playing for an actual audience of people sitting still.

I finally made it up to Sheppard at 9:15 and realized that finding the yellow dots would be particularly difficult. Sheppard Station is so huge, it’s more like an airport than a subway station, with two levels of tracks and many hallways on several levels. I felt as if I’d moved up a notch in subway station posh-ness, from the 1950s architecture of the Bloor-Danforth line to the sleek modern terminals to the north.

Sheppard was particularly state-of-the-art, because an entire new arm had been built onto the subway system starting at Sheppard. When I look at the subway maps today, compared to the ones I was familiar with from the 80’s, the new branch at the top always makes me feel confused.

This deluxe station had another tempting feature: a Cinnabon cinnamon roll outlet. At first I thought this was a big plus. But then I realized it was competition.

Playing at Sheppard did feel like playing in an airport, with people moving swiftly past me as if they were on a moving sidewalk. Most of them didn’t even glance up while they walked purposefully toward the station or the buses.

A friend of mine came to listen this morning, pretending at times to be simply an interested stranger. We wondered if this ruse might help business, but it didn’t seem to. I was worried that she’d be disheartened by the number of people walking past, but instead she was encouraged by the people who made a point of stopping. (Note to self: optimists make excellent friends!) Also, she noticed before I did that I received an important donation today: my first subway token.

+++

Later this afternoon, I found myself back at Osgoode to finish my amp test, having never connected with the TTC fellow the day before. While I played, one of my fantasies about playing in the subway came true. A woman stopped halfway down the corridor, turned around and deliberately walked back towards me to listen. As I finished the song, she asked, "Did you write that?".

Osgoode - October 19th

This morning I went to Osgoode Station (on the University Line, near City Hall and the court buildings) because I had bought an amp to use while busking, and it needed to be tested and approved by TTC management.

I decided to get an amp because a recent passer-by (an Italian or Portuguese man in his sixties) had stopped, pointedly, to lean in close to my guitar and tell me he couldn’t hear it.

Having made his point, he left without contributing.

So I decided to get an amp.

But before you can use the amp, you have to get a permit for it and agree on maximum volume levels. Over the years, subway musicians have at times attracted negative attention for playing too loud. Remember the guy in the movie Spinal Tap who insisted that his amp "goes to eleven"? He wouldn’t be approved. Unfortunately, the man from the TTC was running late, so I decided to play until he got there. (Without plugging into my amp, of course.)

Only seconds had passed before one of the last people I’d want to see me busking came swishing through the corridor. She was a former friend, a talented and ambitious singer who had parted company with me after a misunderstanding. I was sure she’d see subway busking as beneath her (no pun intended).

I knew that she wasn’t on my e-mail list, so seeing me here would be a complete surprise.

A pleasant one, apparently.

She smiled and said hello, eyebrows raised in interest. And breezed right on by.
I felt proud of myself for maintaining a posture of confidence, success and joy as she passed (despite the fact that I was freezing, waiting for someone and not collecting much money here anyway).

Of course I tried to sing better than ever...and flubbed the high note.

I hoped she’d already passed through the turnstiles and couldn’t hear me.

+++

I stayed at Osgoode a half hour. During that time, a disabled man shuffled extremely slowly down the corridor. His clothes were hanging awkwardly off him and he seemed to be looking straight down, watching his feet take every difficult step.

As I sang, I saw him dig in his pockets. I realized that in order to stop him from giving me money, I’d have to stop in the middle of the song and turn his donation away. That would surely embarrass him, so… I decided to sing directly to him, not to the rest of the station, for just those few seconds, and to sing as beautifully as I could.

Slowly raising his arm, he dropped a dollar into my case.

Crazy Person At Queen's Park

Today I realized that I’m averaging a dollar a song. Isn’t that the same as iTunes?

+++

I arrived at Queen’s Park station at 6:30 p.m. and started looking for the yellow dots. I was scheduled for the “evening shift” which meant I could show up any time between 6 p.m. and midnight. The crowds were slim all along the University line, because many of the government and hospital workers in the area had already gone home.

When I couldn’t find the dots, I asked the ticket booth attendant, who told me the performance area had recently changed. He thought he’d heard a musician “somewhere over there…but I hope not, cause it’d be cold”.

True, I thought, as I headed in the direction he pointed and found myself in a very long hallway leading away toward the street exits. When I found the yellow dots, they were at the foot of a deep escalator and stairwell, directly underneath College and University and the Ontario Hydro building.

In fact, it wasn’t actually cold. It was, however, scary—like the bottom of a deep dark well. A skylight overhead revealed that the sun had already gone down. A few people trickled down the escalator and walked toward the station with their backs to me. Meanwhile, the well-lit subway station and ticket booth seemed miles away.

Hmm. I looked around for a minute or two, considering whether or not to stay. When I noticed that professional-looking people were coming down the escalator at a steady pace, I decided to give the location a try, and started to unpack. However, something told me not to display my CDs with my name on them, and I was particularly cautious while sprinkling the seed money into my guitar case.

The acoustics made me feel hopeful as I started to sing “Room to Love”. The very high vaulted ceiling, combined with the tile floor and walls, gave the little dark corner a church-like atmosphere.

Halfway into the second verse, a professional-looking middle aged man (a doctor, perhaps?) made a point of stopping to dig in his pocket and throw me a dollar.

But then, just a few bars later, I heard a weird wailing sound coming down the escalators toward me. I sang, and the wailing increased in response. Oh no. Whoever it was was coming down the escalators directly toward me. And he was interested in the music.

The man who emerged was a very large, drunk, toothless and apparently crazy man. He seemed about three times my height and weight. He was talking to me loudly but was difficult to understand because he was drunk and speaking with a heavy accent. I couldn’t quite grasp what he was saying, but I sure noticed him kick my guitar case.

Was he aggressive? Or just excited? It was hard to tell. But I figured it was probably safer to assume he was trying to be friendly, and to respond nicely to him so he wouldn’t get mad.

Looking him in the eye and smiling, I asked him how long he’d lived in Toronto. (25 years.) Where was he from? (Africa, he said at first. But then a few sentences later he said Milwaukee. Milwaukee?!) Then he asked me if I knew any African music, which he evidently was trying to describe to me. I responded that unfortunately I was just leaving (even though I hadn’t even finished my first song) and started packing up my things. Meanwhile a small crowd had gathered, no doubt due to the fact that a huge drunken man was looming over a tiny female singer-songwriter and yelling at her.

“Do you need any help, Miss?” one man asked me.

“Yes.” (What did it look like?!!) “Go tell the TTC guy in the booth.”

They left, leaving me alone with the guy. Brilliant.

I kept smiling at him and saying nice calming things, while I hoisted up my guitar case and backpack. Blessedly, he said goodbye and lumbered up the stairs.

So, lesson learned. I resolved not to play solo in darkened corridors where no
TTC employee could see me.

+++

I played half a song at Queen’s Park and earned one loonie. There you go, a dollar a song.

Woodbine

I hadn’t been planning to busk today. Instead, I thought I’d just travel around the system, checking out the various performance locations. But as I thought about doing that, I realized that I’d feel frustrated not having my guitar with me.

I must be hooked.

So I headed over to Woodbine Station--an unscheduled stop for me. The performance area was free. It was located in between the two sets of escalators leading down to the trains—a nice friendly corridor in toothpaste green.

Right away, a woman came along and gave me six dollars. Then a man tossed in a loonie—all before I’d finished my first song.

The rest of my shift continued that way, with people tossing in loonies and toonies mostly, and other people just nodding and smiling. I noticed, for the first time, that the majority of people can’t really get to their money: it’s deep in their purses or in inaccessible knapsacks. So I found myself appreciating the nods and smiles as much as the actual coins. Also, I noticed a surprising number of people who were limping or coping with some other form of physical disability. (As it happens, I've been struggling with a herniated disk in my lower back, so I'm limping too. Standing and singing is one of the most comfortable things I can do.) Also, as on previous days, I noticed many people who looked beaten down and desperate—more in need of music than I was in need of change.

A couple of people stopped to listen or chat and left without dropping anything into my case. Today it didn’t seem to matter.

When I’d been playing about an hour, I noticed the woman at the Gateway Newstand waving at me. I could see her kiosk from where I was playing. It was up a small flight of stairs, about a hundred feet away. She was leaning far out over her chocolate bars and magazines, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to see her. As she beckoned me over, I actually looked around to see if she meant me. Then with my guitar still strapped on, I hurried over to accept the loonie she held in her hand.

+++

When I headed home on the Pape bus, two women sat down beside me. They’d been drinking already (it was now 2:30 p.m.) and they wanted to talk. After asking me about the guitar, one of them told me that she likes to play Neil Young and Pink Floyd songs, and the other said she’d taken up percussion. She explained proudly that because she’d been a dancer all her life, drumming came naturally to her. Then out of nowhere she said:

"You know, you have to follow your soul. It doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks of you."

+++

I have written four new songs since I started playing on the subway.

Trip to Islington

The last time I visited Islington subway station, I was a first-year university student visiting a friend. That was 22 years ago. Nothing about the station looked familiar when I arrived at 2:05 this afternoon. I consulted the guidebook that the TTC provided for musicians. It said that the yellow dotted performance area was "on the Mezzanine Level, against the back wall of centre set of stairs and escalator, opposite the bus transfer area". "Mezzanine Level"? How about "Parking-Lot Sized Expanse of Grey Concrete Floor"? I wandered onto it, guitar in hand, scanning the floor for yellow dots.

Sure enough, I looked down and there they were, right under my feet. The performance area was overlooking the escalator and stairwell that led down to the trains, positioned in such a way that (if you wanted to) you could play over the railing to the people heading downstairs. (For that matter, you could throw yourself over the railing and plunge to your death in a dramatic act of singer-songwriter suicide.)

The performance area seemed to be precisely in the middle of the subway station. If you looked south, you saw the people going down. If you looked west, you saw people walking away from you toward the buses. If you looked north, you saw people coming up the opposite stairs (and immediately veering away from you to get to the bus). And if you looked east, you saw people headed for the lottery kiosk. But most of the time, you’d look out onto two-hundred square feet of empty tile floor which looked like an empty roller rink.

Okay, I thought, I can deal with this. The acoustics are probably great, right? Might as well give it a shot. So I unpacked my guitar, set myself up and started to sing. Right away I discovered a new challenge. With no wall behind me, only the balcony-like railing, I didn’t feel comfortable turning my back to the people going downstairs. Nor did I want to ignore the people coming up the stairs in front of me. (Why was I worried, though, about ignoring anybody? After all, everyone was clearly ignoring ME.)

As I played, I caught people’s eyes and smiled, but to no avail. I was suddenly reminded of Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak.

But wait! Some of the people heading downstairs were obviously enjoying my performance. They were smiling up at me as the escalator transported them down…down… But what were they going to do: lob quarters at me up and over the rail?

Meanwhile, other people at Islington Station who wanted to support me had to cross the concrete floor in a dramatic and purposeful way—as though they were crossing an empty high school dance floor or crossing the floor in Parliament. Nobody was having any of it.

At one point, an intense looking dark-skinned man about my age and height came over and very deliberately caught my eye as he threw in a few coins. As I said "thanks" I suddenly realized something. That guy looked like Prince. Yeah, THE Prince. I’m singing away and thinking, he did move to Toronto didn’t he? Which rich neighborhood did he and his new wife move into? Was it anywhere near Islington? As he walked toward the downstairs escalator I tried to play more brilliantly. As he walked away, I wondered if I had just missed the Chance of a Lifetime.

But it couldn’t really be Prince.

Prince couldn’t wander around on the subways, he’d be mobbed.

Besides he looked a little on the heavy side. For Prince.

Maybe this is what happens when you’re desperate for attention: you turn passers-by into celebrities.

I stayed at Islington for almost an hour and made about $5.50, one dollar of which I spent at the Gateway Newstand. (I noticed today that it’s spelled incorrectly; shouldn’t it be Newsstand?) The proprietor had listened to my whole performance and had smiled encouragingly at me, and I figured I should reward myself with something, so I picked up a roll of Werther’s butterscotch candies. As I paid for it, the owner pointed to the space just beside the garbage can, directly opposite from his counter.

"There, that would be a good place for you," he said.

"Thanks," I said, "But we’re supposed to stay inside the yellow dots."

"Oh," he said, looking a little mystified.

Second Day

DAY TWO

I’m trying not to think too much about the fact that somebody stole a five dollar bill out of my guitar case.

Today is Saturday. I thought that perhaps people would be in a more generous mood on the weekend but it seemed to be just the opposite. Change had been collecting more slowly than yesterday, so I thought I’d sweeten the pot by tucking in a five dollar bill that I’d kept at the ready just in case. I added it to the take about midway through my two-hour shift.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, when I looked into the case, the bill was gone. Who had taken it? How had they taken it without me noticing? At first I figured it must have been somebody actually putting change in the case, but later I decided that might be pretty hard to do. Considering how much time I spent actually facing away from the case and toward the direction of the two stairways, it wouldn’t have been hard for someone to filch it when I wasn’t looking.

All the same, it made me mistrust the general public and second-guess virtually everyone who had come into contact with me. That guy who caught my eye and smiled: was he trying to distract me? The fellow who was listening over by the garbage can, was he just waiting for the right moment to make his move?

But hold on a second…what about Hurricane Pape, the gigantic whooshing wind? I hadn’t been thinking about it as much today, because I had worn a hat to keep my hair in place. But couldn’t it be the real culprit? In one furious gust, it must have whisked away my hopeful little five dollars onto the floor of the corridor where some lucky TTC passenger picked it up. That must be what happened!

Even if it didn’t, it was probably better to blame the wind and hang on to my faith in humankind.

Going into Day Two at Pape Subway Station, I was prepared to meet the challenges that I had faced the day before. My favourite hat neatly dealt with the windswept hair problem—and gave me a bit of style, I hoped, even though I had bought it in 1993. It also occurred to me that I could learn that old Dusty Springfield song, "Windy", and pull it out at particularly blustery moments.

Even more important, I determined to not lose my voice for the second day in a row. Before leaving the house, I took the homeopathic remedy my chiropractor had prescribed and reminded myself not to over-sing.

You can’t out-sing a train. Yesterday I was focusing on my performance and trying to get everyone’s attention. Today, I was much more aware of the subway trains themselves and the actual noise they were making. When I realized that I’d been trying to out-run the train with my voice, it struck me as ridiculous and even a bit, well, arrogant. These trains are really, really loud! They are trains: big, hurtling machines of metal that run right over my voice no matter how loud I sing. You can’t compete with them, so it’s better to simply step gracefully aside and just sing quietly or hum or play a little instrumental when the train is going by. There’s no shame in this.

Nor is there any shame in not attempting to meet people’s eyes and smile encouragingly at them, because you can’t compete with a train of disinterested people either. When they walk by in the hundreds, all ignoring you, there is really nothing you can do. So you have a choice: either pack up and go home or keep singing.

This morning, I sang for longer than I did yesterday, and I saw more people, even though yesterday I sang during rush hour. When I started, I thought I’d actually be able to count the number of people passing by. Not a chance. I also thought I’d remember every person who made eye contact and threw some money toward me—but even now, after only two days, the individuals are starting to blur.

Today, several people stood out. There was an older gentleman who stopped and listened to a whole song (thought I’d remember which particular song it was, but I don’t) and came over to praise me for my music, saying "It’s my kind of music! And everyone would like it, even children!" Well, yes, I thought as I thanked him, and that was the idea when I auditioned for the TTC: Everyone would like it! And maybe they do, but I don’t really know that for a fact unless they toss me a quarter.

Then there was the grim-looking musician who I saw early in the morning. I caught his eye and said hello, hoping for camaraderie, and was met with only a gruff "Do you have a license?" Dropping my friendliness, I said "Yes I do" and he moved on without a word. After that I took the badge off from around my neck and put it in the case where everyone would see it. He came by an hour later and coolly checked out my take. (I wished the five dollar bill was still there.)

But the best customers of the day were three young teenage girls who stopped to listen, apparently in awe. I was playing "Where Do You Call Home?" and they were thrilled to tell me how wonderful it sounded, even though I was still playing and singing. (This seems to be a trend. People think they can come up to you and hold a conversation even though you’re singing a song.) I finished the song, even though it seemed a bit weird to do so, and gave them all business cards, which I autographed for them personally and added inspiring messages: "follow your heart and your dream". One of them said she’d keep it forever in her wallet. Another asked what record label I was on. And a third, when she said goodbye, said "I love you."

I started singing at 9:50 a.m. and stopped at 11:40. Not counting the five dollars that disappeared, I collected $20.20.

First Day

I arrived at Pape Station shortly after 8:00 a.m. When I found the yellow-dotted floor-space designated for musicians, I was surprised at how narrow and humble it looked. I put my guitar case down and proceeded to get organized, which turned out to be more challenging than I expected.

I’ve always had a tendency to fumble around with my guitar strap and such and it seemed that this morning I was especially awkward. At one point, when I was rummaging around in my backpack to find CDs to display, a woman paused to say "excuse me, your papers are flying away". Sure enough, my set list had flown out of my open guitar case toward the staircase that led down to the tracks. This was a result of the huge whooshing wind that swept through the corridor every time a train passed by.

This whooshing wind turned out to be a significant problem, because I wear my hair long and believe that I don’t look attractive in a ponytail: an opinion that may need to be revised shortly. I realized as soon as I started playing that it would be difficult to play and sing with hair constantly flying in my face. To cope with this, I adopted a pattern of standing in one direction when the wind swept one way (as the westbound train approached), and casually turning and facing the other direction when the wind blew the other way as a result of the eastbound train. Meanwhile, I was continually tossing my hair back in what I hoped was a natural-looking and attractive gesture: as if all musicians always toss their hair back, all the time.

The first woman who threw change into my case was a black woman in her sixties or seventies. She threw it in during my first song, Complicated Things. I followed that with When I Walk I Run. After that, I can’t remember what I played in what order, but I do remember playing Sam Larkin’s Love Drives a Beautiful Car (twice) and Mirabeau Bridge, as well as my own songs, My Messy House, It’ll Grow On You, Keys, Where Do You Call Home, Smooth Stones, When I Walk I Run (again), Fred Eaglesmith’s I Like Trains and my song "Crossing My Mind". I managed a neat trick during that one…I sang it twice in a row without stopping. In the middle of it, my friend and fellow musician Steve Paul Sims came over and threw in some change, and we had a brief conversation while I continued to play the instrumental part of the song. By the time our conversation was over, the song was too, so I just kept playing it and started all over again. Several people smiled and gave me change during that one.

When the first lady gave me money, I actually choked up a bit while singing and was worried I might actually lose my composure. But I kept on going and found that generally I was able to keep up a confident "really having a great time" expression, and I was usually able to remember the words and chords of whatever song I was playing. At times however, the technical aspects of the music proved more difficult than I had expected.
As you’re watching the people coming and going, especially if you’re a confirmed people-watcher and have always enjoyed that aspect of public transit, it’s very easy to lose your train of thought—or train of chord. That happened to me a few times, and in such a fumbling, apparently incompetent way that it would have been a complete disaster if I were on stage and people were actually listening. However, it’s clear that on the subway, they aren’t. They just pass by you in their distracted way, never the wiser that you obviously missed that tricky F sharp minor chord or whatever. You can stop in the middle of a song, repeat a verse, leave out a chorus, substitute completely non-sensical lyrics or quit playing altogether and nobody will bat an eye.

Occasionally though, they do pay attention. One woman, a well-dressed woman in her fifties, came up during a song and asked me (while I was singing) whether I’d be back tomorrow because she wanted to buy a CD. Immediately realizing (with the wisdom that comes from, oh, 20 minutes of experience) that I could stop the song I was playing without offending the other subway-goers, that’s exactly what I did, I stopped the song. Then I negotiated that she’d take a CD today (I’d even sign it for her), give her a business card and she’d mail me a cheque. While I was doing the transaction with her, a young woman asked how she could reach me, so, fumbling around again (didn’t I organize my business cards ahead of time?) I managed to find her a card. Many people, over the course of the morning, smiled and nodded and said I had a beautiful voice.

Two of my friends, Vance and Kelli, stopped by to visit. Vance talked to me for awhile (I was already conscious of the fact that I was supposed to be working) and hung around to hear a couple of songs. To my surprise, he told me that the acoustics were great: he could hear me perfectly. This came as news to me, because I felt I couldn’t be heard at all…especially when the big crowds came through after being let off the buses in the above loading bay. "No, it sounds great," he said, "your voice really carries." Despite that, by 9:20 (after singing for an hour), in the middle of yet another rendition of "Love Drives A Beautiful Car" (who knows why I felt compelled to sing that in the subway) my voice seemed to vacate the premises. Suddenly it just wasn’t there. I sang, but it was suddenly a diminishing whisper. Uh-oh.

After trying rather worriedly—and unsuccessfully—to sing another song, I thought I might as well pack it in. So I gathered up all my change (mostly loonies and toonies, one $5.00 bill, and an apple from Vance) put the CDs and business cards back in my backpack and packed up the guitar.

I headed over to the Gateway Newsstand which was about 15 feet across from my post. The man at the counter was a young man who spoke with what I took to be an African accent. He had seen my entire performance but hadn’t met my eyes. Now he was suddenly concerned: "You are leaving?"

I explained that my voice was giving me trouble. He pointed to the Halls Lozenges on display beside the candy. In broken English, he asked whether my voice had been sore for a long time, many days? I told him no, the problem had just started. Just now. When I was singing. Over there. (Hadn’t he seen my whole shift? But then I remembered, ahah, nobody’s listening.) He recommended that tonight I take hot water and keep it in my mouth, while sucking on the Halls, before going to bed. I said I’d try it. He’ll be back tomorrow, which is Saturday, and I told him I’d see him then.

When I got home, I discovered that in that first hour, I’d made $18.50, and if you add the $15.00 I hope to get from Teresa who bought the CD, that’s $33.50—plus the apple—not bad for an hour’s work, as long as my voice holds up.