Egads! I'm at Eglinton!

A few months ago, I almost played at Eglinton subway but chickened out. So I was determined to play there during my scheduled time this afternoon.

Unfortunately, Adam Solomon was there when I arrived. He's an African guitar player who just returned from Winnipeg after winning a well-deserved Juno Award. I noticed that he wasn't displaying it in his guitar case--that would probably be unwise--but his intricate finger-picking sounded nothing less than stellar.

I'm not sure how to describe what Adam does. Is it jazz? World music? Some newfangled kind of ultra-cool R & B? Hmm... Whatever it is, it makes the mini-mall in the middle of Eglinton Station seem like a happening place to be.

I considered going back home and not interrupting him. But no! This is Eglinton! Stay the course, I told myself.

Meanwhile, easygoing Adam was happy to take a break. He ambled off to enjoy the sunny afternoon, leaving all of his interesting amps and instruments taking up most of the performance space between the yellow dots. I apologized for interrupting, squeezed myself into the remaining space and started to play.

Oh yeah, there was one other thing taking up a lot of space. My massive Inferiority Complex.

And it's a bigger liability than a broken string.

None of my songs sounded right at Eglinton today. My voice didn't seem to carry...my melodies seemed obvious...my lyrics seemed ridiculous. Shortly after I started, another musician from the open mic circuit came by and listened to six songs. Even though he complimented me on each of them, I still felt insecure. Then a nice elderly man came along and commented on my fingerpicking. I thanked him. And he revealed he was once a major folk festival booker. (Did I mention my timing was off?)

He picked up my CD. And put it back down.

I idiotically offered to give it to him in appreciation for his years of service (What was I thinking?!). He didn't take it then either.

Needless to say, I couldn't hear myself very well at Eglinton. I kept checking my amp to see if it was turned up to the highest allowable level. (It was past it.) My voice seemed to be swallowed up by the passing crowds. After a half-hour, I started wishing fervently that Adam Solomon would come back so I could go home.

Eventually he did come back. He listened to a few songs and made a donation.

And he paid me a lovely compliment.

Which I could barely hear.