Up to Zero

Even though it's still winter outside, and the temperature barely made it up to zero, getting back to the subway today felt like climbing into a warm bath.

Which just goes to show you: you just never know what you'll come to love.

I arrived around 1 o'clock and the afternoon did not begin well. One elderly lady walked by holding her ears. As she passed me, I wondered if her ears were just cold, but then she put her hands back to her sides as soon as she was a few feet away. Near singer: ears covered. Away from singer: ears open.

I don't want to linger on her, because many wonderful things happened today. But I think she's worth mentioning. Can you imagine walking past another person and holding your nose? Or pointedly averting your eyes? I can't.

But as I said, she was the exception rather than the rule during the hour and a half I spent at Pape today. Here are a few highlights:

A man stopped and told me about his sister, who was one of the original TTC buskers twenty-five years ago and is now singing at seniors' homes.

A musician friend invited me to sing at the nearby homeless shelter, where he plays regularly, when he's away for a few weeks in March.

Two women, separately, stopped and listened to entire songs.

There was one other "exception". A healthy-looking, well-dressed teenage boy asked me straightforwardly, "Can I have one of those dollars?"

"NO!" I exclaimed. "I work hard for this!"

"And I'm working hard by asking you for it," he said.

(As you know, dear Blogience, I have viewed subway singing as something of an experiment, in which I ask, "Is the world a benevolent place, or is it not?" Although I've compiled plenty of evidence that strangers are generally kind and good, this young man reminds me that the experiment is far from over.)

What else? Well, I did get cold, of course, and although I played some songs very well, I messed up several others. (Especially one called "Feels Like Spring"--probably because, actually, it doesn't.)

Three people considered buying CDs--one woman took a business card and said she'd check the website--and then finally, around 2:30, just as I was finishing the last song I was planning to play, a friendly woman about my age did decide to buy one. (She hesitated at the price at first, so I swiftly offered a discount and made the sale. This was probably a smart move, because she immediately told me she has 16 brothers and sisters and may need more!)

As I tried to sign the CD for her, I realized that my hands were so cold, I could barely write anything and it was amazing I could still play anything at all, well or badly. The hands must go on autopilot, I suppose.

As I left the subway station (exiting via the Tim Horton's and purchasing a celebratory double-double) I felt completely rejuvenated, as if I'd just woken up from a long sleep.

And as an extra bonus, I'd earned $34.10.

Skates & Wings & Skaters

This weekend I played an outdoor gig at a festival called Wintercity, to promote the upcoming Winterfolk music festival. Along with two other solo performers and a backing band, I played on a large stage that overlooked the large public skating rink at Nathan Phillips Square, where Toronto's City Hall is located.

For years, I'd noticed performers playing these outdoor stages in winter and wondered how they did it. This year, though, it didn't faze me one bit.

I wore lots of layers of course, but was pleasantly surprised when I discovered that there were several large heaters on stage and they all seemed to be working.

The other performers, on the other hand, were feeling pretty chilly. Everyone was worried about keeping the guitars in tune (I'm always worried about that, actually) and the singer next to me said he was surprised his fingers would actually work in weather like this.

It was only about minus five.

We played the gig and the cold didn't bother me at all. Of course, every gig presents some kind of challenge, and this time it was playing with a full band and thus depending on the monitors to hear myself. (Monitors are the speakers that the performer hears on stage, which are different than the house speakers going out to the audience. The performer has to hear herself clearly in the monitors so she doesn't feel drowned out by the band.) I could hear myself adequately--but just--so I found myself over-singing and felt hoarse later. A bad sign.

I missed my simple subway set-up. Just me, a guitar, an amp...a crowd and a train. Much quieter, really.

We had to fill a bit more time than expected, so we all sang a couple of extra songs. Even though we hadn't rehearsed it, I couldn't resist ending with Skates & Wings. After all, when would I get another chance to sing it for the skaters at Nathan Phillips Square?

After it was over, I came down from the stage and put my own skates on. Along with Dave and the kids and a friend of ours, I skated for a half-hour and didn't fall once.

Stop me if I've posted this before...

The other day I was having lunch with a friend of mine. He's a devoted fan of my blog.

(And yes, he enjoys my music as well.)

Anyway, we were talking about this new form of communication, and I was telling him about Anita, the children's book author in Winnipeg, whom I met in the blogosphere. Even as I was telling the story, I was vaguely aware that I was using pretty much the same language in person as I did in the blog.

My friend was listening politely and nodding and smiling, when it suddenly dawned on me.

He already knows about Anita.

"You already know this," I said. "You read it in the blog."

He nodded.

"But that's okay," he insisted cheerfully. "It's fun to hear you tell the story in person."

I realized that all the interesting anecdotes I would normally tell my friends are being poured into this new medium.

Would it eventually make my friendships obsolete?

Another friend told me recently that she feels as if she talks to me every day. That's why she hasn't called me lately.

Surely, this is bad. Then again, maybe it's a way of simplifying my life.

The Winter's Always Long

This morning I was all set to go out busking.

Then I looked at the thermometer.

Minus twenty-two.

+++

Oh well. I would have only had a brief window of opportunity anyway, between getting the kids off to school and having Calla home for lunch.

As I puttered around the house, I found myself working on song ideas. I find they're constantly going through my head; I work on songs the way other people work on crossword puzzles. Here's a lyric I came up with:

Why's it so surprising

We still have to be strong?

The sun is slowly rising

The winter's always long.

I think that would be a good song to sing in the subway.

Then again, when the winter's long, I'm not there.

+++

In the afternoon, I went to a doctor's appointment to see what's going on with my back. (In case you're curious, what's going on is "degenerative disc disease", which sounds dire enough to send me right back to bed. Why don't they make up a more cheery name, like "spirited spine" or something? Anyway, my back's a lot better these days, despite its depressing description, and I'm feeling almost back to normal.)

My doctor is located in a hospital in the city's West End. When I arrived there early, I discovered a new Second Cup near the main entrance. All the chairs in the little restaurant were taken, so I found a seat in the lobby.

As I watched the people milling around in this vestibule, with its shiny marble floor and 50's architecture, it felt oddly familiar.

I felt a strange urge to stand up and sing something.

(Fortunately, the Second Cup was playing Lyle Lovett, so I was able to hum discreetly.)

+++

My doctor was very excited to hear about my busking.

A bit apologetically, I admitted that I haven't been going out much over the past few weeks, because it's been so cold.

"Well, I should hope not!" she said.

Are you famous?

Last week I visited a public school to talk about songwriting. The students in the songwriting club ranged from about 8 years old to about 13. They were polite and energetic and excited to have me in the class.

They asked a lot of questions, starting with "Are you really a professional?"

Next, "When did you get your record deal?"

And finally, "Are you famous?"

I handled the first question without too much difficulty, quickly rhyming off the several ways that I make money through songwriting. (Paid performances, CD sales, royalties, song commissions and teaching. I didn't mention the subway singing, figuring it'd fall under "paid performances".)

In answer to the second question, I replied that I don't have a record deal because I am an independent artist. I explained that I try to run my music enterprise like a small business;
I pay for my recordings myself and therefore don't run the risk of being in debt to a record company. I added that record deals are few and far between these days and generally unavailable to niche artists such as myself ("niche", I guess, being people over the age of 25 whose songs that don't fit neatly into Top 40 playlists).

Picking up steam, I went on to say that if anyone in the room chose to follow any kind of creative path "as a songwriter, painter, dancer, sculptor..." (I was getting breathless now) "you may not always make a lot of money at it..." (here comes the big finish) "...but you'll always feel energized and alive."

I stopped and looked around the room, noticing that a few students (and their teacher) were now looking slightly alarmed. (Oh right. They wanted a visiting songwriter, not a visiting crazed lunatic.)

So I sang a song. And, after that, I listened to some of theirs.

They reminded me of the songs I wrote when I was twelve. Some were sweet and catchy, while others were more complex and personal and ambitious. Because it was a classroom, there was evaluating going on. Some songs were judged "better" than others. I wished they had just been allowed to stand. After all, these kids are only 12. Shouldn't they just be encouraged to write as much as they can, without comparing their work to commercial standards? Over time, their writing would gain maturity and depth, and they'd have the opportunity to develop their own true expression.

Or, on the other hand, maybe they should be encouraged to succeed in the commercial industry, because at their age they have a chance.

Before I left, one girl came up to me and proudly showed me an autographed picture of Hillary Duff. Then she asked me if I was famous.

I didn't want to disappoint her, nor did I want to lie.

So I said, "Well, not as famous as Hillary Duff".

She didn't ask me for my autograph, but she gave me some very nice stickers for my guitar case.

Fences

From time to time, I have wondered if it’s really possible to write good songs without experiencing really bad times. And so, I’ve wondered if I’ve been cutting myself out of the possibility of artistic achievement by living a somewhat stable life.

It’s probably a myth that the only truly brilliant artists are drunks, drug addicts and suicidal geniuses. Even when brilliance is indeed present, the resulting huge personal losses (harm to spouse, children etc.) no doubt cast a long dark shadow.

Of course, there are many successful artists who avoid self-destructive behaviour. Many of these, however, do cultivate something of an "outsider" stance in order to freely observe and comment on the world. As Bob Dylan put it in an interview I read recently, "Poets aren’t members of the PTA."

Is this true? (…she asked herself, as she prepared to go out to the PTA meeting?)

When you’re a member of a group (such as a family or a church or a corporation), you find yourself living within its boundaries for the well-being of the collective. Membership has its privileges and its costs. Some of the costs may be the kinds of intense life experiences that often fuel artistic expression.

Middle-class family life tends to discourage lengthy meditative soul-searching, intense new relationships, heavy drinking (okay, many people do find a way, but I said "discourage"), drug use, all-night creative bingeing, impulse globe-trotting--and for that matter playing 250 dates a year while driving across North America in a van.

So, does wanting (and working for and achieving) some degree of security consign one to a lifetime of conformity--which results in second-rate work? Does a good life mean bad art?

If you spend considerable time at an unrelated professional job you often can't spend enough time at your art to get terribly good at it. On the other hand, trading everything in for a creative pursuit, however talented or motivated you might be, seems tragically foolish...especially when there's a strong possibility you won't make enough money at it to support yourself.

And what if you actually make money writing songs? Well, in Paul Zollo's book Songwriters on Songwriting (where I read the Dylan interview) Gerry Goffin said he didn't believe that a songwriter could write good songs while living a happy, settled life. He acknowledged that many people would disagree with him, but was making a comment on his own productivity once he had achieved financial security: security which came about having co-written, with Carole King, songs like "Locomotion" and "Natural Woman".

Needless to say, there are lots of aspiring artists on both sides of the white picket fence. Many on the outside say they're married to their art. Some are brilliant...others are only broke and bitter.

And many inside the fence (perhaps at a friendly neighborhood barbeque) reduce their artistic calling to a mumbled footnote: "I'm a (professional something or other) and I do some (mumble) songwriting from time to time." Then they try to smile bravely through their neighbours' (wife's, husband's, parent's) polite expressions of interest.

Maybe it's a cheat, some attempt to have it both ways, but today I see subway busking as the most difficult form of paying my dues I can do right now, without stepping outside my fence.

I loved that album!

I was relieved when the temperature soared to a relatively balmy -2 degrees and singing in the subway didn't seem quite so ridiculous.

We awoke this morning to snow falling in thick, dense flakes. By afternoon, the snow had tapered off and it was warmer, but still chilly and damp, and my boots were soaked because of all the slush. As usual, Pape Station was cold and windy when I arrived around 2 o'clock.

Although I didn't have to get out to the subway today, I knew I'd feel better if I did. I had the feeling that even a few of those little connections that happen in the subway corridors would make the trip worthwhile. Sure enough, one woman made a donation and deliberately hung around to hear Where Do You Call Home?, making a point of giving me an especially encouraging smile before she headed up the escalator to street level.

But I noticed my energy fading as the damp chill got to me, and I've decided that there's not much point in being a bad (that is, shivering and stiff-fingered) busker, so I decided to call it quits after about twenty minutes. (After all, the last thing I want is to have people taking note of my name on the CDs in my guitar case and thinking, "too bad she can't fingerpick worth a damn".)

As I was packing up, a man stopped and asked me about my Taylor guitar. He asked if he could take a closer look, and something told me it'd be okay for me to let him try it. It turned out he was a professional guitar player who had done quite a bit of session work. He told me that back in the 70's he'd played on Steely Dan's album Aja . (Wow!)

He said nice things about my guitar and hinted that he'd like to hear a song, so I stopped packing up. Then he bought a chocolate bar from the lady at the Gateway Newstand and ate it while I played Room To Love . (Maybe it's a far cry from "Peg", but he seemed to really like it.)

Three people donated during that song--perhaps because I was putting special energy into my performance? The man said many complimentary things when I finished and praised my playing, which meant a lot to me because (I confess) I'm still pretty insecure about my abilities as a guitar player. I've noticed, however, that all of the sudden I'm a lot better than I used to be.

It makes me think about that old joke, "How do you get to Carnegie Hall?" Answer: "Practice, practice, practice!" Come to think of it, you can also take the subway.

+++

I have experienced a blogging milestone! ("Blogstone"? "Mileblog?"). A woman who heard one of my songs on the radio in Winnipeg posted a message to my blog. I looked up her website and--voila!--discovered HER blog. She had already linked to my website. So I posted BACK to her blog and will now introduce you to children's book author Anita Daher!

Never mind six degrees of separation--it's now six keystrokes.

But Why?

Why would someone put a lottery ticket receipt in my guitar case?

And why do I feel unsettled and disconnected when I'm not sending out my little songs into the universe?

It's possible that the man donated his receipt in error--that he honestly thought he was giving me the actual ticket. (If this is the case, he'll probably never realize it if he wins.)

It's also possible that he knew the receipt had no cash value, but that he wanted to give it anyway. Did he decide to create a little false hope, a temporary dream? Or was it a big joke--a "just kidding"? That night, did he tell his buddies about how he pulled one over on the nice folksinger at the subway station?

I suspect he didn't think about it very much. He was probably just giving what he had to give, which at that moment happened to be a lottery receipt. Other people give other things: pennies, protein bars, Mexican coins, cartons of milk. Songs.

No matter what the receipt was actually worth in his pocket (nothing), once he gave it to me it did turn out to be worth something. It created a connection with me that's lasted, now, two weeks. And now that story is being retold and amplified.

And so it is with a melody line, a voice, a lyric...even one that isn't worth a million dollars. When it's shared, it just might be heard. It just might be valuable.

"This is not a ticket."

Says who?

But What About the Lottery Ticket?!

You're probably wondering, what happened with the lottery ticket?

You know, the one that the man placed carefully in my guitar case during the hour that I was busking for UNICEF (when I wasn't supposed to be).

Needless to say, I had the story all worked out in my mind.

Despite having my noble charitable campaign shut down (by a perfectly reasonable regulation, I might add) I would have, miraculously, been busking for the one precious hour that was required for a generous stranger to donate THE lottery ticket that would turn out to be worth millions.

I would of course donate the proceeds to the tsunami relief effort and become known as The World's Most Honest Busker.

A movie would be made about the experience (Julia Roberts would be cast as me) and the substantial buyout would be enough to support our family in fine style for the rest of our lives (while also financing several more CDs).

Breathlessly (and flinging off my fashionable scarf while tossing my auburn curls as only Julia could do), I rushed into the house and burrowed into my backpack to find the precious ticket. (I had been too cautious to risk looking at it in the subway, lest it be spirited away by the subterranean wind.)

Now, I'm the first to admit that I don't know how lottery tickets work.

Part of the reason I've never bought one is that I've been too embarrassed to ask the clerk at the convenience store what exactly I'm supposed to do. (Pick? Scratch? Give up now?)

But even I could read.

And so I read, in plain capital letters on my Ticket to The Most Generous Ethical Choice of All Time (And Movie Deal), the following words:

THIS IS NOT A TICKET.

Unless You Have To

Today it’s too cold to sing in the subways, unless you have to.

Unless you have to for money, that is.

I don’t have to.

So I don’t.

On the other hand, I notice that as the day goes by, I start to feel more and more "down": flat and bored and tired. So tired, in fact, that at 3:15 I lie down and take a nap.

I know about this. When I’m not singing, I’m depressed.

True, it’s about minus 20 or so today and it’s the middle of January. We’re still numb and reeling from the tsunami tragedy (I watched Nate Berkus describe his ordeal on "Oprah" today) and I’m still trying to get back in gear after the Christmas holidays. The heaviness and fatigue I’m feeling could be nothing more than all of that.

But when I sing, I feel better. When I write songs, I feel better.

The longer I go without either of these, I feel worse.

Funny thing is, I played five songs last night at a Songwriter’s Circle at a pub in the northern end of the city. I felt perfectly fine then.

That was almost 24 hours ago.

Maybe I do have to.

+++

But why?

He's Not At Dundas

In a dazzling serendipity, my next scheduled spot happened to be Dundas Station.

And as I studied the schedule more closely, I realized that Billy James' license number (#01) followed mine (#63, the year I was born) on the TTC's intricate grid system. This means that if he were following the schedule, he'd appear immediately after me everywhere I played.

But of course, nobody really follows the schedule.

When I arrived at Dundas this morning after dropping the kids off at school, it was clear that another musician had already been and gone, because a broken guitar string lay on the tile floor.

The busking spot was in the same location I remembered from twenty years ago, but many things surrounding it had changed. Now there was a brand-new entrance to the Eaton Centre directly off the walkway as well as an additional new hallway leading somewhere else--outside no doubt. Also, the stairs leading up to the subway platforms in both directions were covered with advertisements for WestJet Airlines.

The walls were apparently brown, not green as I remembered. And I wondered if, perhaps, the feng shui of the station had been negatively affected by the new entranceways. Could they be sucking vital life-energy away from the performer and the people passing by? It certainly seemed likely. For reasons that seemed otherwise unexplainable, virtually everyone appeared to be in a bad mood and un-generous frame of mind. (Despite my good intentions, I soon started to feel that way myself.)

I spent two hours in the Dundas corridor, two days in a row. I made considerably less than $10 an hour, even though many people walked by. I found myself feeling quite insecure about my songs, voice and guitar-playing ability during this time and at one point wondered if I'd make more money if I sang better-known cover tunes. In honour of the WestJet ad, I sang "Leaving On a Jet Plane". Nothing. I also sang Bruce Cockburn's "One Day I Walk" ("Oh I have been a beggar and shall be one again..".) Nothing.

The first day was especially difficult because it was very cold. I'd made a commitment to stay there between 9:30 and 11:30 in case friends wanted to come and see me, so I stuck it out...and by the end I was freezing. It was illuminating (in all ways) to leave the dingy brown corridor via one of the new entrances and step into the toasty warm and brightly-lit Eaton Centre, where I consoled myself by buying a new bright red coat which was on sale at H & M. Maybe it's the sheer contrast between the two environments that makes people less receptive to a busker at Dundas? Or maybe there's just less need for music and distraction in general?

+++

The next day, my friend Ken stopped by for a visit.

"Yeah, when I saw you were going to be at Dundas, I didn't think it was such a good idea," he told me.

I felt better immediately with him sitting close by on the bench. Then another friend came along to take new pictures for my website. I felt bolstered by the fact that I was now part of a group.

It's possible Dundas works well for some musicians and not for others (me, that is). When I arrived on the second morning, an excellent guitar player named Brian seemed to be doing well there. And before I left, another young singer arrived, thrilled to take the spot. By coincidence, both of the musicians I ran into were, like me, TTC first-timers. Maybe I imagined it, but I thought they too displayed a certain hopeful green newness.

In any case, there was no sign of Billy.

I'd Like to Thank My Blogience...

I just thought of that word and had to post it immediately, in hopes that I will be credited with coining a new buzzword. Thanks for reading!

In Search of Billy James

This morning I went on a radio show to talk about busking.

A couple of other panelists were on the show, including a woman who produced an excellent radio documentary on the history of subway music in Toronto and another local singer who had experimented with busking herself and is now focusing on other projects.

Before going into the studio, I listened to the documentary in the station's waiting lounge. It featured conversations with buskers past and present, including the very first one, who was awarded a Permanent Lifetime License by the TTC when it began its licensing program in 1979. His name is Billy James.

In 1979, I was a high school student in Winnipeg. I moved to Toronto in 1981, to attend Ryerson Polytechnical Institute (now Ryerson University) and study Radio and Television Arts. The school is located at Yonge and Dundas, a stone's throw from Dundas subway station and the Eaton Centre. For one of our first radio assignments, we were instructed to interview someone at that crowded and colourful intersection.

Winnipeg was, of course, a considerably smaller city, and I was just 17 years old. I was terrified to interview anybody at Yonge & Dundas.

But I was a good student.

There was only one stranger I could imagine interviewing. He was a subway musician, playing in the lurid yellow-green walkway underneath Dundas Station. I heard him almost every day, because I took the subway to school, and I liked the songs he played and thought he was good-looking. As I try to picture him today, I believe that he looked like a cross between Burton Cummings and my husband--which of course would be pretty good.

I remember that he was friendly and forthcoming and that I was shy and awkward. I almost definitely did not tell him that I was a budding singer-songwriter myself and that I'd secretly moved to Toronto partly because Bruce Cockburn lived here. After all, I had set such childish dreams aside to pursue a lucrative and glamourous career in the mainstream commercial media! If I actually talked to the subway musician about my own music, why, he might encourage me to check out a coffeehouse or two...maybe connect me with some other young songwriters. We couldn't have that! No, that'd be dangerous. That'd threaten to derail the whole respectable-career enterprise.

That's probably why the interview didn't exactly take flight...there was a lot under the surface not being said.

I was too shy to tell him (or anyone) that I was a songwriter. I was too polite to tell him that I didn't quite get it. I didn't understand why somebody would choose to play guitar and sing so well (and he did play well) while everybody passed right by.

I would not have been consciously aware that, like other self-confident young artists, I thought I was destined for bigger and better things; that although I couldn't play half as well as he could, I thought his "station" was beneath me. I wouldn't have told him that, at the time, I didn't see the point of singing at all unless I was on a much grander stage.

+++

(Ha! Aren't I being hard on myself, 23 years on! After all, it was only a 15-minute interview.)

+++

Anyway, I completed the assignment, handed in the tape, and graduated from Ryerson with a degree. I landed a respectable job as an advertising writer for Eaton's, which was located in the tower above the Eaton Centre, directly above Dundas Subway Station.

I hung on to a copy of that cassette for years. It gathered dust with other tapes from Ryerson and from my stints as an advertising and broadcast writer. I forgot all about that subway musician--I didn't see him much once I got myself a car--and I quickly forgot what his name was.

Could his name have been Billy James?

In the radio documentary I heard this morning, the man's voice sounded familiar--both his singing voice and his speaking voice. I had read about Billy before, when I was researching the subway musicians' scene and reading about its history, but it hadn't occurred to me that he might have been the man I interviewed when I was seventeen.

This morning, the documentary producer said that Billy now has a 7-month old son. But the musician I spoke to, he'd be too old for that by now, wouldn't he? So much time has passed.

On the other hand, he'd been a young man when I interviewed him. He was probably in his late twenties then, maybe ten years older than I was. That would make him 51 today.

He's still a full-time busker.

I'm going to find Billy James.

+++

Where Do You Call Home?

Over the last few days, I've been getting to know the female keyboard player who's been meeting me at Yonge & Bloor. I've been handing off my scheduled spot to her when I finish playing. She appreciates it, because Yonge & Bloor is such a popular and lucrative location.

We talk a bit as I'm packing up my things and she's setting up her keyboard. She tells me that she's been a licensed TTC musician for eight years now and has recently finished a college design course.

"This is my home," she says, indicating the performance area with a laugh and a smile and a broad sweep of her arm.

Everything about her (I'll call her Marta) says "strong" and "self-sufficient". From the vigorous way she plays the piano to the fact that she sewed her own winter coat, which is stylish and warm and perfectly fitted. When she talks about adjusting to life in Canada, raising her two daughters (now successful young adults in music and art-related careers) and recently losing her husband to cancer, I can tell that she's gone through hard times--and that she's weathered them with strength and grace.

I can pick up some tips from Marta. For instance, just as I'm about to finish singing, a man I've met before in the subway comes up and says hello. Well, I think he says hello. It's extremely common for me to have half-conversations with people who are speaking primarily in other languages. Usually, smiling and nodding does the trick, but in this case it was probably too much encouragement.

When he approached me today, just before Marta arrived, he seemed a bit over-friendly. I finally grasped that he was asking me for my phone number, a request which I firmly declined. Even so, he hung around close to my guitar case. A little too close. I kept singing and tried to ignore him.

But Marta, she marched right up to him.

"Go! Get out of here!" she said.

And he did.

Maybe if I, too, considered this part of my home--my personal space--I'd be quicker to shoo undesirables out of it.

In my celebration of the subway as a shared public environment, there have been times when I haven't safeguarded my own personal boundaries. (Remember the time I let somebody else play my guitar?)

Next time this happens, I'll ask myself: "What Would Marta Do?"

Pete Seeger!

He was the guy who wrote "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?", which I mistakenly attributed to Bob Dylan in a previous post. You see, I had one of those brain-freeze events when the passer-by asked me to play something by Joan Baez.

My brain said (while I smiled at the nice stranger) "Busking Emergency!! Access 60s Folksinger File, pronto!...and remember the chords while you're at it, will you?"

Somehow "Where Have All the Flowers Gone?" was in the same file as "Blowing In the Wind". This makes sense, because I was a small child in the 60s, and I always imagined that the flowers were blowing in the wind and that's why they were gone.

+++

But that still doesn't answer the question, what songs did Joan Baez actually write?

I have no idea, so I go to her website.

And I'm laughing out loud. At the top of the long list of songs is one called "All the Weary Mothers of the Earth".

+++

Thanks to two eagle-eyed readers who spotted the inaccuracy. Now I must fly, because I'm learning how to play the great song "Hallelujah" by Gordon Lightfoot.

Busker Wars

There's always a busker at Bloor & Yonge, so I wasn't surprised to hear violin music as I got off the westbound train and started heading up the stairs to the northbound platform.

I was, however, surprised to find someone who refused to leave.

This was definitely new. Every other busker I had encountered was exceptionally welcoming and friendly, and quite willing to move to another location if the scheduled player came along. (I was very willing to do this, myself.)

This fellow, though, was having none of it.

As I always do, I reached into my pocket to find a spare loonie to drop into his case. I held it in my hand as I politely explained I was scheduled for the spot and would like to start playing at 1:30 (giving him twenty more minutes) and play until 3:30. (Yesterday the keyboard player and I agreed that she could come back then and I'd hand off the spot to her.)

The violinist's heavy European accent made him very hard to understand, but he made it clear that even though he knew I was scheduled, he was planning to play until 3:00 p.m. He wanted me to come back then.

I put the un-donated loonie back in my pocket.

Surprising myself, I looked him in the eye, planted my feet squarely on the floor, and told him that I would be playing here between 1:30 and 3:30. I suggested that I could phone the TTC about the matter. And I pointedly looked at his I.D. badge, noting the number.

He argued with me for a few minutes and I started to get worried about attracting attention. (On the other hand, maybe two buskers having an argument would be entertaining and people would throw change!)

"Look," I said, "you're wasting time. It's okay with me if you play for another half hour."

But that wasn't good enough. He snorted at me, packed up his things and stalked away.

A few minutes later, as I was tuning my guitar, I heard the defiant sound of his violin again.

It carried from the other side of the tracks where he was busking illegally, directly across from me.

I wondered briefly if, because he could be heard, I shouldn't play because I'd be creating an unpleasant cacophony for subway passengers.

Then I thought, to hell with it, and started to play anyway.

+++

Twenty minutes later, he was gone.

Yonge & Bloor II

As the tsunami story unfolded, news reports started to focus on the unprecendented fundraising taking place among ordinary Canadians. In addition to simply writing cheques, many people were coming up with creative new ways to raise money. For example, one bakery made cupcakes with Red Crosses on the top. In another story, a 5 year-old girl was selling pages from her colouring book (and was colouring furiously to keep up with the demand).

Against this kind of backdrop, I felt somewhat uncomfortable about opening my guitar case and asking for change. Instead, I wondered if I could harmonize my busking (so to speak) with the relief efforts.

+++

I noticed, as I put up my sign saying "Today I'm singing for UNICEF", that I was feeling uncharacteristically relaxed at the vast Yonge & Bloor busking location.

I hadn't realized it, but on some level I must still be edgy about asking strangers for money.

I must, because I felt fine when I was singing to benefit someone else.

With the sign on my case, I had absolutely no hestation about standing tall in the rectangle of yellow dots and singing out in full voice. I found that I did indeed call attention to myself here, in a very positive way, and at several points during the afternoon, more than a dozen people at a time were stopped and listening to me openly as they waited for their train. It was flattering. And it was fun.

A number of non-subway musicians I knew--four to be exact--chanced to come by and for once I didn't wonder what they thought of my performance.

Donations were steady and people did seem to notice the sign as they passed by.

One man donated what appeared to be a lottery ticket.

Then, after I'd been playing for about an hour, a woman approached me to say something, which of course is not unusual.

Turned out she was Jane from the TTC, who told me that my donations sign was against TTC licensing regulations. (I probably should've realized that...just got caught up in the spirit of the times I guess.) Jane was friendly but firm and told me that I could donate my proceeds without the sign if I wanted to.

I took down the sign. In support of Unicef, I had earned $22.55 and a lottery ticket.

+++

Although I was initially disappointed, I realized that this gave me an ideal opportunity to conduct an experiment. Would I earn the same amount of money when it was intended only for me?

Here's how it turned out. In the hour that I had the UNICEF sign up, I earned $22.55--plus the lottery ticket. In the subsequent hour, I earned $21.60. Virtually identical...assuming, of course, that the ticket isn't a winner.

First Time at Yonge & Bloor - Part 1

The prospect of busking at Yonge & Bloor had intimidated me.

When I passed through there as a pedestrian, I always thought the busker (there was always a busker) looked a bit forlorn as literally thousands of people passed by him. (It was always a him.)

So I hadn't attempted a Yonge & Bloor busking stint until today, when it appeared on my schedule.

Yonge & Bloor was mine--all mine--from twelve noon until six o'clock.

+++

When I arrived, a woman was there. The first woman busker I'd chanced to meet on the system so far, she was playing instrumental music on an electric keyboard--and doing it very seriously and intently.

I noticed that she was playing "The Entertainer" over and over, making sure she played it when crowds got off the trains. I have never gotten the knack of this--not "The Entertainer" obviously, but synchronizing my music with crowd movement. I do understand why buskers do it, but it goes against my performance ethic, and it appears I don't think quite that fast. As a result, I always find myself arriving at my song's high point just in time for the train to roar through and obliterate it.

At first, the woman pianist was brusque with me when I let her know I was scheduled for the spot. But then she became more friendly when I suggested she play for another half hour. I went over to the Gateway Newsstand and bought a Toronto Life magazine, an orange juice and a chocolate chip cookie, and read and ate while she played. (She switched away from The Entertainer and played several more familiar melodies with admirable skill.)

Normally I would have hesitated to buy the magazine and the snack, because I'd view it as diminishing my take for the afternoon. But today I was planning to donate my proceeds to the tsunami relief efforts, so there was a clear separation in my mind regarding the funds.

Before I left the house, I typed up a small sign that said "Today I'm singing for UNICEF" which I taped to the inside of my case. I figured, why would anybody want to donate to me at this particular time, when our collective conscience is dominated by not one but many other worthy causes? I figured it was the right thing to do.