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?)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)