“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.”
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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”.)
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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?
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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.
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