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.

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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.

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.

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.

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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…"

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.

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.

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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.

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?

+++

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.)

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.

+++

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.

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.

"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.

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.

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.

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.

"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".

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.

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?)

Royal York for a Second Term

This morning I went back to Royal York. It was another stunning fall day, which lifted my mood a bit despite the fact that George W. Bush had just been re-elected.

Whenever I play in the subway, I don’t go with any kind of plan for what I’m going to sing. Now that I’ve been playing regularly, I have about thirty songs that are comfortably up to speed, and I generally let my mood and the vibe of the station determine what I play.

This morning, without really thinking about it, I found myself playing songs that made reference in some way to making the best of a bad situation.

In Spite of It All ("I still find reasons to smile") was the obvious one and I started with that, even though I wondered honestly if I still thought it was true. I followed it with Tall Trees ("They were here before artificial light, the dropping of the bombs and the darkening of the night"). Then I surprised myself by the reference in Einstein's Brain to "a world that’s gone insane".

This morning, just like in the days following September 11th, 2001, I found myself wishing I had some definitive song that summed up the beauty and terror of the times. Not having written such a song, I wished I could sit down immediately and jot down exactly the right musical response. Isn't that what songwriters are supposed to do?

But today, like three years ago, I found myself feeling so weary and overwhelmed by the magnitude of the world’s problems, I didn’t think I could make a song out of it. Maybe if I had a solitary eight-hour stretch for writing and contemplation I could try... (speaking of which, I realize I must pick up Calla from school an hour from now). But even if today were completely free, I suspect my feelings would be too raw and unsettled to organize into a good lyric.

Maybe that’s a songwriting cop-out. Off the top of my head, I can think of five writers I know who’d probably be able to do it just fine.

Maybe it’s laziness. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t write well when I’m sad.

This morning, I did feel sad. I had actually voted in the American election—for the first time ever—because I was born in the States and retain U.S. citizenship despite having become a Canadian. John Kerry impressed me and I had been feeling optimistic that he could unseat George W. Bush. Actually, it seemed incredible to me that any effort was necessary to get rid of a guy who outright lied, obscured the facts and expressed such disdain for careful and rational thought. I would have voted for Homer Simpson over George Bush. So I figured a majority of Americans would vote for Kerry.

Apparently not. (Maybe I Was Wrong)

After getting up this morning, I received an e-mail from my Dad who said that although the results are disheartening, there’s nothing to do but get on with living.

So I headed off to my scheduled stop and played a handful of songs.

+++

Many people stopped today, including a woman who stood stock-still in the middle of the station, listening to me for two songs after paying me a toonie. Another man bought a CD and took my business card because he wanted to come see a full performance…and he wondered whether I might be interested in playing an art gallery opening sometime.

Steve, who bought the sample CD the other day, returned and stayed true to prediction.

"Do you really want to know what I think?" (Do I have a choice?) "Well, it's not exactly my cup of tea…" (Why am I not surprised?) "But I’ve been playing it all the time in my car." (Well, there you go.) "You kind of remind me of Leonard Cohen." (Leonard Cohen??? An absurd comment on so many levels...) "And you sound a lot like a girl I heard on CBC Radio about a year ago." (Yes, that was me, on a show called "Fresh Air".)

He paused and looked at me differently. As if I was, actually, a professional.

+++

Toward the end of my shift, my friend Ken, a lifelong folk music supporter and painter, came to visit. I felt much the same way I did when my friend Brenda came to Sheppard the other day. I was slightly embarrassed that these people who so believed in me and my music had to watch as the rest of the world passed by.

Of course, I realized as I had coffee with Ken afterward, he’d been watching that happen for several years now. "You’re doing all the right things," he assured me. "I just wish there was more I could do for you to move your career forward."

I told him that he already had done a lot, just by saying that and by being there. And I gave him my standard speech (most days I believe it) about the value of music (art, books, good works, etc...) not being measured solely in terms of the amount of money generated or the actual number of people listening. But I knew what he meant. When you cast your vote for someone, you hope that the majority of people do the same thing.

+++

Later that afternoon, I watched the Kerry-Edwards concession speech, and I was re-energized (briefly anyway) by John Edwards' call to not give up. In fact, something he said sounded like it might make a good song lyric: "You can be disappointed. But you cannot walk away."

Monday Morning at Royal York

I was scheduled at Royal York station on Monday morning. It’s located in the far west end of the city in a pretty, established neighborhood called The Kingsway. I liked the location immediately as I parked conveniently at the Green P parking. Then, hauling my backpack and guitar, I almost got stuck in the turnstiles at the automatic entrance—but oh well. It’s a sunny day, I’m here on the dot of 9:00 and I’m feeling optimistic.

Royal York seemed to have a higher-than-average number of senior citizens than other stations, which seems to work well for me. Many of them stopped, deliberately got out small change purses or wallets and dropped some coins into my case, often giving me an encouraging smile. One man gave me a five dollar bill (again, it almost blew away) but preferred to do it very anonymously, not meeting my eyes.

Another fellow who’d seen me at Jane station also stopped and told me that he’d recently bought two CDs from another subway musician but had been disappointed when he listened to it at home.

Ahah, I thought, here’s a chance for me to sell one of my $4.00 discounted "Learning Curve" disks that I keep on hand for just such a purpose!

(When I manufactured my most recent CD, it came out slightly quieter than intended. In the utter loss of perspective that often befalls artists creating their own legacy, I paid to have the whole thing re-mastered. As a result, I have hundreds of orphaned disks lying around my house. Now, when I play the quieter disks beside the re-mastered ones, even I can’t tell the difference.)

Since Steve was in the habit, obviously, of buying CDs from subway musicians, I thought he’d be a good prospect for the $4.00 CD. Oddly, however, he seemed suspicious of it.

"Or you can buy the $20 one if you like," I said.

He went on about the other musician. "That guy, you know, he was a professional."

"Oh," I said, not quite knowing what he was getting at.

"Do you, like, play clubs and stuff like that?"

"Yes," I said brightly, and explained that, like all other musicians on the TTC system, I am a Working Professional Musician Who Plays Professional Gigs All the Time.

He still held the $4.00 CD and eyed me suspiciously.

"Okay," he said as he put a five dollar bill into my case. "If I don’t like this, you’ll hear about it."

I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was right.

+++

I made $18.50 at Royal York today, after playing for about an hour.

Also, today is November 1st, so I did a little inventory.

In October, I played approximately 18 hours on the subway over the course of 16 days. Our schedule started on October 8th, so we had a late start. I sold 3 full CDs and one sample CD. Another guy said he’d buy a CD if I met him at Osgoode station the next day but we missed each other and...okay, that doesn’t count.

In total, I made $285.61, or just under $16.00 an hour.