The last few times I’ve been in the subway, donations have been minimal. People are walking right by wearing expressions of boredom, weariness and irritation. Although I try to maintain a cheerful expression and to sing and play well, I find it challenging to go up against so much negative energy.
In fact, when the gusty wind whooshes through Pape Station, as it does at unpredictable moments, I am grateful to let loose and wail away into it, knowing that the wind will completely drown out my performance and that for a few moments my fragile voice won’t be so naked in front of the passing crowds.
When busking is going poorly, I love the wind. I love the fact that it’s unpredictable and overpowering. It whips around me and gathers me up, like Dorothy’s tornado in The Wizard of Oz, transporting me beyond the chilly corridor. That wicked wind is a brief cure for my frustration. It says, “Okay, so you’re not moving anybody in Pape Station…but you can still be moved. I will move you.”
Surrendering to that wind, which I cannot sing over, I find myself singing into it. At that moment I’m probably singing off-key and strumming chaotically but I don’t care. I feel better joining the wind in its enthusiastic, chaotic movement…joining the Spirit that rushes in and sweeps me off my feet if I but let it.
It is that Wind that catches me by surprise and takes me away from ordinary days, into the storm of songwriting, the storm that is perfect for me. When I am caught up in it, I am moving purposefully toward a mysterious and marvellous destination. The experience is disorienting and scary and exhilarating, and it illuminates my world.
When I am swept up into the arms of the Great Creative Energy, I find the reason for singing and I find that it is in me. It’s not in the people passing by.
+++
After singing five songs, I decide to go home to rehearse for my show on Saturday night.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
I Can See Osgoode Clearly
It's a brilliant spring day today and the temperature is about ten degrees above zero. The sky is blue. Underground, though, it's still chilly. Also, Osgoode Station is damp, and after a song or two I notice that my guitar strings actually feel sticky.
Donations are slow, perhaps because everyone lived it up on the long weekend, or perhaps because it's the end of the month. Perhaps it's because I'm wearing my new coat and I don't look as if I need the money. Perhaps I'm not singing with the right amount of energy, or without energy of the right sort. Perhaps the construction at the station (a new elevator going in) has adversely affected the feng shui. Perhaps...well, perhaps nothing. Perhaps it's just coincidence that some days everybody's donating and other days nobody is.
When I'm in the subway, I'm always looking for connections. I'm always trying to discern some sort of pattern, some sort of unifying principle that governs the behavour of people passing by.
Perhaps there's no such principle.
But I'm always looking for it.
+++
I tried something new today. I sang an bona fide Familiar Cover Song: Johnny Nash's "I Can See Clearly Now" (1972). I figured it would suit the weather.
I do a pretty good job of it too. My version is somewhat like Holly Cole's: sort of jazzy-bluesy. Before going out to the subway today, I made sure I knew the tricky chord combination in the bridge.
So far, since I've been busking, I haven't been playing familiar popular songs. I have enough songs of my own to sing, and many musicians perform the old songs better than I do. On the other hand, I wondered if passers-by would appreciate hearing songs they know...and if that would lead to higher donations. Today seemed a good day to take that trusty old Nash out for a test drive.
"I Could See Clearly Now" sounded great in Osgoode Station. Better than I thought it would, in fact.
I played it twice.
It attracted no donations.
A friendly maintenance worker, who had listened to about seven songs while eating his lunch, told me he liked my songs just as much.
"The songs you write, they come from the heart," he told me.
Donations are slow, perhaps because everyone lived it up on the long weekend, or perhaps because it's the end of the month. Perhaps it's because I'm wearing my new coat and I don't look as if I need the money. Perhaps I'm not singing with the right amount of energy, or without energy of the right sort. Perhaps the construction at the station (a new elevator going in) has adversely affected the feng shui. Perhaps...well, perhaps nothing. Perhaps it's just coincidence that some days everybody's donating and other days nobody is.
When I'm in the subway, I'm always looking for connections. I'm always trying to discern some sort of pattern, some sort of unifying principle that governs the behavour of people passing by.
Perhaps there's no such principle.
But I'm always looking for it.
+++
I tried something new today. I sang an bona fide Familiar Cover Song: Johnny Nash's "I Can See Clearly Now" (1972). I figured it would suit the weather.
I do a pretty good job of it too. My version is somewhat like Holly Cole's: sort of jazzy-bluesy. Before going out to the subway today, I made sure I knew the tricky chord combination in the bridge.
So far, since I've been busking, I haven't been playing familiar popular songs. I have enough songs of my own to sing, and many musicians perform the old songs better than I do. On the other hand, I wondered if passers-by would appreciate hearing songs they know...and if that would lead to higher donations. Today seemed a good day to take that trusty old Nash out for a test drive.
"I Could See Clearly Now" sounded great in Osgoode Station. Better than I thought it would, in fact.
I played it twice.
It attracted no donations.
A friendly maintenance worker, who had listened to about seven songs while eating his lunch, told me he liked my songs just as much.
"The songs you write, they come from the heart," he told me.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Easter Subway, postscript
On our way to Easter dinner, we stopped to buy ice cream for my mother-in-law. While we were parked, I spotted Roger walking with his guitar, heading toward Pape Station.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Easter Subway
This morning I was having coffee with a friend when we met another local roots musician.
“How’s the subway going?” he asked.
“Fine,” I replied, “But lately I haven't been out as much as I'd like."
His tone grew serious.
“I could never busk,” he declared.
“Really? Why not?”
“In Canada, the environment is just not friendly toward buskers. You have to be in Europe or a place like San Francisco. Here, everybody just thinks you’re begging.”
+++
I was still thinking about what he said when I started to sing at Pape Station on Saturday of the Easter weekend.
Sure enough, the vast majority of people were walking straight past me this afternoon, without donating or interacting in any way.
On the other hand, I didn't get the feeling that they were looking down on me. It was almost as if they were just shy. I noticed, for instance, that several people were deliberately waiting for their train at the bottom of the stairwell in front of me—listening, but not wanting to be seen to be listening.
I realize that when you’re giving to a busker, you're giving in a very public way. The response is as public, in a way, as is the call. It’s not like making a phone call to a charity at home or making an online donation. When you’re in the subway, you’re making a public statement that you support “that kind of music” or “that kind of person”…and many people might be uncomfortable doing so. (On the other hand, some people might to be publicly seen being generous.)
I heard on CBC Radio yesterday that when you act altruistically, your brain produces dopamine, a chemical that creates a feeling of calm and well-being. (The narrator of the documentary added that when he behaves selfishly, his brain creates another substance called “guiltamine”.)
+++
Despite my empathetic view of people’s motivations, I did find myself getting irritated when streams of people kept ignoring my pretty and optimistic springtime songs. I mean, could they just not be bothered? How hard is it to nod in my direction? Could you not give your five year-old a quarter when he tugs on your sleeve and points to the nice busker lady?
Deciding to use that anger to good effect, I launched into a louder, strummier song that allowed me to belt it out a little: “It’ll Grow On You”. “That flavour’s an acquired taste, a bitter taste it’s true, today you let it go to waste, but it’ll grow on you…”
Bam! Three donations, five bucks.
I played Fred Eaglesmith’s “I Like Trains”. Another two bucks.
Okay then, angry songs it is, this Easter weekend.
Why is that?
+++
I never did figure it out, but by the end of an hour and a half when I was (again) starting to shiver, a group of people about my age made a point of stopping and saying how much they enjoyed my music. I was just finishing my last song, which made me think that perhaps by then, when I’m too cold to continue, I’m finally really warmed up as a performer. Could this be true of the whole artistic enterprise: when you've had enough and are about to quit, is there something truly compelling in your performance that connects with others?
Today I felt particularly compelled to sing in the subway, as an answer to my skeptical musician friend in the coffee shop. I wanted to confirm that I'm not crazy, that there really is something worthwhile about this and that I’m not deluding myself about the value of the experience.
There were certainly some moments today when I thought, maybe he’s right, maybe we should skip this “stage” entirely and go directly to higher-paying “real” gigs in comfortable venues. If those Massey Hall gigs don’t materialize, maybe we could deftly switch occupations and nobody would notice us in these awkward, not-quite-there-yet stations.
He sees the subway as a dead-end or unnecessary detour. I see it as a journey, maybe even a destination.
“How’s the subway going?” he asked.
“Fine,” I replied, “But lately I haven't been out as much as I'd like."
His tone grew serious.
“I could never busk,” he declared.
“Really? Why not?”
“In Canada, the environment is just not friendly toward buskers. You have to be in Europe or a place like San Francisco. Here, everybody just thinks you’re begging.”
+++
I was still thinking about what he said when I started to sing at Pape Station on Saturday of the Easter weekend.
Sure enough, the vast majority of people were walking straight past me this afternoon, without donating or interacting in any way.
On the other hand, I didn't get the feeling that they were looking down on me. It was almost as if they were just shy. I noticed, for instance, that several people were deliberately waiting for their train at the bottom of the stairwell in front of me—listening, but not wanting to be seen to be listening.
I realize that when you’re giving to a busker, you're giving in a very public way. The response is as public, in a way, as is the call. It’s not like making a phone call to a charity at home or making an online donation. When you’re in the subway, you’re making a public statement that you support “that kind of music” or “that kind of person”…and many people might be uncomfortable doing so. (On the other hand, some people might to be publicly seen being generous.)
I heard on CBC Radio yesterday that when you act altruistically, your brain produces dopamine, a chemical that creates a feeling of calm and well-being. (The narrator of the documentary added that when he behaves selfishly, his brain creates another substance called “guiltamine”.)
+++
Despite my empathetic view of people’s motivations, I did find myself getting irritated when streams of people kept ignoring my pretty and optimistic springtime songs. I mean, could they just not be bothered? How hard is it to nod in my direction? Could you not give your five year-old a quarter when he tugs on your sleeve and points to the nice busker lady?
Deciding to use that anger to good effect, I launched into a louder, strummier song that allowed me to belt it out a little: “It’ll Grow On You”. “That flavour’s an acquired taste, a bitter taste it’s true, today you let it go to waste, but it’ll grow on you…”
Bam! Three donations, five bucks.
I played Fred Eaglesmith’s “I Like Trains”. Another two bucks.
Okay then, angry songs it is, this Easter weekend.
Why is that?
+++
I never did figure it out, but by the end of an hour and a half when I was (again) starting to shiver, a group of people about my age made a point of stopping and saying how much they enjoyed my music. I was just finishing my last song, which made me think that perhaps by then, when I’m too cold to continue, I’m finally really warmed up as a performer. Could this be true of the whole artistic enterprise: when you've had enough and are about to quit, is there something truly compelling in your performance that connects with others?
Today I felt particularly compelled to sing in the subway, as an answer to my skeptical musician friend in the coffee shop. I wanted to confirm that I'm not crazy, that there really is something worthwhile about this and that I’m not deluding myself about the value of the experience.
There were certainly some moments today when I thought, maybe he’s right, maybe we should skip this “stage” entirely and go directly to higher-paying “real” gigs in comfortable venues. If those Massey Hall gigs don’t materialize, maybe we could deftly switch occupations and nobody would notice us in these awkward, not-quite-there-yet stations.
He sees the subway as a dead-end or unnecessary detour. I see it as a journey, maybe even a destination.
"1973!"
In the middle of my first song, “Feels Like Spring”, a woman came up to me and shouted “1973”!
I don’t think she meant to be unfriendly.
Perhaps she thought that the song was from 1973? (I wrote it in 2004, but perhaps it’s sort of retro?)
Or maybe she was requesting a song from 1973?
In 1973, I was nine-going-on-ten years old. My parents had given me a clock radio for Christmas, thus exposing me for the first time to popular music. I spent the next several months glued to the radio, and late at night I painstakingly tweaked the dial to tune in exotic faraway stations such as Chicago and Detroit.
Even without checking the CHUM chart for the third week of March, 1973 (which probably reflects what was also being played in Winnipeg at the time), I thought of songs such as “Killing Me Softly” by Roberta Flack (#1), “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” by Vicki Lawrence (#10) and “Last Song” by Edward Bear (#26). (Roger Ellis, the busker I've been mentioning, was in the band Edward Bear.)
Other songs on the chart come as an interesting surprise, making me think that perhaps I was more influenced by that clock radio than I realized. The Carpenters “Sing”, for instance, could be practically my songwriting and busking anthem: “Sing out loud, sing out strong/sing it simple to last your whole life long…” etc. And then there’s Anne Murray’s “Danny’s Song” (written by Kenny Loggins, who recently guested as a judge on American Idol): “Even though we ain't got money/ I'm so in love with ya, honey/ everything will bring a chain of love…”
Maybe the part of the brain that defines musical taste is programmed when you’re ten. It’s reasonable to assume that I was influenced by the other songs on the list too, such “Dead Skunk” (Loudon Wainwright III), “Cover of the Rolling Stone” (Dr. Hook) and “Do It Again” (Steely Dan).
Anyway, I didn’t have time to ask the woman what she meant, because she immediately turned and headed down the stairs.
I don’t think she meant to be unfriendly.
Perhaps she thought that the song was from 1973? (I wrote it in 2004, but perhaps it’s sort of retro?)
Or maybe she was requesting a song from 1973?
In 1973, I was nine-going-on-ten years old. My parents had given me a clock radio for Christmas, thus exposing me for the first time to popular music. I spent the next several months glued to the radio, and late at night I painstakingly tweaked the dial to tune in exotic faraway stations such as Chicago and Detroit.
Even without checking the CHUM chart for the third week of March, 1973 (which probably reflects what was also being played in Winnipeg at the time), I thought of songs such as “Killing Me Softly” by Roberta Flack (#1), “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” by Vicki Lawrence (#10) and “Last Song” by Edward Bear (#26). (Roger Ellis, the busker I've been mentioning, was in the band Edward Bear.)
Other songs on the chart come as an interesting surprise, making me think that perhaps I was more influenced by that clock radio than I realized. The Carpenters “Sing”, for instance, could be practically my songwriting and busking anthem: “Sing out loud, sing out strong/sing it simple to last your whole life long…” etc. And then there’s Anne Murray’s “Danny’s Song” (written by Kenny Loggins, who recently guested as a judge on American Idol): “Even though we ain't got money/ I'm so in love with ya, honey/ everything will bring a chain of love…”
Maybe the part of the brain that defines musical taste is programmed when you’re ten. It’s reasonable to assume that I was influenced by the other songs on the list too, such “Dead Skunk” (Loudon Wainwright III), “Cover of the Rolling Stone” (Dr. Hook) and “Do It Again” (Steely Dan).
Anyway, I didn’t have time to ask the woman what she meant, because she immediately turned and headed down the stairs.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Julia, Nigel and the Guy on the List
I've stopped and started this entry two or three times today, and I've finally figured out why.
It has to do with an intense discussion I've been reading on a folk music e-list. The topic (in a nutshell) is self-absorption in songwriting. Specifically, one contributor (a concert presenter and independent radio host) wrote, smugly, that in order to decide if a songwriter is any good or not, he simply scans the lyrics to see if they include "I", "me" or "mine" too often. His view is that too many singer-songwriters have nothing of interest to say to anyone other than themselves and that they should shut up.
The same could be said of bloggers. Or watercolourists or haiku poets or photographers or stand-up comics.
Not surprisingly, many artists took this guy to task, citing examples of many fine songs that are written in the first person (and noting that many awful songs have been written in the third).
Other people clarified his argument, pointing out that in order to succeed, any song (in whatever voice), needs to make a universal statement in addition to a personal one; that is, it will start with the individual artist's perspective but it must transcend it. The artist's level of skill or craftsmanship plays a huge role in this; the lyrics (both what is said and how it's written), the melody (both memorable and original) and presentation all have to be at a sufficiently high level to move an audience.
And how do we know when we've succeeded?
Well, that's where the audience comes in, including (unfortunately) the smugly critical concert presenter on the list, who is so inundated with mediocre CDs and promo packages that he's become contemptuous of the whole singer-songwriter genre. Today I found myself thinking about him, somehow imagining him reading this, and I wanted to write something particularly noteworthy.
And I stopped writing.
(On the other hand, I am writing a handful of new songs. Perhaps it's no coincidence that for now they won't be public songs...as the set list for my upcoming concert is already in place and the new CD is already 13 songs long.)
Knowing that the critics are out there, that somebody somewhere might say "ahah, she's going on about herself again", how do we continue our artistic work? How do we risk sharing it with others to find a supportive audience (one which, in my experience, far outnumbers the critics)?
Even high-profile, celebrated artists struggle with this one. I'm currently reading Julia Cameron, who has a very good new book out called "The Sound of Paper". Best known for The Artist's Way , Cameron writes beautifully about artistic challenge, fear and insecurity. I figured she'd have something to say about the guy on the list (who is, though sporting a different identity, essentially the same person who malignantly contributed to this blog several weeks ago and caused me to question my work in similar ways.)
Julia calls her imaginary, inner critic "Nigel".
"Nigel is the one who snorts in derision when I think about starting a new play. Nigel is the one who is afraid to send finished work out--and is afraid, for that matter, to finish work because then it can be judged and people like him to the judging... Nigel. I would like to lock you out... No Nigel sinks his pointed fangs into the jugular of my work in a next lifetime."
+++
Back to the subway briefly.
Last night I saw experienced subway busker Roger Ellis at an open mic performance, and explained somewhat apologetically that I hadn't been busking this week because of March Break.
He was very kind and reassuring, telling me that it's been a slow time anyway for donations, that his wife is also looking after children this week, and that next week the weather will be great.
It has to do with an intense discussion I've been reading on a folk music e-list. The topic (in a nutshell) is self-absorption in songwriting. Specifically, one contributor (a concert presenter and independent radio host) wrote, smugly, that in order to decide if a songwriter is any good or not, he simply scans the lyrics to see if they include "I", "me" or "mine" too often. His view is that too many singer-songwriters have nothing of interest to say to anyone other than themselves and that they should shut up.
The same could be said of bloggers. Or watercolourists or haiku poets or photographers or stand-up comics.
Not surprisingly, many artists took this guy to task, citing examples of many fine songs that are written in the first person (and noting that many awful songs have been written in the third).
Other people clarified his argument, pointing out that in order to succeed, any song (in whatever voice), needs to make a universal statement in addition to a personal one; that is, it will start with the individual artist's perspective but it must transcend it. The artist's level of skill or craftsmanship plays a huge role in this; the lyrics (both what is said and how it's written), the melody (both memorable and original) and presentation all have to be at a sufficiently high level to move an audience.
And how do we know when we've succeeded?
Well, that's where the audience comes in, including (unfortunately) the smugly critical concert presenter on the list, who is so inundated with mediocre CDs and promo packages that he's become contemptuous of the whole singer-songwriter genre. Today I found myself thinking about him, somehow imagining him reading this, and I wanted to write something particularly noteworthy.
And I stopped writing.
(On the other hand, I am writing a handful of new songs. Perhaps it's no coincidence that for now they won't be public songs...as the set list for my upcoming concert is already in place and the new CD is already 13 songs long.)
Knowing that the critics are out there, that somebody somewhere might say "ahah, she's going on about herself again", how do we continue our artistic work? How do we risk sharing it with others to find a supportive audience (one which, in my experience, far outnumbers the critics)?
Even high-profile, celebrated artists struggle with this one. I'm currently reading Julia Cameron, who has a very good new book out called "The Sound of Paper". Best known for The Artist's Way , Cameron writes beautifully about artistic challenge, fear and insecurity. I figured she'd have something to say about the guy on the list (who is, though sporting a different identity, essentially the same person who malignantly contributed to this blog several weeks ago and caused me to question my work in similar ways.)
Julia calls her imaginary, inner critic "Nigel".
"Nigel is the one who snorts in derision when I think about starting a new play. Nigel is the one who is afraid to send finished work out--and is afraid, for that matter, to finish work because then it can be judged and people like him to the judging... Nigel. I would like to lock you out... No Nigel sinks his pointed fangs into the jugular of my work in a next lifetime."
+++
Back to the subway briefly.
Last night I saw experienced subway busker Roger Ellis at an open mic performance, and explained somewhat apologetically that I hadn't been busking this week because of March Break.
He was very kind and reassuring, telling me that it's been a slow time anyway for donations, that his wife is also looking after children this week, and that next week the weather will be great.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Banana Bread with Brian Eno & Mary Pratt
It's March Break and the kids are home from school, so I'm not out busking today.
Instead, I've been obsessing about my upcoming concert on April 2nd.
This is a show we're putting together ourselves at a nearby community centre. It's family-friendly and comfortable, much like a large house concert but in a larger space.
In order to put on the show, I've needed to book the two-person band, rehearse with them, arrange the sound system and person to operate it, decorate the space, publicize the event through my mailing list and local media and arrange for refreshments. In addition, we're offering some incentives for early rsvps (an exclusive promo cd), new audience members (a welcome package) and people who already own my recordings (a free dessert).
Today I found myself looking at my "to-do" list and completely panicking.
To make matters worse, it's a beautiful spring today (8 degrees above zero) and I'd like to be out singing. Instead, I find myself at home, juggling playdates for the kids and trying unsuccessfully to write copy for posters to be put on poles around the neighborhood (before the anti-postering bylaw is passed) as the computer keeps crashing.
Finally I give up and decide to make banana bread for the show.
This is, I realize, something women have been doing for generations. Like me, my mother and grandmother probably had long to-do lists of things they would have preferred to be doing, but ended up making banana bread, a simple, foolproof recipe that can be accomplished even if one is constantly interrupted.
In order to calm myself down, I put on Brian Eno's "Music For Airports" , a soothing ambient CD. And I set myself to work, measuring sugar and flour and baking powder, mashing shortening and bananas.
While I mashed, I remembered a song I wrote several years ago (which I don't think I actually had time to finish) called "Mary Paints the World". It was inspired by Mary Pratt, the painter who chose as her subject matter the "ordinary" stuff of daily life: the oranges in the bowl on the kitchen table, the laundry hanging on the line, the fish thawing in aluminum foil on the countertop. She had four children, and was married to Christopher Pratt, a (then) more-famous artist. At one point, if I remember correctly, a teacher at the art school they were both attending told her to give up painting because there could only be one famous artist in a couple and it wasn't going to be her.
I remember some of the lyrics of my song: "and if you were Mary, you would find the beauty in the ordinary, you would take your life and hold it to the light". Although I've never written a song about foil-wrapped fish (or banana bread for that matter), it's turned out that I feel most comfortable with songs that wrap themselves around "small" or seemingly ordinary things.
Sometimes, on days like today, I feel so snowed under by the thousands of tiny details of life, I can't appreciate any one of them (much less celebrate it in a new song). So I rely on other artists who can illuminate the little things instead of tripping over them.
Brian Eno's "Music For Airports" offers another inspirational take on small and slow-moving things. In this CD, Eno takes very small musical changes and repeats and layers them to create something larger, something moving and meaningful. The compositions have a poignant, searching quality...and yet are soothing and calm. I think the music would, in fact, be terrific in an airport, a place where tiny humans are moving great distances. (I bought the album several years ago in an effort to calm down the school lunchroom. Sadly, the school administration didn't see the value of it.)
As I've been writing this, the banana bread has been baking away. Will anyone come to the show and eat it? Will the posters be allowed on the poles?
Perhaps more important, can I remember that song?
Instead, I've been obsessing about my upcoming concert on April 2nd.
This is a show we're putting together ourselves at a nearby community centre. It's family-friendly and comfortable, much like a large house concert but in a larger space.
In order to put on the show, I've needed to book the two-person band, rehearse with them, arrange the sound system and person to operate it, decorate the space, publicize the event through my mailing list and local media and arrange for refreshments. In addition, we're offering some incentives for early rsvps (an exclusive promo cd), new audience members (a welcome package) and people who already own my recordings (a free dessert).
Today I found myself looking at my "to-do" list and completely panicking.
To make matters worse, it's a beautiful spring today (8 degrees above zero) and I'd like to be out singing. Instead, I find myself at home, juggling playdates for the kids and trying unsuccessfully to write copy for posters to be put on poles around the neighborhood (before the anti-postering bylaw is passed) as the computer keeps crashing.
Finally I give up and decide to make banana bread for the show.
This is, I realize, something women have been doing for generations. Like me, my mother and grandmother probably had long to-do lists of things they would have preferred to be doing, but ended up making banana bread, a simple, foolproof recipe that can be accomplished even if one is constantly interrupted.
In order to calm myself down, I put on Brian Eno's "Music For Airports" , a soothing ambient CD. And I set myself to work, measuring sugar and flour and baking powder, mashing shortening and bananas.
While I mashed, I remembered a song I wrote several years ago (which I don't think I actually had time to finish) called "Mary Paints the World". It was inspired by Mary Pratt, the painter who chose as her subject matter the "ordinary" stuff of daily life: the oranges in the bowl on the kitchen table, the laundry hanging on the line, the fish thawing in aluminum foil on the countertop. She had four children, and was married to Christopher Pratt, a (then) more-famous artist. At one point, if I remember correctly, a teacher at the art school they were both attending told her to give up painting because there could only be one famous artist in a couple and it wasn't going to be her.
I remember some of the lyrics of my song: "and if you were Mary, you would find the beauty in the ordinary, you would take your life and hold it to the light". Although I've never written a song about foil-wrapped fish (or banana bread for that matter), it's turned out that I feel most comfortable with songs that wrap themselves around "small" or seemingly ordinary things.
Sometimes, on days like today, I feel so snowed under by the thousands of tiny details of life, I can't appreciate any one of them (much less celebrate it in a new song). So I rely on other artists who can illuminate the little things instead of tripping over them.
Brian Eno's "Music For Airports" offers another inspirational take on small and slow-moving things. In this CD, Eno takes very small musical changes and repeats and layers them to create something larger, something moving and meaningful. The compositions have a poignant, searching quality...and yet are soothing and calm. I think the music would, in fact, be terrific in an airport, a place where tiny humans are moving great distances. (I bought the album several years ago in an effort to calm down the school lunchroom. Sadly, the school administration didn't see the value of it.)
As I've been writing this, the banana bread has been baking away. Will anyone come to the show and eat it? Will the posters be allowed on the poles?
Perhaps more important, can I remember that song?
Saturday, March 19, 2005
The CD Mystery Solved
No doubt it was Nathan Wiley's CD (that I found at Value Village last week) that inspired me to clean out an upstairs bookshelf a few days ago and send other CDs back to Value Village. What's that saying again, every action produces an equal and opposite reaction? Well, in this case, the reaction was a tad stronger, because I donated a grand total of 47 CDs.
That's Nathan Wiley, folks, someone you might want to check out, nominated for several East Coast Music Awards this year and quoted in this month's Performing Songwriter magazine. (He no doubt lives very far from here, too, being an East Coaster, so the likelihood that he'd spot his CD at our neighborhood Value Village is admittedly low.) His CD "High Low" is pretty good, and we're enjoying it a lot around the house, thanks to someone who decided to liberate it from his or her CD shelf.
So I decided to do the same, and it turned out to be quite a project.
Maybe because they were CDs, and not, say, books (which so far I don't write), I found the decision to give away a CD somewhat agonizing. But I got the hang of it, using a system that went pretty much like this.
I kept a CD if:
1) I like it and I'm likely to listen to again. (Unfortunately, the fact that the CDs were on this particular shelf, two floors away away from the stereo system, meant that I wasn't listening to it at all. That said, I did re-discover a few good CDs in today's organizing binge.)
2) The artist (or their friends) live close to my neighborhood Value Village.
3) I have an ongoing relationship with the artist. (A surprising number of infrequently-listened-to CDs fell into this category and I decided to keep them all.)
4) The artist autographed the CD for me. This situation made me feel more kindly toward any CD, and both this rule and #3 reminded me that music or any form of creative expression is, at heart, about the connection between one person and another. Sometimes the product is secondary.
I finished my task quickly (I had tried to do this about six months ago, become overwhelmed by the task and chickened out) packaged up all the CDs and walked them over to the store. (For the record--ha!--I got rid of 47 CDs on that shelf of unlistened-to's, and I kept 68.)
+++
Today I was shopping at Value Village (again...) when a woman approached a man behind me in the checkout line, noticing the stuff he was about to buy.
"Oh! Do they sell CDs here?" she asked.
"Yep," he responded, "there's two whole racks of 'em over there."
She eagerly rushed over to the CD racks, and immediately picked up a couple of CDs that I had donated a few days ago.
+++
I'm hoping to get out to the subway this week because the weather is turning fabulous. However, the kids are off school for March Break and it would be unthinkable to bring them with me. (I suddenly realize that I saw a woman do this at Christmas. I suspect she was busking on the subway without a permit. She had her two school-age children with her, looking waif-like. I did not donate.)
Despite how rewarding I find subway singing, both spiritually and financially, it's still hard for me to affirm that it's part of my Career (capital C). If I looked at it as a necessity, like a regular office job for instance, I'd arrange childcare and probably pay for it. As things are, I'll call my mother-in-law tomorrow and see if she can look after the kids for half a day this week.
That's Nathan Wiley, folks, someone you might want to check out, nominated for several East Coast Music Awards this year and quoted in this month's Performing Songwriter magazine. (He no doubt lives very far from here, too, being an East Coaster, so the likelihood that he'd spot his CD at our neighborhood Value Village is admittedly low.) His CD "High Low" is pretty good, and we're enjoying it a lot around the house, thanks to someone who decided to liberate it from his or her CD shelf.
So I decided to do the same, and it turned out to be quite a project.
Maybe because they were CDs, and not, say, books (which so far I don't write), I found the decision to give away a CD somewhat agonizing. But I got the hang of it, using a system that went pretty much like this.
I kept a CD if:
1) I like it and I'm likely to listen to again. (Unfortunately, the fact that the CDs were on this particular shelf, two floors away away from the stereo system, meant that I wasn't listening to it at all. That said, I did re-discover a few good CDs in today's organizing binge.)
2) The artist (or their friends) live close to my neighborhood Value Village.
3) I have an ongoing relationship with the artist. (A surprising number of infrequently-listened-to CDs fell into this category and I decided to keep them all.)
4) The artist autographed the CD for me. This situation made me feel more kindly toward any CD, and both this rule and #3 reminded me that music or any form of creative expression is, at heart, about the connection between one person and another. Sometimes the product is secondary.
I finished my task quickly (I had tried to do this about six months ago, become overwhelmed by the task and chickened out) packaged up all the CDs and walked them over to the store. (For the record--ha!--I got rid of 47 CDs on that shelf of unlistened-to's, and I kept 68.)
+++
Today I was shopping at Value Village (again...) when a woman approached a man behind me in the checkout line, noticing the stuff he was about to buy.
"Oh! Do they sell CDs here?" she asked.
"Yep," he responded, "there's two whole racks of 'em over there."
She eagerly rushed over to the CD racks, and immediately picked up a couple of CDs that I had donated a few days ago.
+++
I'm hoping to get out to the subway this week because the weather is turning fabulous. However, the kids are off school for March Break and it would be unthinkable to bring them with me. (I suddenly realize that I saw a woman do this at Christmas. I suspect she was busking on the subway without a permit. She had her two school-age children with her, looking waif-like. I did not donate.)
Despite how rewarding I find subway singing, both spiritually and financially, it's still hard for me to affirm that it's part of my Career (capital C). If I looked at it as a necessity, like a regular office job for instance, I'd arrange childcare and probably pay for it. As things are, I'll call my mother-in-law tomorrow and see if she can look after the kids for half a day this week.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
The Over-the-Shoulder Smile
Ossington Station at 11 a.m. on Tuesday is a very quiet place.
So quiet, I took one look at the forlorn performance area in the deserted vestibule and headed back eastbound. My official schedule of stations makes for interesting travel around the city, but stops such as Ossington may be worthwhile only at rush hour. Despite my best intentions, I don't seem to be turning into a rush-hour busker. (More of a meandering-hour busker, I guess.)
Where should I go, I wondered? Maybe not Pape--could be too much of a good thing. Yonge & Bloor is probably taken. How about Bay?
I like Bay station because the performance area is located in a long corridor, allowing people to listen for a longer time. Also, because so many people work nearby on Bay Street, in Yorkville and at Yonge & Bloor, I thought I might capitalize on the lunchtime crowd.
I noticed a particular reflex action of mine today, which I tried to correct but found I couldn't. Every time people passed by me, I automatically turned my head to watch them walking away. It wasn't that I was pining after them; they were just interesting to watch (more interesting than the tiled wall in front of me, anyway.) In order to avoid looking disappointed, I made an extra effort to appear cheerful.
In general, people didn't seem to be very interested today, but the people who were were wonderful. They included a man who told me he couldn't hear me very well (which was interesting because I thought I was too loud at times, and even turned down my amp), but who gave me two dollars anyway. When I said "Thanks for the donation", he said "It's not a donation...it's payment!" As he left, he said "enjoy it"--and I didn't think he meant the toonie. I think he meant the music and the day.
Sometimes, when I think I'm performing particularly well, I feel that people are rewarding me for a job well done. Other times, I feel they're lifting me up when I'm needing support. This was definitely true today when I tried a cover song I play from time to time, Ian North's "Beautiful City", and couldn't get the chord changes right. I was not doing justice to this beautiful song, and was about to end it rather gracelessly, when a woman dropped some change into my case, saying "keep playing that good music, Darlin."
So I played a little longer. During that time, I ran into two other subway musicians, John, whom I hadn't seen for several months, and Roger Ellis. All of us are feeling relieved that it's finally March and getting warmer. My favourite moment today came when an elderly man gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up during my song "Feels Like Spring". At Bay Station today, few people seemed to be noticing the content of the songs I played, and I wondered whether this particular one was registering with anyone...but it clearly did with this fellow.
He was beaming at me over his shoulder, thumb still held high in the air, with a twinkle in his eye that was positively infectious. (I might not have noticed, if I hadn't been watching him walking away.)
So quiet, I took one look at the forlorn performance area in the deserted vestibule and headed back eastbound. My official schedule of stations makes for interesting travel around the city, but stops such as Ossington may be worthwhile only at rush hour. Despite my best intentions, I don't seem to be turning into a rush-hour busker. (More of a meandering-hour busker, I guess.)
Where should I go, I wondered? Maybe not Pape--could be too much of a good thing. Yonge & Bloor is probably taken. How about Bay?
I like Bay station because the performance area is located in a long corridor, allowing people to listen for a longer time. Also, because so many people work nearby on Bay Street, in Yorkville and at Yonge & Bloor, I thought I might capitalize on the lunchtime crowd.
I noticed a particular reflex action of mine today, which I tried to correct but found I couldn't. Every time people passed by me, I automatically turned my head to watch them walking away. It wasn't that I was pining after them; they were just interesting to watch (more interesting than the tiled wall in front of me, anyway.) In order to avoid looking disappointed, I made an extra effort to appear cheerful.
In general, people didn't seem to be very interested today, but the people who were were wonderful. They included a man who told me he couldn't hear me very well (which was interesting because I thought I was too loud at times, and even turned down my amp), but who gave me two dollars anyway. When I said "Thanks for the donation", he said "It's not a donation...it's payment!" As he left, he said "enjoy it"--and I didn't think he meant the toonie. I think he meant the music and the day.
Sometimes, when I think I'm performing particularly well, I feel that people are rewarding me for a job well done. Other times, I feel they're lifting me up when I'm needing support. This was definitely true today when I tried a cover song I play from time to time, Ian North's "Beautiful City", and couldn't get the chord changes right. I was not doing justice to this beautiful song, and was about to end it rather gracelessly, when a woman dropped some change into my case, saying "keep playing that good music, Darlin."
So I played a little longer. During that time, I ran into two other subway musicians, John, whom I hadn't seen for several months, and Roger Ellis. All of us are feeling relieved that it's finally March and getting warmer. My favourite moment today came when an elderly man gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up during my song "Feels Like Spring". At Bay Station today, few people seemed to be noticing the content of the songs I played, and I wondered whether this particular one was registering with anyone...but it clearly did with this fellow.
He was beaming at me over his shoulder, thumb still held high in the air, with a twinkle in his eye that was positively infectious. (I might not have noticed, if I hadn't been watching him walking away.)
Who could it be?
If anyone can guess the artist mentioned in yesterday's post, you'll get free admission to my Toronto concert April 2nd.
This is a contemporary Canadian singer-songwriter, not yet a big name, who has enjoyed CBC Radio airplay (perhaps more as well that I don't know of) and has been up for some major awards. By coincidence, last night I was reading a new music magazine and this person appears in it.
Good luck! If nobody comes up with it, I'll provide more clues. And if you win, but you live outside Toronto, we'll come up with some other nifty prize.
Now I'm off to Ossington Station.
This is a contemporary Canadian singer-songwriter, not yet a big name, who has enjoyed CBC Radio airplay (perhaps more as well that I don't know of) and has been up for some major awards. By coincidence, last night I was reading a new music magazine and this person appears in it.
Good luck! If nobody comes up with it, I'll provide more clues. And if you win, but you live outside Toronto, we'll come up with some other nifty prize.
Now I'm off to Ossington Station.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
The CD at Value Village
I had no good excuse for not busking today. The weather is warmish (1 degree, but windy) and it's sunny, which is always good for business.
My daughter was staying at school for Poetry Club at lunchtime and no writing projects were pressing. Housework could be avoided as always. I could pop up to Broadview or Pape Station.
Instead, I decided to go to Value Village.
I spent a successful hour (and $24.54) at "Chez Vivi". I tried on a sleek little European jacket with raised black plastic leopard spots. I know it sounds hideous, and indeed it was when I tried it on, but while it was on the hanger it had that special quality known as "Could Work Onstage". Sometimes I buy these clothes, but the only venue they see is the inside of my closet (which, come to think of it, looks quite a bit like some of the venues I've played). When I'm choosing an outfit for a performance, I inevitably end up skipping over anything that might prompt the question "Did you get that at Value Village?". So the shiny leopard thingie is a no.
On the other hand, I did find a great looking knit top for me, shirts for Dave and the kids, and a six-foot long swath of autumn coloured chiffon (with gold trim!) that might be useful in decorating the hall for an upcoming show.
I also found a well-regarded, recent CD by another emerging Canadian singer-songwriter.
I first heard this artist's work on CBC Radio, around the time that my second CD was released and also being played on CBC Radio. I remembered liking the song, so I figured the CD was probably pretty good. It is! I bought it for $2.99 (it probably cost about $30 per unit to produce) and I'm listening to it now. It gets two thumbs up, one from me and one from my son, whose favourite CDs these days are The Police (Best Of) and Maroon 5's "Songs About Jane".
As I said, I figured it'd be good. But I wasn't really looking for any new music to listen to. No, even as I carried it up to the cashier, I realized I was buying it so the artist wouldn't accidentally discover it at Value Village.
I know this is ridiculous.
There's no shame in someone giving away your CD. Repeat this mantra after me: "You can't please everybody. You can't please everybody". In fact, a friend recently spotted "Lynoleum" in a cool used record store and told me with glee that this was proof I'd finally made it! He truly was impressed to see it there, in company with lots of other good recordings that were also looking for a second home. (The CD at Value Village today was sandwiched between Englebert Humperdinck and Shawn Mullins.)
Even though we all know this is bound to happen (like the authors who know their novel will end up on a remainder table eventually), I knew that this particular artist, and the people associated with the artist, would be disappointed to see the CD at Value Village because they have high hopes for it. And for good reason. It's a good CD...not great maybe, but very good. It has a smart, snappy, contemporary sound without being annoyingly of-the-moment. The artist comes across as perceptive, original and likeable.
A quick visit to the artist's website suggests that the career is going just fine.
And in case you're wondering, I don't believe the artist is anyone who's reading this blog.
My daughter was staying at school for Poetry Club at lunchtime and no writing projects were pressing. Housework could be avoided as always. I could pop up to Broadview or Pape Station.
Instead, I decided to go to Value Village.
I spent a successful hour (and $24.54) at "Chez Vivi". I tried on a sleek little European jacket with raised black plastic leopard spots. I know it sounds hideous, and indeed it was when I tried it on, but while it was on the hanger it had that special quality known as "Could Work Onstage". Sometimes I buy these clothes, but the only venue they see is the inside of my closet (which, come to think of it, looks quite a bit like some of the venues I've played). When I'm choosing an outfit for a performance, I inevitably end up skipping over anything that might prompt the question "Did you get that at Value Village?". So the shiny leopard thingie is a no.
On the other hand, I did find a great looking knit top for me, shirts for Dave and the kids, and a six-foot long swath of autumn coloured chiffon (with gold trim!) that might be useful in decorating the hall for an upcoming show.
I also found a well-regarded, recent CD by another emerging Canadian singer-songwriter.
I first heard this artist's work on CBC Radio, around the time that my second CD was released and also being played on CBC Radio. I remembered liking the song, so I figured the CD was probably pretty good. It is! I bought it for $2.99 (it probably cost about $30 per unit to produce) and I'm listening to it now. It gets two thumbs up, one from me and one from my son, whose favourite CDs these days are The Police (Best Of) and Maroon 5's "Songs About Jane".
As I said, I figured it'd be good. But I wasn't really looking for any new music to listen to. No, even as I carried it up to the cashier, I realized I was buying it so the artist wouldn't accidentally discover it at Value Village.
I know this is ridiculous.
There's no shame in someone giving away your CD. Repeat this mantra after me: "You can't please everybody. You can't please everybody". In fact, a friend recently spotted "Lynoleum" in a cool used record store and told me with glee that this was proof I'd finally made it! He truly was impressed to see it there, in company with lots of other good recordings that were also looking for a second home. (The CD at Value Village today was sandwiched between Englebert Humperdinck and Shawn Mullins.)
Even though we all know this is bound to happen (like the authors who know their novel will end up on a remainder table eventually), I knew that this particular artist, and the people associated with the artist, would be disappointed to see the CD at Value Village because they have high hopes for it. And for good reason. It's a good CD...not great maybe, but very good. It has a smart, snappy, contemporary sound without being annoyingly of-the-moment. The artist comes across as perceptive, original and likeable.
A quick visit to the artist's website suggests that the career is going just fine.
And in case you're wondering, I don't believe the artist is anyone who's reading this blog.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Sunderland & Sundry
Today I drove an hour-and-a-half northeast of Toronto, to a tiny little town called Sunderland.
It's a beautiful place, where you can park for free on the main street and buy crumbly pecan tarts from the corner bakery. I went into three stores in Sunderland (in the extra time I had before arriving at the public school for the songwriting workshop). Each store had jingling bell over the door, a bell that didn't seem necessary because each merchant was waiting just inside the door to welcome me, but a lovely bell just the same.
As it turned out, the teachers weren't expecting me at the public school. They had told the workshop organizers not to send somebody today, because the whole town had been too busy with the local music festival that had just taken place. But there I was, and I had driven all that way from Toronnah, so they showed me to the music room where twenty students were assembling.
I talked with them about songwriting, telling them it was okay--in fact it was great--to just make up a little tune in their head. Anyone could do it, even if they didn't have any formal music training. A little girl about eight years old knew all about that and was eager to tell everyone about all the songs she was writing. She told me excitedly that when she sings her songs, people listen to what she has to say! All through our session, there she was, putting up her hand, again and again. Listen, she said.
I sang a song called "I Would Recognize You Anywhere" ("because your heart is mine").
I sang that song, also, for a man in Pape Subway station yesterday, where I played for an hour and a half, before meeting a woman who was interviewing me for a thesis on subway musicians. During that short time, a friend came along who bought me a much-needed coffee from the Tim Horton's at street level, I ran into Roger Ellis (the experienced busker who had originally inspired me to consider singing in the subway) and I met Samuel (the kindly man who tells me (every time I see him) that he was on "Touched By An Angel". The man who responded to "Recognize You" was kind enough to buy a CD even though it's not on one of my current ones. (The third CD is coming soon, really it is. Have I mentioned I'm calling it "Broadview"?)
It's a beautiful place, where you can park for free on the main street and buy crumbly pecan tarts from the corner bakery. I went into three stores in Sunderland (in the extra time I had before arriving at the public school for the songwriting workshop). Each store had jingling bell over the door, a bell that didn't seem necessary because each merchant was waiting just inside the door to welcome me, but a lovely bell just the same.
As it turned out, the teachers weren't expecting me at the public school. They had told the workshop organizers not to send somebody today, because the whole town had been too busy with the local music festival that had just taken place. But there I was, and I had driven all that way from Toronnah, so they showed me to the music room where twenty students were assembling.
I talked with them about songwriting, telling them it was okay--in fact it was great--to just make up a little tune in their head. Anyone could do it, even if they didn't have any formal music training. A little girl about eight years old knew all about that and was eager to tell everyone about all the songs she was writing. She told me excitedly that when she sings her songs, people listen to what she has to say! All through our session, there she was, putting up her hand, again and again. Listen, she said.
I sang a song called "I Would Recognize You Anywhere" ("because your heart is mine").
+++
I sang that song, also, for a man in Pape Subway station yesterday, where I played for an hour and a half, before meeting a woman who was interviewing me for a thesis on subway musicians. During that short time, a friend came along who bought me a much-needed coffee from the Tim Horton's at street level, I ran into Roger Ellis (the experienced busker who had originally inspired me to consider singing in the subway) and I met Samuel (the kindly man who tells me (every time I see him) that he was on "Touched By An Angel". The man who responded to "Recognize You" was kind enough to buy a CD even though it's not on one of my current ones. (The third CD is coming soon, really it is. Have I mentioned I'm calling it "Broadview"?)
+++
And on Wednesday night, I went to Fat Albert's again and brought my friend Brenda along.
Both of us being huge Ron Sexsmith fans, we were thrilled to be there when he made a surprise appearance, previewing the new Sexsmith and Kerr project with Don Kerr (formerly of the Rheostatics, excellent musician and producer.)
Ron was one of those people I might have met twenty years ago if I'd gone to Fat Albert's, so it's remarkable that he just showed up after I wrote last week's post. He's one of the songwriters I admire most, and his songs have influenced and inspired mine.
We've come close to meeting several times (I called out 'I love your music' when I was pushing a stroller and recognized him on the street...he answered a few 'fan e-mails' from me over the years...) but this was the first time he heard me play. I expected to feel a bit nervous, seeing him in the back of the room. Instead, I noticed that I felt calm, and not starstruck.
It meant a lot to me when he shook my hand afterward and told me how much he enjoyed my songs.
+++
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Pennies from Heaven
Yesterday I finally got around to rolling some of the coins that have been accumulating in my house over the past few months.
Right from the start, I was determined to view my subway tips as income, so I've kept careful track of how much I'm earning. When I finish performing on the subway, I quickly scoop up the change from my guitar case and put it in a deep pocket. (I'm always conscious of not lingering over my cash in a public place.) When I get home, I count it, record the total and put the coins in a Ziplock bag. Then I put the Ziplock bag in the top drawer of our front hall cabinet.
I intend to roll the coins promptly, but it ends up being a chore that I put off.
It takes a long time to roll coins. You have to gather the coins, find a bunch of rolling tubes (which may involve a trip to the Dollar Store), sit down and actually count. Although you might think it's possible to listen to CBC Radio or watch "Oprah" at the same time, it's not so easy. Just when you're congratulating yourself for being such a great multi-tasker, you lose count and have to start all over again.
It's actually more efficient to just count. Every. Single. Penny.
At times, it feels like wasted effort. After all, 50 pennies laboriously counted is still only 50 cents. That's why, being keen on immediate gratification, I tend to count the bigger coins first. Twenty-five toonies rolled into a tight little tube makes fifty dollars--which feels like easy money. However, if you just count the big coins, before long you end up with piles and piles of overflowing Ziplock bags full of uncounted little coins.
When the little coins pile up like that, I'm tempted to use the CoinStar machine at Loblaw's, which turns unsorted change into grocery vouchers in return for a percentage. It's a bad deal. Not only am I losing actual money, I'm missing out on the opportunity to pay attention to what's been given to me.
I now know, even from just a few months' busking experience, that even the smallest exchanges, whether they come in the form of cash or human interaction, are gifts to be treasured. And yet, in the daily act of prioritizing my activities, I remain tempted to ignore the tiny returns and focus on the big ones.
It's interesting to me how those uncounted coins, once they've been zipped into bags and allowed to accumulate, weigh me down and create a nagging sense of guilt, when only a few days before they made me feel alive. They were sparkling coins flying through the air from one human being to another, dancing to music.
Right from the start, I was determined to view my subway tips as income, so I've kept careful track of how much I'm earning. When I finish performing on the subway, I quickly scoop up the change from my guitar case and put it in a deep pocket. (I'm always conscious of not lingering over my cash in a public place.) When I get home, I count it, record the total and put the coins in a Ziplock bag. Then I put the Ziplock bag in the top drawer of our front hall cabinet.
I intend to roll the coins promptly, but it ends up being a chore that I put off.
It takes a long time to roll coins. You have to gather the coins, find a bunch of rolling tubes (which may involve a trip to the Dollar Store), sit down and actually count. Although you might think it's possible to listen to CBC Radio or watch "Oprah" at the same time, it's not so easy. Just when you're congratulating yourself for being such a great multi-tasker, you lose count and have to start all over again.
It's actually more efficient to just count. Every. Single. Penny.
At times, it feels like wasted effort. After all, 50 pennies laboriously counted is still only 50 cents. That's why, being keen on immediate gratification, I tend to count the bigger coins first. Twenty-five toonies rolled into a tight little tube makes fifty dollars--which feels like easy money. However, if you just count the big coins, before long you end up with piles and piles of overflowing Ziplock bags full of uncounted little coins.
When the little coins pile up like that, I'm tempted to use the CoinStar machine at Loblaw's, which turns unsorted change into grocery vouchers in return for a percentage. It's a bad deal. Not only am I losing actual money, I'm missing out on the opportunity to pay attention to what's been given to me.
I now know, even from just a few months' busking experience, that even the smallest exchanges, whether they come in the form of cash or human interaction, are gifts to be treasured. And yet, in the daily act of prioritizing my activities, I remain tempted to ignore the tiny returns and focus on the big ones.
It's interesting to me how those uncounted coins, once they've been zipped into bags and allowed to accumulate, weigh me down and create a nagging sense of guilt, when only a few days before they made me feel alive. They were sparkling coins flying through the air from one human being to another, dancing to music.
Monday, March 07, 2005
The 2005 Pontiac Songwriter
Union Station had gone through some kind of makeover.
Everywhere I looked, the subway entrance was plastered with bright red Pontiac ads, which did nothing to brighten the mood on this dreary Monday afternoon.
There are two sets of yellow dots at Union. Unfortunately, neither one is ideally located for the flow of pedestrian traffic. But I had to pick one, so I chose the busking location that wasn't directly in front of a giant billboard.
Pontiac must have paid a high price (how much, I wonder?) to take over Union Station. They've succeeded: finding ad space on the subway turnstiles, on the staircase risers, on the tiled walls, even on the floors (which today are treacherously slippery from all the rain).
Directly across from where I sang, the entire wall was taken up with an ad for a car whose name I can't remember right now (ha ha, take that, Pontiac!). I think it starts with "S". Is it the Solstice? (Let me check the website... Yes, that's it. Okay, okay, I guess it did make an impression.) On another wall there was another gigantic ad for a car with a number in its name. Umm...the G6? Isn't that a computer? Maybe it's a car and a computer?
Needless to say, it seemed pretty ironic that a subway station should be used as a giant car advertisement.
Resisting the impulse to sing the songs about cars I know (such as Sam Larkin's "Love Drives a Beautiful Car" and The Beatles' "Baby You Can Drive My Car") because I thought I'd be contributing to the success of the Pontiac campaign, I decided to sing When I Walk (I Run) and Tall Trees with as much conviction as possible. They had about as much impact as the quiet earth-toned ad for the TTC itself which was bravely displayed just above my right shoulder, beside the subway map. With its Zen-inspired bamboo graphics and placid typeface, it reminded us that we could all save money and the environment by taking the subway.
You could practically hear the Pontiac ads screaming "eat my dust".
Now, I'd like to tell you that by singing twenty life-affirming, cautiously optimistic songs this afternoon, I was able to lift the mood of Union Station just a little bit. But I'm really not so sure. Most of the people who did donate did so with an air of resignation, without returning my smile. As I went home, I noticed that the headline on the Sun newspaper box was one of the most depressing I'd ever read (I won't repeat it here). The weather was miserable. And it was Monday.
On days like these, does the hopeful artist just look ridiculous?
This question causes me to realize that today, one of the few people who donated (and who did so cheerfully) was a member of the Red Hat Society. It's made up of mostly older women who wear odd-looking red and purple hats as a defiant affirmation of individuality. She made a point of donating even though I had paused to tune my guitar and had my back turned. It was clearly important for her to connect with me and show her solidarity.
Another man stopped and had a long conversation about vocal technique and Frank Sinatra. I was happy to take a break from singing and simply talk to someone.
I wished, today, that I played and sang much, much better...that I was the most expensive top-of-the-line model of 2005 subway musicians...the Segovia perhaps...or the Sinatra.
This afternoon, the 2005 Songwriter just didn't seem all that powerful.
Everywhere I looked, the subway entrance was plastered with bright red Pontiac ads, which did nothing to brighten the mood on this dreary Monday afternoon.
There are two sets of yellow dots at Union. Unfortunately, neither one is ideally located for the flow of pedestrian traffic. But I had to pick one, so I chose the busking location that wasn't directly in front of a giant billboard.
Pontiac must have paid a high price (how much, I wonder?) to take over Union Station. They've succeeded: finding ad space on the subway turnstiles, on the staircase risers, on the tiled walls, even on the floors (which today are treacherously slippery from all the rain).
Directly across from where I sang, the entire wall was taken up with an ad for a car whose name I can't remember right now (ha ha, take that, Pontiac!). I think it starts with "S". Is it the Solstice? (Let me check the website... Yes, that's it. Okay, okay, I guess it did make an impression.) On another wall there was another gigantic ad for a car with a number in its name. Umm...the G6? Isn't that a computer? Maybe it's a car and a computer?
Needless to say, it seemed pretty ironic that a subway station should be used as a giant car advertisement.
Resisting the impulse to sing the songs about cars I know (such as Sam Larkin's "Love Drives a Beautiful Car" and The Beatles' "Baby You Can Drive My Car") because I thought I'd be contributing to the success of the Pontiac campaign, I decided to sing When I Walk (I Run) and Tall Trees with as much conviction as possible. They had about as much impact as the quiet earth-toned ad for the TTC itself which was bravely displayed just above my right shoulder, beside the subway map. With its Zen-inspired bamboo graphics and placid typeface, it reminded us that we could all save money and the environment by taking the subway.
You could practically hear the Pontiac ads screaming "eat my dust".
Now, I'd like to tell you that by singing twenty life-affirming, cautiously optimistic songs this afternoon, I was able to lift the mood of Union Station just a little bit. But I'm really not so sure. Most of the people who did donate did so with an air of resignation, without returning my smile. As I went home, I noticed that the headline on the Sun newspaper box was one of the most depressing I'd ever read (I won't repeat it here). The weather was miserable. And it was Monday.
On days like these, does the hopeful artist just look ridiculous?
This question causes me to realize that today, one of the few people who donated (and who did so cheerfully) was a member of the Red Hat Society. It's made up of mostly older women who wear odd-looking red and purple hats as a defiant affirmation of individuality. She made a point of donating even though I had paused to tune my guitar and had my back turned. It was clearly important for her to connect with me and show her solidarity.
Another man stopped and had a long conversation about vocal technique and Frank Sinatra. I was happy to take a break from singing and simply talk to someone.
I wished, today, that I played and sang much, much better...that I was the most expensive top-of-the-line model of 2005 subway musicians...the Segovia perhaps...or the Sinatra.
This afternoon, the 2005 Songwriter just didn't seem all that powerful.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
When I Walk - Pape Station
When I arrived at Pape Station at noon today, I realized I'd left my guitar strap at home. Rather than attempt to play cross-legged on the floor, I opted to go back home and get it. Even though it was a beautiful day and I wasn't in a big rush, I was disappointed by the delay.
I'd been missing the subway.
Going home to get the guitar strap meant a 45 minute trip: riding south on the Pape bus, walking 10 minutes back to the house, getting the strap, walking back to the bus stop and taking the bus back up to the station again.
I found myself feeling anxious as I usually do when I'm running late. However, knowing how many chance meetings and coincidences happen on the subway, I wondered whether my delay would lead to something important.
It did.
I arrived back at Pape, grateful to see that the performance space was still unoccupied, unpacked my gear and started to play. I started out with "Feels Like Spring", which immediately attracted a number of enthusiastic donations. (I ended up playing that song several times today and singing it with much greater conviction than I had in previous weeks, perhaps because it was finally two degrees above zero and sunny.)
Improvising my subway set as I always do, I decided to stick with upbeat songs, and started in on
When I Walk (I Run)""When I walk, I run into people I haven't seen for some time..."
Sure enough, as if on cue, around the corner came a friend I hadn't seen for over a year. She walked up to me with a radiant smile.
She walked up to me!
When I last saw her, and for the several years I'd known her, she'd been in a wheelchair.
She was with a friend, and after introducing us to each other, asked if I'd keep singing the song. I managed to do it, but had to avoid her eyes so that I could sing without choking up. (..."used to spin my wheels...") It was an honour to sing for her, and I felt so lucky that I was there to meet her at just that moment.
From now on, I'm sure I'll always think of her when I sing that song.
I'd been missing the subway.
Going home to get the guitar strap meant a 45 minute trip: riding south on the Pape bus, walking 10 minutes back to the house, getting the strap, walking back to the bus stop and taking the bus back up to the station again.
I found myself feeling anxious as I usually do when I'm running late. However, knowing how many chance meetings and coincidences happen on the subway, I wondered whether my delay would lead to something important.
It did.
I arrived back at Pape, grateful to see that the performance space was still unoccupied, unpacked my gear and started to play. I started out with "Feels Like Spring", which immediately attracted a number of enthusiastic donations. (I ended up playing that song several times today and singing it with much greater conviction than I had in previous weeks, perhaps because it was finally two degrees above zero and sunny.)
Improvising my subway set as I always do, I decided to stick with upbeat songs, and started in on
When I Walk (I Run)""When I walk, I run into people I haven't seen for some time..."
Sure enough, as if on cue, around the corner came a friend I hadn't seen for over a year. She walked up to me with a radiant smile.
She walked up to me!
When I last saw her, and for the several years I'd known her, she'd been in a wheelchair.
She was with a friend, and after introducing us to each other, asked if I'd keep singing the song. I managed to do it, but had to avoid her eyes so that I could sing without choking up. (..."used to spin my wheels...") It was an honour to sing for her, and I felt so lucky that I was there to meet her at just that moment.
From now on, I'm sure I'll always think of her when I sing that song.
+++
Today I noticed many people carrying musical instruments, pushing strollers, and reading books. Maybe because it's warmer, people are feeling freer to do more things in the open air, instead of simply trying to get from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible.
I almost laughed out loud when I caught the eye of one woman, who was reading as she walked through the subway corridor.
She glanced up from a book called "Live On Less Money", noticed what I was doing with obvious delight, smiled and went back to her reading.
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Viva la Vestibule - Fat Albert's Part II
When I walked into the Steelworkers Union Hall, all the musicians were standing around in the lobby.
Someone explained that there'd been a mix-up and the space usually reserved for Fat Albert's Coffeehouse had been double-booked. This was the first time it'd happened since Fat's had found a new home in the Union Hall after being forced out of the church basement.
Undeterred, several musicians entered into talks with the Union and successfully negotiated a settlement. We'd head down the hall to a different room than usual which could be sub-divided, allowing music and committee meetings to co-exist on either side of the wall. The room thereby divided, we all got to work re-organizing the moveable risers and unstacking the stackable chairs.
Of course, I hadn't seen the room that Fat Albert's usually used, so it was all the same to me.
The show started efficiently, making up for the delay. A few performers took the stage, including one who did an abridged version of Bruce Cockburn's "Mama Just Wants to Barrelhouse All Night Long". Then water started dripping, then pouring, from the ceiling.
A couple of big plastic garbage cans were strategically placed, saving the sound equipment, but it was no use. The room was a mess...a result, we learned later, of someone leaving a faucet on in the kitchen upstairs.
At this point I put on my coat.
Sure, I wanted to see the wise and wonderful Sam Larkin and his new band The Boxcutters (Don Kerr, Eric Newby and Doug Friesen) who were featuring that night. But I'd avoided Fat Albert's on much thinner excuses before.
"It's okay, everybody. We'll play in the lobby!"
It was Mary, an energetic and motherly-looking woman who appeared to be organizing things. Sure enough, everyone grabbed a chair and we headed down the hall: a diverse-looking group of musicians and music-appreciators, ranging in age from about three years old (the granddaughter of one of the performers) to seventy-something.
Hmm. Did somebody mention a vestibule? Maybe I'll stick around.
The stage was established on a landing three steps down from the audience. We'd play without amplification (some people were worried, but I knew that the tiled walls would work fine). We looked up, not down, at the audience made of each other--and it felt respectful and completely appropriate.
Musicians played original songs in styles ranging from (and mixing together) blues to country to contemporary folk. (I played my new song "Pennies" and another new song called "Everything and Everyone I Have Ever Loved" which I realize is probably too long a title now that I type it out.) Other performers gave us heartfelt renditions of "You Fill Up My Senses" and "Landslide" and "What a Wonderful World". One performer (who goes by the name "Madame X") played another performer's song on unaccompanied pennywhistle. Sam Larkin and his new band were captivating and impressive--especially so when Sam revealed it was their first performance together.
I was happy to be drinking coffee at an open stage, instead of wine.
I stayed to the end.
And I'll be back.
Someone explained that there'd been a mix-up and the space usually reserved for Fat Albert's Coffeehouse had been double-booked. This was the first time it'd happened since Fat's had found a new home in the Union Hall after being forced out of the church basement.
Undeterred, several musicians entered into talks with the Union and successfully negotiated a settlement. We'd head down the hall to a different room than usual which could be sub-divided, allowing music and committee meetings to co-exist on either side of the wall. The room thereby divided, we all got to work re-organizing the moveable risers and unstacking the stackable chairs.
Of course, I hadn't seen the room that Fat Albert's usually used, so it was all the same to me.
The show started efficiently, making up for the delay. A few performers took the stage, including one who did an abridged version of Bruce Cockburn's "Mama Just Wants to Barrelhouse All Night Long". Then water started dripping, then pouring, from the ceiling.
A couple of big plastic garbage cans were strategically placed, saving the sound equipment, but it was no use. The room was a mess...a result, we learned later, of someone leaving a faucet on in the kitchen upstairs.
At this point I put on my coat.
Sure, I wanted to see the wise and wonderful Sam Larkin and his new band The Boxcutters (Don Kerr, Eric Newby and Doug Friesen) who were featuring that night. But I'd avoided Fat Albert's on much thinner excuses before.
"It's okay, everybody. We'll play in the lobby!"
It was Mary, an energetic and motherly-looking woman who appeared to be organizing things. Sure enough, everyone grabbed a chair and we headed down the hall: a diverse-looking group of musicians and music-appreciators, ranging in age from about three years old (the granddaughter of one of the performers) to seventy-something.
Hmm. Did somebody mention a vestibule? Maybe I'll stick around.
The stage was established on a landing three steps down from the audience. We'd play without amplification (some people were worried, but I knew that the tiled walls would work fine). We looked up, not down, at the audience made of each other--and it felt respectful and completely appropriate.
Musicians played original songs in styles ranging from (and mixing together) blues to country to contemporary folk. (I played my new song "Pennies" and another new song called "Everything and Everyone I Have Ever Loved" which I realize is probably too long a title now that I type it out.) Other performers gave us heartfelt renditions of "You Fill Up My Senses" and "Landslide" and "What a Wonderful World". One performer (who goes by the name "Madame X") played another performer's song on unaccompanied pennywhistle. Sam Larkin and his new band were captivating and impressive--especially so when Sam revealed it was their first performance together.
I was happy to be drinking coffee at an open stage, instead of wine.
I stayed to the end.
And I'll be back.
Fat Albert's Pt. 1 - Avoiding The Church Basement Door
Maybe it was the fact that it was in a vestibule.
Or maybe it was the fact that I'd finally made it there, after 23 years.
Anyway, it was worth the wait to get to Fat Albert's.
In 2003, when I heard the event was about to lose its location (after an apparently myopic church committee decided to bludgeon it with a rent hike), I wrote a strong letter in support of Fat Albert's. Still, I didn't go.
Driving along Cecil Street just after 7 o'clock last night, I missed the Steelworkers Union Hall at first and drove past it, turning left along a side street. There was one parking spot available, directly behind a white 1990 Honda Civic wagon which looked exactly the same as mine right down to the rust.
It was my first sign that I was in the right place.
Or maybe it was the fact that I'd finally made it there, after 23 years.
Anyway, it was worth the wait to get to Fat Albert's.
+++
Fat Albert's is Toronto's longest running open stage. It started in 1967, when draft dodgers were arriving in Toronto and students were turning the Rochdale university residence across the street into a counter-cultural civic embarassment. I was born in 1963, so I was too young to appreciate all that, and I arrived in Toronto in the fall of 1981.
My plan, back then, was to stuff my pages upon pages of introspective song lyrics (along with my guitar of course) into a psychic bottom drawer, to go to college and pursue a respectable career in broadcasting. Songs being what they are however, they didn't conform so easily to that plan, and they kept on being written, jamming the psychic drawer but good. Mostly, I didn't tell anybody about those songs. (My writer friend Warren, who is reading, was an exception. He will remember "Rainfall on Runnymede", a song that has particular resonance in light of my recent subway experience.)
Around that time, I started hearing about Fat Albert's, the open mic in the church basement on Bloor Street West.
I didn't go.
But I remember a time that I almost went. I found the church (Bloor Street United, at Spadina and Bloor) and walked casually past the door a couple of times, the way you might casually walk past the house of somebody you have a crush on. I didn't summon the nerve to go in.
Why not? I was terrified. I thought, simultaneously, that I was both too good for it and not nearly good enough. At that time, I was, literally, embarrassed to be seen in public carrying my guitar. For me it carried a feeling of shame, not unlike the shame I felt as a young teenager afraid to be seen with my parents. I produced demo cassettes of my songs at home, but couldn't play them for anyone. I wanted to meet other singers, yet felt I wouldn't fit in with them, that I'd be considered too straight, too nerdy, too...terrified.
So...best to avoid that church basement door.
Eventually I stepped through other such doors, at the Cafe at the Centre in Cabbagetown, at The Free Times Cafe, at Groovy Mondays, at The Renaissance Cafe. And even though I celebrated the inclusiveness and generosity and encouragement that could be found on such stages (and inspired my song Stage) I couldn't bring myself to go to the particular place I'd so steadfastly avoided at the time in my life when I might have benefitted from it most, as a shy 18 year-old singer-songwriter, thousands of miles away from home.
I didn't go.
But I remember a time that I almost went. I found the church (Bloor Street United, at Spadina and Bloor) and walked casually past the door a couple of times, the way you might casually walk past the house of somebody you have a crush on. I didn't summon the nerve to go in.
Why not? I was terrified. I thought, simultaneously, that I was both too good for it and not nearly good enough. At that time, I was, literally, embarrassed to be seen in public carrying my guitar. For me it carried a feeling of shame, not unlike the shame I felt as a young teenager afraid to be seen with my parents. I produced demo cassettes of my songs at home, but couldn't play them for anyone. I wanted to meet other singers, yet felt I wouldn't fit in with them, that I'd be considered too straight, too nerdy, too...terrified.
So...best to avoid that church basement door.
Eventually I stepped through other such doors, at the Cafe at the Centre in Cabbagetown, at The Free Times Cafe, at Groovy Mondays, at The Renaissance Cafe. And even though I celebrated the inclusiveness and generosity and encouragement that could be found on such stages (and inspired my song Stage) I couldn't bring myself to go to the particular place I'd so steadfastly avoided at the time in my life when I might have benefitted from it most, as a shy 18 year-old singer-songwriter, thousands of miles away from home.
By this time, I was out of the closet as a performer and I had built up a bit of confidence. So why didn't I go now? Well, now that I had my eye on an actual "music career" (lights! CDs! reviews!) I told myself I was somehow "past" that basement door. I reasoned that open mics were a merely stop along the way, not a destination...a career stage to move past, and the more quickly the better. (Needless to say, I viewed subway busking in pretty much the same light, which was to say, a dim one.)
It took my friend Sam Larkin, a songwriting friend whom I might have met twenty years ago if I'd had the courage to walk in the doors, to finally get me to Fat Albert's. He was doing a feature performance with his new band, The Boxcutters. Sam has been a big inspiration to me, both as a songwriter and a thinker (which will make his website all the more fascinating to you) so I wasn't about to miss his feature set. (To read more about Sam, and other performers who frequented the early days at Fat's, check out this blog.)
It took my friend Sam Larkin, a songwriting friend whom I might have met twenty years ago if I'd had the courage to walk in the doors, to finally get me to Fat Albert's. He was doing a feature performance with his new band, The Boxcutters. Sam has been a big inspiration to me, both as a songwriter and a thinker (which will make his website all the more fascinating to you) so I wasn't about to miss his feature set. (To read more about Sam, and other performers who frequented the early days at Fat's, check out this blog.)
Driving along Cecil Street just after 7 o'clock last night, I missed the Steelworkers Union Hall at first and drove past it, turning left along a side street. There was one parking spot available, directly behind a white 1990 Honda Civic wagon which looked exactly the same as mine right down to the rust.
It was my first sign that I was in the right place.
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