Pape Station - 4:00 to 5:10 p.m. approx.
Okay, so I don't really know when I arrived at Pape, or Woodbine for that matter. Also, I'm unsure of my exact earnings on those shifts, because by the third busking appearance of the day, I was losing track of time and how much seed money I put in my case.
I was starting to fade.
Maintaining a pleasant expression and positive performance energy isn't easy after playing for hours. How do the full-time buskers do it? When do they quit? Do they head home when they start to feel tired and bitter, or when the magic number of toonies finally lands in their case?
The answer is probably both. If it's important to make enough money to pay the rent, you probably keep going no matter what. I feel grateful that so far I'm not in that situation...although the money I earn in the subway is very important to our family. Right now, I have the luxury of choosing when to sing and why: I can turn it into a "job" if I choose to...or keep singing only for joy. That choice is a difficult one for me...but I recognize that I'm fortunate to have the choice at all.
As rush hour started at Pape Station, the wind was picking up. (It would be interesting to know why, from an engineering perspective, the wind tunnel effect is so strong at this particular subway station. I suspect it has something to do with the trains coming through at the same time as the buses above ground, but I'm being completely unscientific.)
The garbage can to my right was overflowing and a couple of tin cans had gotten loose. The first one clanged across the tile floor to the stairway in front of me and bounced halfway down. The second one remained still for some time (a subway rider tried to secure it to the rest of the garbage but failed) until it, too, was picked up by the wind and went skittering across the floor. Both times, the cans were too far away for me to reach without putting down my guitar, so I let them dance with the wind. It was entertaining.
The cans were empty, of course, which is why they were so vulnerable to the random airstream. By this time in the long day, I was feeling hollow too, despite the encouraging smiles of people passing by, steady donations and another CD sale. I had given too much and I knew it. With each new song, I stood as firm as I could and tried to sing with conviction, but it sounded false.
If I kept at it, viewing this experience as a job primarily to make money, I might have earned another ten bucks or so.
(Whoosh! The tin can bumps up against my open guitar case.)
But if I went home now, I might reserve enough energy to come back tomorrow...or to plan a series of songwriting workshops or book a few paying gigs.
(Clangety-clang! The can bounces its way toward the exit.)
($36.47)
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
3:15 p.m. - Afternoon Lull
After leaving Queen's Park station just after 10:00 a.m., I spent the middle of the day working at my producer's (recording facilitator's) studio, steadily completing tracks for my latest CD. (Recently he pointed out that the term "producer" sounds a bit highfalutin'...as does "my latest CD", which I can't help but feel is becoming something of a cliche. How about "latest collection of recorded songs"? )
We finished early and as I had no car I returned to the subway to get home. Both children had after-school plans and I still had enough energy to sing (or so I hoped), so I decided to busk some more.
At Bay Station, I could hear the strong voice of a young male singer-songwriter confidently carrying down the stairs to subway level. Hearing it, even several flights down, I realized that my own voice must carry just as far. Somehow I don't feel comfortable thinking about this. I seem to feel more comfortable singing directly to individuals that I can connect with as they pass by...rather than a large group of people beyond my range of vision. (I notice, too, that I'm still somewhat uncomfortable with publicizing my work beyond my immediate circle.)
I carry on to Woodbine station. It's so quiet, I'm deciding to pack up after only five songs when a man comes over, wondering if I'm the same singer he heard--and liked--when he'd been rushing through the station on another day. He's a secondary school teacher who put himself through university working as a musician. Hoping I'm indeed the right songwriter, I sell him the "Learning Curve" CD while nervously running through my list of known subway musicians and wondering if there's another female singer-songwriter I could possibly be mistaken for. Then I play "Where Do You Call Home" for him, but it's practically drowned out by suddenly-deafening subway noise.
Suddenly my income for a half-hour at Woodbine had jumped from $2.50 to $22.50.
And I have to catch the bus at Pape Station to get home.
We finished early and as I had no car I returned to the subway to get home. Both children had after-school plans and I still had enough energy to sing (or so I hoped), so I decided to busk some more.
At Bay Station, I could hear the strong voice of a young male singer-songwriter confidently carrying down the stairs to subway level. Hearing it, even several flights down, I realized that my own voice must carry just as far. Somehow I don't feel comfortable thinking about this. I seem to feel more comfortable singing directly to individuals that I can connect with as they pass by...rather than a large group of people beyond my range of vision. (I notice, too, that I'm still somewhat uncomfortable with publicizing my work beyond my immediate circle.)
I carry on to Woodbine station. It's so quiet, I'm deciding to pack up after only five songs when a man comes over, wondering if I'm the same singer he heard--and liked--when he'd been rushing through the station on another day. He's a secondary school teacher who put himself through university working as a musician. Hoping I'm indeed the right songwriter, I sell him the "Learning Curve" CD while nervously running through my list of known subway musicians and wondering if there's another female singer-songwriter I could possibly be mistaken for. Then I play "Where Do You Call Home" for him, but it's practically drowned out by suddenly-deafening subway noise.
Suddenly my income for a half-hour at Woodbine had jumped from $2.50 to $22.50.
And I have to catch the bus at Pape Station to get home.
8:05 a.m. - Morning Songs
The busking spot at Queen's Park was flooded with sunlight.
People streamed through the corridor past me and then rode up the elevator on their way to work. If I turned my head to watch them ascend to street level, I looked up to the skylight and stared into early morning brightness.
In less than a month's time, the kids will be home for summer vacation, so I will need to sing in the early morning before Dave goes to work (or at night after he comes home) if I am to sing at all. That kind of schedule would have seemed challenging in the dark of winter. But on warm and clear mornings like this one, I'm happy to be up early.
I have a new song to try out today. It's called "Lived-In Look" and is about long-term love and commitment. It's a sunny, optimistic and grateful song, and it works beautifully in the subway, eliciting many cheerful smiles of understanding from people passing by. It's a morning song.
Other recent songs of mine, "New Guitar" for instance, are night-time songs: songs inspired by darker emotions such as restlessness and disappointment. (This isn't to say that I don't sing them at other times of day. Now that I'm busking regularly I'm playing ALL of my songs, including some I thought I'd forgotten, and I want to learn as many good songs written by others as possible. But some songs do seem to match certain settings and times better than others.)
This experience has taught me that I need all of my songs. In the larger context of my life, the daytime songs are the ones I've been most comfortable in for awhile; they have suited my social role of wife and mother. At the same time, the darker nighttime songs (which are now coming into the open) are providing some rich new shadows.
+++
Looking around at the sunlit cathedral-like vestibule this morning, it seemed a completely different place than the dark and isolated place that I'd needed to escape last fall.
When the large man in stained clothes shuffled through the station around 9:30 a.m., I knew him immediately. He was the unstable and potentially dangerous man I met while busking alone at Queen's Park station after dark.
In the bright daylight today, with hundreds of people passing by, he didn't seem so large or imposing. But because of my previous experience and my increased subway savvy, I automatically avoided his eyes.
I realized later the sadness in that decision. After all, last time we met, we had had a conversation. Yes, it was short and highly-controlled, because I was doing my best to get away from him. But still, it was a conversation in which he told me about his home and the music he enjoys.
Today, even though it would have been safe for me to interact with him, I chose not to. I deliberately didn't catch his eye or acknowledge him in any way, even though in the daylight with so many other people nearby, he posed no threat.
It struck me that I'd gained some street smarts.
And possibly lost some compassion.
($27.18)
People streamed through the corridor past me and then rode up the elevator on their way to work. If I turned my head to watch them ascend to street level, I looked up to the skylight and stared into early morning brightness.
In less than a month's time, the kids will be home for summer vacation, so I will need to sing in the early morning before Dave goes to work (or at night after he comes home) if I am to sing at all. That kind of schedule would have seemed challenging in the dark of winter. But on warm and clear mornings like this one, I'm happy to be up early.
I have a new song to try out today. It's called "Lived-In Look" and is about long-term love and commitment. It's a sunny, optimistic and grateful song, and it works beautifully in the subway, eliciting many cheerful smiles of understanding from people passing by. It's a morning song.
Other recent songs of mine, "New Guitar" for instance, are night-time songs: songs inspired by darker emotions such as restlessness and disappointment. (This isn't to say that I don't sing them at other times of day. Now that I'm busking regularly I'm playing ALL of my songs, including some I thought I'd forgotten, and I want to learn as many good songs written by others as possible. But some songs do seem to match certain settings and times better than others.)
This experience has taught me that I need all of my songs. In the larger context of my life, the daytime songs are the ones I've been most comfortable in for awhile; they have suited my social role of wife and mother. At the same time, the darker nighttime songs (which are now coming into the open) are providing some rich new shadows.
+++
Looking around at the sunlit cathedral-like vestibule this morning, it seemed a completely different place than the dark and isolated place that I'd needed to escape last fall.
When the large man in stained clothes shuffled through the station around 9:30 a.m., I knew him immediately. He was the unstable and potentially dangerous man I met while busking alone at Queen's Park station after dark.
In the bright daylight today, with hundreds of people passing by, he didn't seem so large or imposing. But because of my previous experience and my increased subway savvy, I automatically avoided his eyes.
I realized later the sadness in that decision. After all, last time we met, we had had a conversation. Yes, it was short and highly-controlled, because I was doing my best to get away from him. But still, it was a conversation in which he told me about his home and the music he enjoys.
Today, even though it would have been safe for me to interact with him, I chose not to. I deliberately didn't catch his eye or acknowledge him in any way, even though in the daylight with so many other people nearby, he posed no threat.
It struck me that I'd gained some street smarts.
And possibly lost some compassion.
($27.18)
Friday, May 27, 2005
The newspaper stand has left the building
Well, not exactly.
But it has moved back home to its proper place at Pape Station.
It moved while I was playing.
Looking ahead to a very busy weekend, I needed an infusion of subway energy. So I dashed up to Pape at 9:30, abandoning my to-do list and knowing that I'd have to be back by school lunch pick-up time.
I was greeted by a gleaming new Gateway Newstand, newly revealed and free of drywall construction barriers.
It's silver and pristine with a cheerful bright red sign. The kind and friendly family that runs the concession stand was hard at work, putting shelving back in place.
It hadn't occurred to me that they'd move the newspaper rack, the one that had been temporarily relocated to a space just beside the busking rectangle. I had become quite used to it just to my left, creating a nice little corner for my amp and knapsack. (One morning recently, it occurred to me that a potted plant would look nice on the shelves.)
When the two young men in the family came over to move the stand back into place, I was so surprised, I briefly forgot my lyrics.
Suddenly the humble little performance spot seemed positively huge.
+++
Also today, a man who works for Go Transit came up to me with a special gift.
A bag of donuts!
+++
And a footnote:
Our little white Honda (1990 Civic Wagon) has been retired. After several major repairs in a short time, and two expensive ones needed now, we realize it's reached the end of the road.
So at least until we buy another car, I'll be spending even more time on the TTC.
When I walk, I run...
($25.47)
But it has moved back home to its proper place at Pape Station.
It moved while I was playing.
Looking ahead to a very busy weekend, I needed an infusion of subway energy. So I dashed up to Pape at 9:30, abandoning my to-do list and knowing that I'd have to be back by school lunch pick-up time.
I was greeted by a gleaming new Gateway Newstand, newly revealed and free of drywall construction barriers.
It's silver and pristine with a cheerful bright red sign. The kind and friendly family that runs the concession stand was hard at work, putting shelving back in place.
It hadn't occurred to me that they'd move the newspaper rack, the one that had been temporarily relocated to a space just beside the busking rectangle. I had become quite used to it just to my left, creating a nice little corner for my amp and knapsack. (One morning recently, it occurred to me that a potted plant would look nice on the shelves.)
When the two young men in the family came over to move the stand back into place, I was so surprised, I briefly forgot my lyrics.
Suddenly the humble little performance spot seemed positively huge.
+++
Also today, a man who works for Go Transit came up to me with a special gift.
A bag of donuts!
+++
And a footnote:
Our little white Honda (1990 Civic Wagon) has been retired. After several major repairs in a short time, and two expensive ones needed now, we realize it's reached the end of the road.
So at least until we buy another car, I'll be spending even more time on the TTC.
When I walk, I run...
($25.47)
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Holes in Hearts
A man came up to me in the subway and stopped a few feet away, digging in his knapsack.
Instead of pulling out his wallet or a handful of coins, he pulled out several sheets of white paper and a pair of scissors.
"I have something for you!" he said excitedly.
I stopped playing to watch him fold the paper several times and cut them into a deliberate shape.
"These are holes-in-hearts," he told me. "I give them to people."
And sure enough, that's exactly what they were. After he had accomplished the basic heart shape, he cut a second heart away on the inside, creating heart-shaped paper donuts about three inches in diameter.
Pulling away the extra paper, he gave me a large stack of them.
"Thank you so much," I said, not sure what I was thanking him for exactly and wondering what to do next.
He had no such hesitation.
"This one is special," he said, folding up a large sheet of paper and starting to cut again, this time creating a snowflake design made of larger hearts and holes.
"Thank you," I said again. "You're doing a wonderful thing."
I wasn't just saying that to be nice. I felt sure it was true, I just wasn't sure why.
Was it simply the uniqueness of his act of generosity that was moving, or was it the symbolism of the gift?
These weren't simply hearts with random punctures in them (although those holes in hearts might have been meaningful as well).
No, these were whole hearts with parallel empty hearts in the centre. They represented a yin/yang: positive and negative space within one heart and within every heart, all parallel to each other and cut from the same cloth.
Was this what he meant?
I didn't dare ask him. I was afraid, I suppose, that he might talk to me too much about his hearts...that I might find myself connecting too long or too deeply during a chance encounter with a highly unusual stranger in a public place. (Was this the hole in my otherwise heartfelt "thank you"?)
He handed me the large, special heart-snowflake, smiled gaily and headed off to catch a train.
I stashed the cut-outs in my knapsack. The large snowflake is still there, folded up for safekeeping.
But somehow the little holes-in-hearts got loose around our house. For days afterward we were finding them everywhere, scattered on the floor and on cabinets.
Dave and the kids asked, "What are these? Where did they come from?"
I haven't known how to answer.
Instead of pulling out his wallet or a handful of coins, he pulled out several sheets of white paper and a pair of scissors.
"I have something for you!" he said excitedly.
I stopped playing to watch him fold the paper several times and cut them into a deliberate shape.
"These are holes-in-hearts," he told me. "I give them to people."
And sure enough, that's exactly what they were. After he had accomplished the basic heart shape, he cut a second heart away on the inside, creating heart-shaped paper donuts about three inches in diameter.
Pulling away the extra paper, he gave me a large stack of them.
"Thank you so much," I said, not sure what I was thanking him for exactly and wondering what to do next.
He had no such hesitation.
"This one is special," he said, folding up a large sheet of paper and starting to cut again, this time creating a snowflake design made of larger hearts and holes.
"Thank you," I said again. "You're doing a wonderful thing."
I wasn't just saying that to be nice. I felt sure it was true, I just wasn't sure why.
Was it simply the uniqueness of his act of generosity that was moving, or was it the symbolism of the gift?
These weren't simply hearts with random punctures in them (although those holes in hearts might have been meaningful as well).
No, these were whole hearts with parallel empty hearts in the centre. They represented a yin/yang: positive and negative space within one heart and within every heart, all parallel to each other and cut from the same cloth.
Was this what he meant?
I didn't dare ask him. I was afraid, I suppose, that he might talk to me too much about his hearts...that I might find myself connecting too long or too deeply during a chance encounter with a highly unusual stranger in a public place. (Was this the hole in my otherwise heartfelt "thank you"?)
He handed me the large, special heart-snowflake, smiled gaily and headed off to catch a train.
I stashed the cut-outs in my knapsack. The large snowflake is still there, folded up for safekeeping.
But somehow the little holes-in-hearts got loose around our house. For days afterward we were finding them everywhere, scattered on the floor and on cabinets.
Dave and the kids asked, "What are these? Where did they come from?"
I haven't known how to answer.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Pape Station - Post Victoria Day
Today I returned to Pape Station, hoping that the construction noise wouldn't be as bad as last time.
It turned out to be blessedly quiet there today, except for one brief burst of circular-sawing which seemed almost apologetic in the way it started up and then suddenly stopped.
The most unusual thing that happened today were things that had happened before. In less than two hours, I met six people whom I'd met at Pape on other days, and I started to have a weird feeling of deja vu, as if I were trapped in a bizarre time loop of subway travel. Some of the people passed by on their way to somewhere, and then passed by again on their way back. (When they've said hi to me once, they don't know whether or not to say hi again, and neither do I. Smiling is good, I find.)
At one point, I was getting so used to seeing familiar faces, I confidently said "hello" to a guy coming up the stairs...and then realized we hadn't met before at all. (Oops...now will he avoid this station because of the insane busker lady?)
+++++++
This afternoon I saw several parents and children. Sometimes I make a point of singing "Stroller Up The Hill" when I see family groups go by, but they usually aren't listening carefully enough to hear the lyrics, and I just end up feeling silly singing about strollers for everybody else.
Today the families I saw seemed too busy (or too loaded up with shopping bags and babies) to offer anything but a smile.
But one little girl, about five years old, noticed that a penny was lying on the floor just outside my guitar case. It had been there for most of my performance.
She stopped, very carefully picked up the penny, and dropped it into my case.
($39.41)
It turned out to be blessedly quiet there today, except for one brief burst of circular-sawing which seemed almost apologetic in the way it started up and then suddenly stopped.
The most unusual thing that happened today were things that had happened before. In less than two hours, I met six people whom I'd met at Pape on other days, and I started to have a weird feeling of deja vu, as if I were trapped in a bizarre time loop of subway travel. Some of the people passed by on their way to somewhere, and then passed by again on their way back. (When they've said hi to me once, they don't know whether or not to say hi again, and neither do I. Smiling is good, I find.)
At one point, I was getting so used to seeing familiar faces, I confidently said "hello" to a guy coming up the stairs...and then realized we hadn't met before at all. (Oops...now will he avoid this station because of the insane busker lady?)
+++++++
This afternoon I saw several parents and children. Sometimes I make a point of singing "Stroller Up The Hill" when I see family groups go by, but they usually aren't listening carefully enough to hear the lyrics, and I just end up feeling silly singing about strollers for everybody else.
Today the families I saw seemed too busy (or too loaded up with shopping bags and babies) to offer anything but a smile.
But one little girl, about five years old, noticed that a penny was lying on the floor just outside my guitar case. It had been there for most of my performance.
She stopped, very carefully picked up the penny, and dropped it into my case.
($39.41)
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Structures: Osgoode Station
Even though subway busking has an improvisational quality, I find myself creating patterns and structures which help me succeed at it.
Although I never start out with a set list, I often play songs in groups. "Sympathy Card" is played with a capo on the fourth fret and so is "Tall Trees", so I usually play them one after another, followed by "Smooth Stones" which echoes lyric content in "Tall Trees". They're individual songs created from different motivations, at different times, with different chord structures and melodies. But when I string them together they form a reassuring pattern, which I seem to need--especially in a space which is ever-changing and unpredictable.
Over a lifetime, all of the songs and notes and words and verses hook together in patterns like beads on a string, making up a body of work that has its own form and impact. Often I'm too close to the work itself--or to the particular details of a particular day--to see that the individual choices I choose to repeat are creating a larger whole.
++++
Although we have an official schedule of stations that we can follow if we choose, the route taken by most subway musicians is more individualistic. We can decide, on a whim, to go to the farthest station westward (Islington) or stay close to home (Broadview) as the mood strikes us.
Yesterday, when I found myself with a free day and therefore more time to sing, I spontaneously went to Osgoode subway station, "forgetting" (since I hadn't been there for awhile) that just like Pape and Broadview it's a station under construction.
For some reason, I've been drawn to the stations currently marked by barriers and obstacles...works-in-projects with results yet-to-be-revealed...and places where structures are being built or strengthened.
On Friday afternoon, a large part of Osgoode station was hidden so that an elevator could be installed. One of the exit corridors was fenced off for another project, but the performance area was clear.
Although this corridor was damp and drafty as always, the shower-style tiled wall acoustics sounded better than I remembered.
It sounded so good, I wondered if somehow the new walls created by the construction had improved the sound.
Although I never start out with a set list, I often play songs in groups. "Sympathy Card" is played with a capo on the fourth fret and so is "Tall Trees", so I usually play them one after another, followed by "Smooth Stones" which echoes lyric content in "Tall Trees". They're individual songs created from different motivations, at different times, with different chord structures and melodies. But when I string them together they form a reassuring pattern, which I seem to need--especially in a space which is ever-changing and unpredictable.
Over a lifetime, all of the songs and notes and words and verses hook together in patterns like beads on a string, making up a body of work that has its own form and impact. Often I'm too close to the work itself--or to the particular details of a particular day--to see that the individual choices I choose to repeat are creating a larger whole.
++++
Although we have an official schedule of stations that we can follow if we choose, the route taken by most subway musicians is more individualistic. We can decide, on a whim, to go to the farthest station westward (Islington) or stay close to home (Broadview) as the mood strikes us.
Yesterday, when I found myself with a free day and therefore more time to sing, I spontaneously went to Osgoode subway station, "forgetting" (since I hadn't been there for awhile) that just like Pape and Broadview it's a station under construction.
For some reason, I've been drawn to the stations currently marked by barriers and obstacles...works-in-projects with results yet-to-be-revealed...and places where structures are being built or strengthened.
On Friday afternoon, a large part of Osgoode station was hidden so that an elevator could be installed. One of the exit corridors was fenced off for another project, but the performance area was clear.
Although this corridor was damp and drafty as always, the shower-style tiled wall acoustics sounded better than I remembered.
It sounded so good, I wondered if somehow the new walls created by the construction had improved the sound.
Friday, May 20, 2005
On a clear day you could sing forever
(Osgoode Station - 12:10 to 1:30 p.m. - $19.05)
Today I thought I was going to spend the day in my producer's basement recording studio, but we'd gotten our dates mixed up, so I ended up with a free day.
The weather is absolutely brilliant today, and as I drove back across town (looking forward to parking the car) I listened to DJ's jokingly telling listeners what excuses they should use if they want to take the day off. I figured it'd be a great day to busk, especially because it's the Friday before the long weekend and lots of people would be in a good mood.
I wondered if other buskers would have the same idea and if the best spots would be taken? Sure enough, Queen's Park was occupied by a young man playing "Girl From Ipanema" on his guitar. I headed to Osgoode, deciding to meet Dave for lunch after an hour of singing.
I was trading one underground music space (the studio) for another (the subway)...but it was a beautiful day and I was feeling very keen.
----------------------
We interrupt this blog for an important message.
I must leave this entry unfinished right now, but I wanted to let you know that tonight on CBC's The National, several other subway buskers (including Adam Solomon, whom I've mentioned in previous posts) will be featured in a feature length documentary. (Don't worry, I've just turned down the "jealousy" dial on my emotional amp...and I had more than enough attention with that newspaper article!)
Tune in later for more on Osgoode.
--------------------
We watched the show last night and really enjoyed it.
Adam Solomon spoke in his warmly understated, slightly amused way about the overpopulatedness of the local music scene and the resulting need for every musician to find their own path and solutions. Corin Raymond (whom I described briefly in my profile of Groovy Mondays several months ago) was cast as the aspiring star, who might one day step aside to give his busking space to another performer once he achieves greater success. And the classical duo Ilga and Indulis Suna were shown to be hardworking and accomplished musicians with a strong work ethic and commitment to family.
The musicians' descriptions of the joys of subway busking are consistent with mine (Corin's glee upon counting his change, for instance, and Adam's feeling of pride as he hands his business card to a new fan). Several musicians talked about the deep feeling of satisfaction they receive when they connect with a stranger through their music.
One thing that wasn't highlighted, though, was the inconsistent nature of donations...the fact that subway musicians completely dependent on voluntary giving and thus affected by factors beyond their control. (Yesterday, for instance, I wondered why cash donations were slow, even though I was receiving a higher-than-usual number of smiles and nods. Then I went above-ground and noticed four panhandlers and one other busker at the same intersection.)
Today I thought I was going to spend the day in my producer's basement recording studio, but we'd gotten our dates mixed up, so I ended up with a free day.
The weather is absolutely brilliant today, and as I drove back across town (looking forward to parking the car) I listened to DJ's jokingly telling listeners what excuses they should use if they want to take the day off. I figured it'd be a great day to busk, especially because it's the Friday before the long weekend and lots of people would be in a good mood.
I wondered if other buskers would have the same idea and if the best spots would be taken? Sure enough, Queen's Park was occupied by a young man playing "Girl From Ipanema" on his guitar. I headed to Osgoode, deciding to meet Dave for lunch after an hour of singing.
I was trading one underground music space (the studio) for another (the subway)...but it was a beautiful day and I was feeling very keen.
----------------------
We interrupt this blog for an important message.
I must leave this entry unfinished right now, but I wanted to let you know that tonight on CBC's The National, several other subway buskers (including Adam Solomon, whom I've mentioned in previous posts) will be featured in a feature length documentary. (Don't worry, I've just turned down the "jealousy" dial on my emotional amp...and I had more than enough attention with that newspaper article!)
Tune in later for more on Osgoode.
--------------------
We watched the show last night and really enjoyed it.
Adam Solomon spoke in his warmly understated, slightly amused way about the overpopulatedness of the local music scene and the resulting need for every musician to find their own path and solutions. Corin Raymond (whom I described briefly in my profile of Groovy Mondays several months ago) was cast as the aspiring star, who might one day step aside to give his busking space to another performer once he achieves greater success. And the classical duo Ilga and Indulis Suna were shown to be hardworking and accomplished musicians with a strong work ethic and commitment to family.
The musicians' descriptions of the joys of subway busking are consistent with mine (Corin's glee upon counting his change, for instance, and Adam's feeling of pride as he hands his business card to a new fan). Several musicians talked about the deep feeling of satisfaction they receive when they connect with a stranger through their music.
One thing that wasn't highlighted, though, was the inconsistent nature of donations...the fact that subway musicians completely dependent on voluntary giving and thus affected by factors beyond their control. (Yesterday, for instance, I wondered why cash donations were slow, even though I was receiving a higher-than-usual number of smiles and nods. Then I went above-ground and noticed four panhandlers and one other busker at the same intersection.)
Thursday, May 19, 2005
To Jane or Not To Jane
(My House/Value Village - 9:00 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. - Minus $18)
Today turned out to be surprisingly unstructured, which meant I had no excuse not to go to the presumably quiet Jane Station.
I didn't make it.
Sometimes, on days like this, I find it so hard to decide what to do next, I don't end up doing anything. The indecisiveness turns into guilt, fatigue and lack of confidence. (Fortunately, I don't have self-destructive habits...but today I did go to Value Village for some cheap "retail therapy".)
This morning, because I planned to go to Jane after lunch, I decided to run through a couple of songs I hadn't played in awhile. Trying to sing, but only half-heartedly, I found my voice tightening up and getting sore...so much so that I convinced myself I must be catching a cold.
Losing my voice was a pretty good reason not to go to Jane Station.
And not going to Jane Station was probably the reason I lost my voice.
Today turned out to be surprisingly unstructured, which meant I had no excuse not to go to the presumably quiet Jane Station.
I didn't make it.
Sometimes, on days like this, I find it so hard to decide what to do next, I don't end up doing anything. The indecisiveness turns into guilt, fatigue and lack of confidence. (Fortunately, I don't have self-destructive habits...but today I did go to Value Village for some cheap "retail therapy".)
This morning, because I planned to go to Jane after lunch, I decided to run through a couple of songs I hadn't played in awhile. Trying to sing, but only half-heartedly, I found my voice tightening up and getting sore...so much so that I convinced myself I must be catching a cold.
Losing my voice was a pretty good reason not to go to Jane Station.
And not going to Jane Station was probably the reason I lost my voice.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Still Under Construction
(Pape Station - 1:09 p.m. to 2:00 p.m. - $17.97)
When I arrived at Pape Station just after one o'clock, I saw that the newspaper display had been moved.
It was slightly off to one side of the performance space, giving me plenty of room. However, since my last visit, the overall amount of construction had increased. Drywall hoarding now extends the entire length of the exit corridors, and several workmen were climbing up and down ladders directly in front of me, working on something in the ceiling.
I wished I knew Joan Armatrading's song "Walk Under Ladders".
I said hello to the workmen and set up my little amp. One of them said he was looking forward to the concert.
Strangely, it took me several songs to realize that I was being accompanied this afternoon by a high-pitched circular saw. Why didn't I notice it sooner? Either I was admirably focused on my performance...or generally oblivious to my surroundings. Hard to say.
Anyway, I kept playing and singing because that's what I was there to do, trying as best I could to smile back at the bemused passers-by. Many of them wore an expression I recognized from my days of trying to busk in minus fifteen degree temperatures.
The expression is: "She has a very nice voice. And she's crazy."
Well, that being said, I still felt like singing. The people at Pape Station were generous today, as they always are. Plus, I'd already met an outgoing Finnish opera singer (who sang for me, the second person to do so at Pape) and as always I was curious to discover what the next few hours would bring.
I decided to sit back, relax, and wait for the background noise to go away.
I leaned up against the tiled wall and played an instrumental interlude.
A long instrumental interlude.
The saw kept sawing. (Or maybe it was a drill? I was suddenly reminded that I'm overdue for a dentist appointment.)
I decided to start singing again:
"We live in a music town, where songs survive deep underground, they weep through walls, they beat down doors..."
Yeah, right.
Somebody's beating down a door alright (maybe with a jackhammer?) but it ain't me, Babe.
Needless to say, if I'd had more time this afternoon, I'd have found a construction-free zone somewhere else on the subway system. No doubt that's where the experienced subway musicians are.
Tomorrow afternoon my scheduled spot is Jane.
That sounds quiet.
Before packing up, I decided to sing just one more song: "Room to Love".
"Give me empty space, don't want no noisy overcrowded place."
The workman ducked his head out from under the ceiling, looked at me, and smiled.
When I arrived at Pape Station just after one o'clock, I saw that the newspaper display had been moved.
It was slightly off to one side of the performance space, giving me plenty of room. However, since my last visit, the overall amount of construction had increased. Drywall hoarding now extends the entire length of the exit corridors, and several workmen were climbing up and down ladders directly in front of me, working on something in the ceiling.
I wished I knew Joan Armatrading's song "Walk Under Ladders".
I said hello to the workmen and set up my little amp. One of them said he was looking forward to the concert.
Strangely, it took me several songs to realize that I was being accompanied this afternoon by a high-pitched circular saw. Why didn't I notice it sooner? Either I was admirably focused on my performance...or generally oblivious to my surroundings. Hard to say.
Anyway, I kept playing and singing because that's what I was there to do, trying as best I could to smile back at the bemused passers-by. Many of them wore an expression I recognized from my days of trying to busk in minus fifteen degree temperatures.
The expression is: "She has a very nice voice. And she's crazy."
Well, that being said, I still felt like singing. The people at Pape Station were generous today, as they always are. Plus, I'd already met an outgoing Finnish opera singer (who sang for me, the second person to do so at Pape) and as always I was curious to discover what the next few hours would bring.
I decided to sit back, relax, and wait for the background noise to go away.
I leaned up against the tiled wall and played an instrumental interlude.
A long instrumental interlude.
The saw kept sawing. (Or maybe it was a drill? I was suddenly reminded that I'm overdue for a dentist appointment.)
I decided to start singing again:
"We live in a music town, where songs survive deep underground, they weep through walls, they beat down doors..."
Yeah, right.
Somebody's beating down a door alright (maybe with a jackhammer?) but it ain't me, Babe.
Needless to say, if I'd had more time this afternoon, I'd have found a construction-free zone somewhere else on the subway system. No doubt that's where the experienced subway musicians are.
Tomorrow afternoon my scheduled spot is Jane.
That sounds quiet.
Before packing up, I decided to sing just one more song: "Room to Love".
"Give me empty space, don't want no noisy overcrowded place."
The workman ducked his head out from under the ceiling, looked at me, and smiled.
Monday, May 16, 2005
The Kitchen: Works In Progress
On Saturday night, I played a house concert in a new space called "The Kitchen".
It's a personal and unique performance environment created by the highly accomplished singer-songwriter Rosalee Peppard. She and her husband Allan have built a personal concert hall as an addition on their home. By doing this, she has created an ideal space for her own performances and opened up an opportunity to showcase other artists.
The Kitchen is all about self-sufficiency and do-it-yourself spirit. It reflects Rosalee's willingness to forge her own path in music...and her ability to see that much of what she needs can be found in her own backyard.
The addition is just freshly built and many of the finishing details are yet to be completed. But the most important things are up and running: a small and elegant stage just right for one or two people, stage lighting that's flattering and not blinding, room enough for a sizeable audience and excellent acoustics. A voice and guitar sound completely at home here and can be heard without amplification right to the back of the room.
Over time, finishing touches will be added. Walls will be painted...flooring will be laid. The Kitchen will acquire "seasoning" over the many seasons ahead.
As my hosts tell me, proudly and cheerfully, "It's a work in progress".
The concert went well, with just the right number of people in attendance (I'm always amazed that this seems to work out almost magically). I abandoned my set list after three songs, allowing myself to respond to inspiration and the energy of the audience. I sang many songs well...made some mistakes too...encountered new challenges and discovered that they, too, could be overcome with self-acceptance and laughter.
Every performance is a work-in-progress.
As I look at my life, I see other works-in-progress too: my music, my writing, my career path, my marriage, my family...this blog/book ("blook?"). Try as I always do, I'll never get them all exactly right. There's always something important that's unfinished or imperfect or not executed according to whatever master plan I thought I had.
So, do I keep the doors closed until I get everything finished? Or do I welcome people in to the "work-in-progress" and open myself up to the unexpected miracles it may hold?
Like my friends at The Kitchen, I'm more and more inclined to fling open the doors and to know that if the most important things are in place--truth, love, light--the details (the ones God is in) will be taken care of in good time. So, bring on the "mistakes", the unanswered questions, the meandering life paths...when we share them, we help eah other make sense of them.
When I write songs, I know (after years of learning) that in order to finish something, I have to give all of my enthusiasm to the unfinishedness: the beginnings and middles, fragments, unresolved rhymes. I need to maintain faith that the creative process is always at work, even though I cannot yet see the outcome.
Thanks to Rosalee and Allan at The Kitchen for inviting me into the work-in-progress.
It's a personal and unique performance environment created by the highly accomplished singer-songwriter Rosalee Peppard. She and her husband Allan have built a personal concert hall as an addition on their home. By doing this, she has created an ideal space for her own performances and opened up an opportunity to showcase other artists.
The Kitchen is all about self-sufficiency and do-it-yourself spirit. It reflects Rosalee's willingness to forge her own path in music...and her ability to see that much of what she needs can be found in her own backyard.
The addition is just freshly built and many of the finishing details are yet to be completed. But the most important things are up and running: a small and elegant stage just right for one or two people, stage lighting that's flattering and not blinding, room enough for a sizeable audience and excellent acoustics. A voice and guitar sound completely at home here and can be heard without amplification right to the back of the room.
Over time, finishing touches will be added. Walls will be painted...flooring will be laid. The Kitchen will acquire "seasoning" over the many seasons ahead.
As my hosts tell me, proudly and cheerfully, "It's a work in progress".
The concert went well, with just the right number of people in attendance (I'm always amazed that this seems to work out almost magically). I abandoned my set list after three songs, allowing myself to respond to inspiration and the energy of the audience. I sang many songs well...made some mistakes too...encountered new challenges and discovered that they, too, could be overcome with self-acceptance and laughter.
Every performance is a work-in-progress.
As I look at my life, I see other works-in-progress too: my music, my writing, my career path, my marriage, my family...this blog/book ("blook?"). Try as I always do, I'll never get them all exactly right. There's always something important that's unfinished or imperfect or not executed according to whatever master plan I thought I had.
So, do I keep the doors closed until I get everything finished? Or do I welcome people in to the "work-in-progress" and open myself up to the unexpected miracles it may hold?
Like my friends at The Kitchen, I'm more and more inclined to fling open the doors and to know that if the most important things are in place--truth, love, light--the details (the ones God is in) will be taken care of in good time. So, bring on the "mistakes", the unanswered questions, the meandering life paths...when we share them, we help eah other make sense of them.
When I write songs, I know (after years of learning) that in order to finish something, I have to give all of my enthusiasm to the unfinishedness: the beginnings and middles, fragments, unresolved rhymes. I need to maintain faith that the creative process is always at work, even though I cannot yet see the outcome.
Thanks to Rosalee and Allan at The Kitchen for inviting me into the work-in-progress.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Where's My Space?!
(Broadview Station - 10:35 to 11:12 a.m. - $1)
When I arrived at Pape Station, I heard music, so I assumed another musician was already playing there.
But on closer listen, I realized it was the Dixie Chicks.
Landslide was playing on a radio somewhere, loud enough to be heard as I descended the subway stairs. In fact, The Dixie Chicks sound quite a bit like me, and that particular song, written by Stevie Nicks, is similar to songs I write: "...time makes you bolder, even children get older, I'm getting older too".
When I realized the music was coming from a radio, I assumed the live performance space would be open for business.
Instead, it was occupied by a large newspaper and magazine rack.
The dimensions of the Gateway Newstand newspaper display happen to be the same dimensions of the Pape Station busking rectangle: that is, about 7' by 2'. The newspaper rack is about as tall as I am and looks very hard to move. The Gateway Newstand (I feel compelled to point out, again, that it's misspelled and should be "newsstand") is being renovated. The papers had to go somewhere, and I'm sure the correctly-sized rectangle of yellow dots looked just perfect.
I interrupted the contractors who were looking over blueprints for the new-and-improved 'Stand.
"Excuse me, how long will the newspaper rack be there?"
"I dunno...about a week?"
The man couldn't figure out why I was interested. When I explained that many subway musicians use that space, he seemed surprised and said he'd move it right away. In the meantime, I decided to go to Broadview station.
There was no space there, either.
As it has been since last October, the Broadview performance space was taken up by a large metal barrier, several pylons and assorted debris.
Short on time, and determined to play even for a short while, I moved the barrier out of the way. Again.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I have come to view subway performance as a form of meditation.
Although my mind wants to wander into concerns about how much money I'm making or what people are thinking, over and over again I must gently return to the present moment and simply sing and play as well as I can.
The focus and calm that I must create, in myself, in order to keep singing, creates a peaceful space in my life. There is a deep security in knowing that I can be in touch with the here and now, even when my external circumstances are not at all favourable.
At Broadview, the crowd today was at best apathetic and at worst quizzical and disdainful. I am more and more convinced that there is such a thing as "group think"--that crowds take on collective moods--and that people are affected by feng shui, the design of physical spaces which, according to Chinese wisdom, affects the flow of positive and negative energy.
Broadview is known, among subway musicians, as a very difficult spot. In 45 minutes, I received one loonie. The young woman made a point of catching my eye and smiling, and of course, I will now always remember her. (Thank you.)
I didn't feel like singing in the subway today, but I went anyway. I was not rewarded in any material way, and yet I found the space I needed. Afterward, I felt revived. Calmer. Saner.
On the way home, I passed through Pape Station again. The newspaper stand hadn't budged.
The radio wasn't playing anymore, but I still heard a song playing in my head.
"I took my love and I took it down. Climbed a mountain and I turned around..."
("Landslide", by Stevie Nicks, 1975. On Fleetwood Mac's "White Album" and The Dixie Chicks' "Home".)
When I arrived at Pape Station, I heard music, so I assumed another musician was already playing there.
But on closer listen, I realized it was the Dixie Chicks.
Landslide was playing on a radio somewhere, loud enough to be heard as I descended the subway stairs. In fact, The Dixie Chicks sound quite a bit like me, and that particular song, written by Stevie Nicks, is similar to songs I write: "...time makes you bolder, even children get older, I'm getting older too".
When I realized the music was coming from a radio, I assumed the live performance space would be open for business.
Instead, it was occupied by a large newspaper and magazine rack.
The dimensions of the Gateway Newstand newspaper display happen to be the same dimensions of the Pape Station busking rectangle: that is, about 7' by 2'. The newspaper rack is about as tall as I am and looks very hard to move. The Gateway Newstand (I feel compelled to point out, again, that it's misspelled and should be "newsstand") is being renovated. The papers had to go somewhere, and I'm sure the correctly-sized rectangle of yellow dots looked just perfect.
I interrupted the contractors who were looking over blueprints for the new-and-improved 'Stand.
"Excuse me, how long will the newspaper rack be there?"
"I dunno...about a week?"
The man couldn't figure out why I was interested. When I explained that many subway musicians use that space, he seemed surprised and said he'd move it right away. In the meantime, I decided to go to Broadview station.
There was no space there, either.
As it has been since last October, the Broadview performance space was taken up by a large metal barrier, several pylons and assorted debris.
Short on time, and determined to play even for a short while, I moved the barrier out of the way. Again.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I have come to view subway performance as a form of meditation.
Although my mind wants to wander into concerns about how much money I'm making or what people are thinking, over and over again I must gently return to the present moment and simply sing and play as well as I can.
The focus and calm that I must create, in myself, in order to keep singing, creates a peaceful space in my life. There is a deep security in knowing that I can be in touch with the here and now, even when my external circumstances are not at all favourable.
At Broadview, the crowd today was at best apathetic and at worst quizzical and disdainful. I am more and more convinced that there is such a thing as "group think"--that crowds take on collective moods--and that people are affected by feng shui, the design of physical spaces which, according to Chinese wisdom, affects the flow of positive and negative energy.
Broadview is known, among subway musicians, as a very difficult spot. In 45 minutes, I received one loonie. The young woman made a point of catching my eye and smiling, and of course, I will now always remember her. (Thank you.)
I didn't feel like singing in the subway today, but I went anyway. I was not rewarded in any material way, and yet I found the space I needed. Afterward, I felt revived. Calmer. Saner.
On the way home, I passed through Pape Station again. The newspaper stand hadn't budged.
The radio wasn't playing anymore, but I still heard a song playing in my head.
"I took my love and I took it down. Climbed a mountain and I turned around..."
("Landslide", by Stevie Nicks, 1975. On Fleetwood Mac's "White Album" and The Dixie Chicks' "Home".)
Seeking Space
I was thinking of going out to sing at Pape Station this morning, but I'm feeling too tired, and plus it's a chilly +2 degrees outside.
My week has been jammed with responsibilities: freelance work, songwriting workshops, recording, rehearsing and family activities.
I have that "stop the world, I want to get off" feeling, which isn't unusual (and probably isn't unusual at all for others at this stage of life).
Last night, an acquaintance emailed me to request that she be taken off my email list--something I invite people to do when necessary--saying that she's stretched too thin to get out to anything much these days.
I understand. I took her off the list. And I felt a little sad about it, too, while reminding myself not to take it personally.
There's only so much space in a life. There are only so many artists you can actively follow...only so many groceries you need to buy at the market. Our hunger for new songs (and books and films) is already satisfied in large part by the commercial entertainment industry.
Like other songwriters, I hope that my songs can make a difference in the world, but realistically, I know that they're only going to be heard by a limited number of people. Of those, a smaller sub-set will find them truly useful: inspiring, empowering, entertaining or reassuring. I myself am one of those people, of course, and I tell my songwriting students that even if their songs are useful just to them, the songs are valuable and necessary.
And yet, we strive for connection.
As I write this, I realize that staying in the house today, cluttered as it is, with my long to-do list and the constant chatter in my mind, may not be the way to find the space I'm seeking.
So I'm off to Pape Station.
My week has been jammed with responsibilities: freelance work, songwriting workshops, recording, rehearsing and family activities.
I have that "stop the world, I want to get off" feeling, which isn't unusual (and probably isn't unusual at all for others at this stage of life).
Last night, an acquaintance emailed me to request that she be taken off my email list--something I invite people to do when necessary--saying that she's stretched too thin to get out to anything much these days.
I understand. I took her off the list. And I felt a little sad about it, too, while reminding myself not to take it personally.
There's only so much space in a life. There are only so many artists you can actively follow...only so many groceries you need to buy at the market. Our hunger for new songs (and books and films) is already satisfied in large part by the commercial entertainment industry.
Like other songwriters, I hope that my songs can make a difference in the world, but realistically, I know that they're only going to be heard by a limited number of people. Of those, a smaller sub-set will find them truly useful: inspiring, empowering, entertaining or reassuring. I myself am one of those people, of course, and I tell my songwriting students that even if their songs are useful just to them, the songs are valuable and necessary.
And yet, we strive for connection.
As I write this, I realize that staying in the house today, cluttered as it is, with my long to-do list and the constant chatter in my mind, may not be the way to find the space I'm seeking.
So I'm off to Pape Station.
Monday, May 09, 2005
And Anywhere
This morning I volunteered in Calla's classroom for the morning, something I'm planning to do for the rest of the school year on Mondays.
At 9:30, the class was invited down to the gymnasium to watch a musical performance. The play was called "The Chinese Violin". It featured a man named John who spoke Mandarin and played the two-stringed traditional instrument called the erhu. His dignified presence, along with the ease and grace with which he played, transfixed the two hundred elementary school students in the gym.
The story was about a child who learns to play the erhu from her father and who finds that it can bring her comfort throughout her life, even after she's moved thousands of miles from home.
At one point in the story, the father plays for coins in the street...and I suddenly realized something.
At the end the performance, another cast member introduced him and confirmed what I suspected.
Min Jun (John) Gao, father of internationally-known erhu master George Gao, plays frequently on the Toronto subway system.
At 9:30, the class was invited down to the gymnasium to watch a musical performance. The play was called "The Chinese Violin". It featured a man named John who spoke Mandarin and played the two-stringed traditional instrument called the erhu. His dignified presence, along with the ease and grace with which he played, transfixed the two hundred elementary school students in the gym.
The story was about a child who learns to play the erhu from her father and who finds that it can bring her comfort throughout her life, even after she's moved thousands of miles from home.
At one point in the story, the father plays for coins in the street...and I suddenly realized something.
At the end the performance, another cast member introduced him and confirmed what I suspected.
Min Jun (John) Gao, father of internationally-known erhu master George Gao, plays frequently on the Toronto subway system.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Happy Mother's Day
In a quiet in-between time today, I spent some time trying to organize our family's CD collection.
I pulled out a Connie Kaldor CD that I bought several years ago, when she played a concert at Trinity St. Paul's church on Bloor Street.
I haven't listened to the CD in ages...and I'd forgotten that I'd asked her to sign it.
The inscription on the front read:
"For Lynn: Keep singing, and never forget that being a mother is the most important job in the world."
I pulled out a Connie Kaldor CD that I bought several years ago, when she played a concert at Trinity St. Paul's church on Bloor Street.
I haven't listened to the CD in ages...and I'd forgotten that I'd asked her to sign it.
The inscription on the front read:
"For Lynn: Keep singing, and never forget that being a mother is the most important job in the world."
Friday, May 06, 2005
I Would Recognize You Anywhere
(Pape Station - Saturday, May 6th - Immediately after St. Lawrence Market - 10:45 to 1 p.m. - $44.38)
Now that I've been playing on the subway for awhile, I'm getting the feeling that I've seen certain people before.
Occasionally people stop and introduce themselves, but more often, they walk by and throw in some change without stopping. Although everyone is distinctive when seen individually, the constant flow of faces eventually blends into one, and so it's hard to objectively judge whether I've "met" someone more than once.
It feels sad, in a way, to realize this...that I can't distinguish one person from another when they're moving so fast.
I see people in different seasons...different stations...different times of day. In December, she was bundled up in a winter coat but now she wears a sundress.
But sometimes I get a little flutter of recognition in my chest when someone walks by...a little zap of familiarity.
I get the feeling that certain people have donated to me more than once, but they're gone before I can confirm it.
I remember the feeling I had, years ago when I used to ride the subways going to work, when I hoped--and feared a little bit too--that a familiar busker might be playing in the corridor just up ahead.
There was a moment of anticipation, and either pleasure or disappointment when the musician was, or wasn't, there. The fingered coin in the pocket is tossed into the air, or placed back in the pocket.
I understand now that people are likely crossing my path more than once. When they say hello as if they know me, I find myself pretending that I also do. And now I find myself meeting people who I've met in the subway, in other social situations.
We meet as if we're old friends.
+++++++++++
For some reason, "I Would Recognize You Anywhere" is proving to be tricky to get "right" when I'm recording it.
But it's easy to sing in the subway.
Now that I've been playing on the subway for awhile, I'm getting the feeling that I've seen certain people before.
Occasionally people stop and introduce themselves, but more often, they walk by and throw in some change without stopping. Although everyone is distinctive when seen individually, the constant flow of faces eventually blends into one, and so it's hard to objectively judge whether I've "met" someone more than once.
It feels sad, in a way, to realize this...that I can't distinguish one person from another when they're moving so fast.
I see people in different seasons...different stations...different times of day. In December, she was bundled up in a winter coat but now she wears a sundress.
But sometimes I get a little flutter of recognition in my chest when someone walks by...a little zap of familiarity.
I get the feeling that certain people have donated to me more than once, but they're gone before I can confirm it.
I remember the feeling I had, years ago when I used to ride the subways going to work, when I hoped--and feared a little bit too--that a familiar busker might be playing in the corridor just up ahead.
There was a moment of anticipation, and either pleasure or disappointment when the musician was, or wasn't, there. The fingered coin in the pocket is tossed into the air, or placed back in the pocket.
I understand now that people are likely crossing my path more than once. When they say hello as if they know me, I find myself pretending that I also do. And now I find myself meeting people who I've met in the subway, in other social situations.
We meet as if we're old friends.
+++++++++++
For some reason, "I Would Recognize You Anywhere" is proving to be tricky to get "right" when I'm recording it.
But it's easy to sing in the subway.
The Market
It's early Saturday morning and I'm shopping at St. Lawrence Market, the sprawling indoor farmer's market right in the centre of town. Everyone has been up with the sun and is seizing the crisp May morning...along with the lettuce, and apples, and...
I haven't shopped at The Market for quite some time. I had forgotten there were so many musicians. Buskers seem completely in their element at St. Lawrence Market, alongside merchants selling local produce and breads and sausages and salsa.
As I walk into the vestibule of the North Market, I happily toss $2 to a boy who looks about fifteen. He's playing guitar and singing something that sounds original. Then, after I've navigated my way halfway across the crowded building, I spot another busker, a teenage girl this time. (Uh-oh...do I still have any change in my pocket?) She reminds me of me at that age (her sweet voice boosted helpfully by a microphone) except that I didn't have anything near her confidence at that time in my life.
I stop to talk to her about busking...she recognizes me from the newspaper article that appeared in December. I want to connect with her, but realize I'm old enough to be her mother.
She tells me she'd rather do this than any other kind of job.
When I arrived at the Market this morning, I saw a man selling the Outreach paper. I recognized him from a few days ago when I bought the paper outside our nearby Shoppers Drug Mart. He apparently remembered me, too, because he smiled and waved me on, wishing me good morning.
An hour later, I had finished my shopping and had donated to four out of the five buskers I encountered. I know I was being silly about it, but once I'd established a pattern, I figured I had to be consistent.
As I left, I saw the same Outreach salesman again. (I'd said 'sorry' to two other Outreach sellers.)
"There are so many here," I said. "You want to give to everyone."
"You can't," he agreed.
I haven't shopped at The Market for quite some time. I had forgotten there were so many musicians. Buskers seem completely in their element at St. Lawrence Market, alongside merchants selling local produce and breads and sausages and salsa.
As I walk into the vestibule of the North Market, I happily toss $2 to a boy who looks about fifteen. He's playing guitar and singing something that sounds original. Then, after I've navigated my way halfway across the crowded building, I spot another busker, a teenage girl this time. (Uh-oh...do I still have any change in my pocket?) She reminds me of me at that age (her sweet voice boosted helpfully by a microphone) except that I didn't have anything near her confidence at that time in my life.
I stop to talk to her about busking...she recognizes me from the newspaper article that appeared in December. I want to connect with her, but realize I'm old enough to be her mother.
She tells me she'd rather do this than any other kind of job.
When I arrived at the Market this morning, I saw a man selling the Outreach paper. I recognized him from a few days ago when I bought the paper outside our nearby Shoppers Drug Mart. He apparently remembered me, too, because he smiled and waved me on, wishing me good morning.
An hour later, I had finished my shopping and had donated to four out of the five buskers I encountered. I know I was being silly about it, but once I'd established a pattern, I figured I had to be consistent.
As I left, I saw the same Outreach salesman again. (I'd said 'sorry' to two other Outreach sellers.)
"There are so many here," I said. "You want to give to everyone."
"You can't," he agreed.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Staying Afloat
When I returned to Queen's Park subway the next day, I found it harder to swim.
I was tired, to begin with. Also, the seas themselves seemed to be rougher.
I find myself continually asking the question: Are there collective moods that take over public spaces or are the people passing by simply reflecting my state-of-mind? Am I simply projecting? That seems quite possible (although it's maddening when I think I'm in an excellent frame of mind but the public response suggests otherwise).
I know that these projections must be real, and yet, I can't shake the impression that there's also a mysterious and broad collective consciousness at work, a consciousness in which I myself am immersed.
Whatever. This afternoon I played four whole songs before anybody donated.
But maybe it was worth the wait, because the first donation came about in a spectacular way.
A group of grade school students (around grade six) came through the station on a field trip. A number of them tried to stop and gather round ("Hey, listen to the great singer!") , digging in their pockets for change while their teacher tried to corral them and keep them on track. It took me several seconds too long to realize I should be supporting their teacher and encouraging them to keep moving, instead of revelling in the spontaneous gathering of the crowd that I'd been craving. (I did finally shoo them off...after several of them gave me change.)
After they left, as donations continued to be slow, I felt the now-familiar trickling away of my confidence. I questioned the quality of my material and played cover versions of other people's songs to see if they fared better, which they did not.
For the first hour, a woman was panhandling at the top of the stairs nearby, maybe thirty paces away. Many of the people passing me would have passed her first...and had to make a decision about whether or not to give to her. I wonder if that decision, and the resulting negative feelings that might result, might have affected people's response to me? It's a theory. After she left, business picked up, but not dramatically.
One of the side benefits of a slow donation period is that once I've accepted the reality of the situation, I usually just play whatever I feel like. Today, I pulled out a winter song, which I wouldn't ordinarily play if I thought people were really listening. It's called Skates & Wings.
The song is not so much about skating as it is about one woman's balancing act, and about falling down and getting up again.
As I played, a woman stopped and told me how much she appreciated it, because it had been a hard day. I felt that I had been singing the song for a reason, and that once again I could pick myself up, take a deep breath and keep singing.
I was tired, to begin with. Also, the seas themselves seemed to be rougher.
I find myself continually asking the question: Are there collective moods that take over public spaces or are the people passing by simply reflecting my state-of-mind? Am I simply projecting? That seems quite possible (although it's maddening when I think I'm in an excellent frame of mind but the public response suggests otherwise).
I know that these projections must be real, and yet, I can't shake the impression that there's also a mysterious and broad collective consciousness at work, a consciousness in which I myself am immersed.
Whatever. This afternoon I played four whole songs before anybody donated.
But maybe it was worth the wait, because the first donation came about in a spectacular way.
A group of grade school students (around grade six) came through the station on a field trip. A number of them tried to stop and gather round ("Hey, listen to the great singer!") , digging in their pockets for change while their teacher tried to corral them and keep them on track. It took me several seconds too long to realize I should be supporting their teacher and encouraging them to keep moving, instead of revelling in the spontaneous gathering of the crowd that I'd been craving. (I did finally shoo them off...after several of them gave me change.)
After they left, as donations continued to be slow, I felt the now-familiar trickling away of my confidence. I questioned the quality of my material and played cover versions of other people's songs to see if they fared better, which they did not.
For the first hour, a woman was panhandling at the top of the stairs nearby, maybe thirty paces away. Many of the people passing me would have passed her first...and had to make a decision about whether or not to give to her. I wonder if that decision, and the resulting negative feelings that might result, might have affected people's response to me? It's a theory. After she left, business picked up, but not dramatically.
One of the side benefits of a slow donation period is that once I've accepted the reality of the situation, I usually just play whatever I feel like. Today, I pulled out a winter song, which I wouldn't ordinarily play if I thought people were really listening. It's called Skates & Wings.
The song is not so much about skating as it is about one woman's balancing act, and about falling down and getting up again.
As I played, a woman stopped and told me how much she appreciated it, because it had been a hard day. I felt that I had been singing the song for a reason, and that once again I could pick myself up, take a deep breath and keep singing.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
In The Stream: Queen's Park
In the language of recording technicians, the sound of Queen's Park would be "wet".
The busking area is located at the bottom of an escalator well, at a junction-point of two tiled corridors. The twenty-five foot vaulted ceiling, combined with the tiled walls, causes sound to reverberate unlike it does anywhere else on the subway system. It's the opposite of a "dry" sound, which doesn't echo at all.
It's simply wonderful. It makes you feel as if you're singing in your own private cathedral.
I'm writing this entry while sitting on the bleachers at an after-school swimming class. I'm breathing in moist, chlorinated air while watching children splash happily in the water. At the far end of the pool, a teenage girl practices synchronized swimming--alone--to the song "One" from "A Chorus Line" ("One!! Singular sensation! Every little step she takes...etc.")
After a few days spent agonizing, mostly unproductively, over career paths and finances, splashing back down into the stream of life at Queen's Park station felt cleansing and energizing, much like a good swim.
Recently I wrote that busking is like fishing...today I'm reminded how much the fisher is also in the stream.
When I'm singing for people, I am immersed in moment-by-moment experience, responding to the ripples of smiles on people's faces, riding the occasional waves of self-confidence that arise and then recede, as regularly as the tides.
At a brief time in my life, I swam every day, and I remember the feeling of relief and exhilaration each time I slipped back into the pool.
That same feeling supports me now. As I swim in these sound waves, I am carried along and I become stronger and more alive.
The busking area is located at the bottom of an escalator well, at a junction-point of two tiled corridors. The twenty-five foot vaulted ceiling, combined with the tiled walls, causes sound to reverberate unlike it does anywhere else on the subway system. It's the opposite of a "dry" sound, which doesn't echo at all.
It's simply wonderful. It makes you feel as if you're singing in your own private cathedral.
I'm writing this entry while sitting on the bleachers at an after-school swimming class. I'm breathing in moist, chlorinated air while watching children splash happily in the water. At the far end of the pool, a teenage girl practices synchronized swimming--alone--to the song "One" from "A Chorus Line" ("One!! Singular sensation! Every little step she takes...etc.")
After a few days spent agonizing, mostly unproductively, over career paths and finances, splashing back down into the stream of life at Queen's Park station felt cleansing and energizing, much like a good swim.
Recently I wrote that busking is like fishing...today I'm reminded how much the fisher is also in the stream.
When I'm singing for people, I am immersed in moment-by-moment experience, responding to the ripples of smiles on people's faces, riding the occasional waves of self-confidence that arise and then recede, as regularly as the tides.
At a brief time in my life, I swam every day, and I remember the feeling of relief and exhilaration each time I slipped back into the pool.
That same feeling supports me now. As I swim in these sound waves, I am carried along and I become stronger and more alive.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Lotteries and Dreams
In one of my early fantasies about becoming a subway busker, I imagined that I might attract a crowd. (Attracting a crowd is, in fact, discouraged by TTC management for safety reasons.) I imagined that everyone passing by might stop and listen.
"In your dreams!", you're thinking.
Well, exactly. I'm good, but I'm not THAT good!
Even Adam, the virtuosic Juno-award-winning guitar player, doesn't bring pedestrian traffic to a halt when he plays in the subway.
It's pretty hard for one artist to attract the attention of mass audiences without mass promotion. This should be obvious. But somehow, it's not.
Music has such powerful emotional resonance, both for the creator and for the listener, it can transform our emotions and our everyday experience. As a result of its beauty and its meaning for us, it can fool us into thinking that it has the power to change our economic circumstances. Its seductive quality makes us believe we'll win big. It keeps us playing the music business lottery.
Just one more gig, one more demo, one more CD, one more song, one more expensive session player, one more tour, one more whatever the next task is, and Something Big Will Happen. The music endeavor will click into focus, the path will make sense. There will be a big redemption, a payoff. That's how the story is supposed to end, isn't it?
C'mon, aren't you half-expecting THIS story to pay-off big time? Aren't you waiting for someone powerful to discover me in the subway and offer to become my agent, producer, promoter and benefactor? (Or perhaps you'd prefer the tragi-comic ending: the disillusioned indie musician throws herself onto the subway tracks in a fit of despair?)
It’s not going to happen.
But it's worth noticing that we expect those endings. We don't feel satisfied when big shiny dreams just putter along in a way that may be self-sustaining but un-dramatic. We're conditioned to expect the big finish.
The Cinderella story of the entertainment business is deeply ingrained in us. That myth supports many people in the business, from producers to graphic designers to side musicians, all of whom are hired by artists aspiring to the music dream of mass audiences. The music dream is energizing and sustaining, and the hope and possibility that a song might be heard by others is often just the ticket to get it written in the first place. Dreams make life exciting: think of those lottery commercials where people's lives are enhanced simply by the possibility that they might win.
I’ve always been a big believer in dreams. Popular songs have served as my official dream soundtrack, with inspirational melodies and lyrics such as “Hold On To Your Dreams” (Triumph? ELO? Both?) The first song I recorded, with my high-school friend Danny, was called “Dare to Dream”. True to form as a dream-believing singer-songwriter, I’ve spent thousands (and thousands) of dollars on CDs, many of which are in my basement. I’m very proud of those CDs. Yet I know that to continue to create a product that attempts to compete with industry-funded recordings for large audiences is a financially unsustainable and ultimately foolish proposition.
At Broadview subway station, the lottery ticket kiosk is located right beside the performance area. However, I’m never tempted to use my busking dollars to buy lottery tickets.
I don’t need to.
In the subway, and in humble 'non-industry' performance spaces, I see that songs have value even when they do not reach mass audiences. They have value--currency, meaning--when they reach individuals.
I see that while the odds against mass popularity are astronomically high, opportunities to serve others through music are everywhere--and odds of success at it are strongly in the artist's favour.
I see a new kind of game, where everyone's a winner.
"In your dreams!", you're thinking.
Well, exactly. I'm good, but I'm not THAT good!
Even Adam, the virtuosic Juno-award-winning guitar player, doesn't bring pedestrian traffic to a halt when he plays in the subway.
It's pretty hard for one artist to attract the attention of mass audiences without mass promotion. This should be obvious. But somehow, it's not.
Music has such powerful emotional resonance, both for the creator and for the listener, it can transform our emotions and our everyday experience. As a result of its beauty and its meaning for us, it can fool us into thinking that it has the power to change our economic circumstances. Its seductive quality makes us believe we'll win big. It keeps us playing the music business lottery.
Just one more gig, one more demo, one more CD, one more song, one more expensive session player, one more tour, one more whatever the next task is, and Something Big Will Happen. The music endeavor will click into focus, the path will make sense. There will be a big redemption, a payoff. That's how the story is supposed to end, isn't it?
C'mon, aren't you half-expecting THIS story to pay-off big time? Aren't you waiting for someone powerful to discover me in the subway and offer to become my agent, producer, promoter and benefactor? (Or perhaps you'd prefer the tragi-comic ending: the disillusioned indie musician throws herself onto the subway tracks in a fit of despair?)
It’s not going to happen.
But it's worth noticing that we expect those endings. We don't feel satisfied when big shiny dreams just putter along in a way that may be self-sustaining but un-dramatic. We're conditioned to expect the big finish.
The Cinderella story of the entertainment business is deeply ingrained in us. That myth supports many people in the business, from producers to graphic designers to side musicians, all of whom are hired by artists aspiring to the music dream of mass audiences. The music dream is energizing and sustaining, and the hope and possibility that a song might be heard by others is often just the ticket to get it written in the first place. Dreams make life exciting: think of those lottery commercials where people's lives are enhanced simply by the possibility that they might win.
I’ve always been a big believer in dreams. Popular songs have served as my official dream soundtrack, with inspirational melodies and lyrics such as “Hold On To Your Dreams” (Triumph? ELO? Both?) The first song I recorded, with my high-school friend Danny, was called “Dare to Dream”. True to form as a dream-believing singer-songwriter, I’ve spent thousands (and thousands) of dollars on CDs, many of which are in my basement. I’m very proud of those CDs. Yet I know that to continue to create a product that attempts to compete with industry-funded recordings for large audiences is a financially unsustainable and ultimately foolish proposition.
At Broadview subway station, the lottery ticket kiosk is located right beside the performance area. However, I’m never tempted to use my busking dollars to buy lottery tickets.
I don’t need to.
In the subway, and in humble 'non-industry' performance spaces, I see that songs have value even when they do not reach mass audiences. They have value--currency, meaning--when they reach individuals.
I see that while the odds against mass popularity are astronomically high, opportunities to serve others through music are everywhere--and odds of success at it are strongly in the artist's favour.
I see a new kind of game, where everyone's a winner.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Turnarounds
When I'm travelling on the subway, I often get turned around.
It's not unusual for me to mistakenly jump on the eastbound train instead of the westbound, only realizing several stops later that I'm heading in the wrong direction.
Whenever this happens, I hop off the train and (trying to look nonchalant) walk over to the opposite platform at whatever station I happen to find myself.
As an underground artist--not simply a subway musician, but an artist who finds herself outside (I'd rather not say 'beneath') the mainstream entertainment industry--it's not surprising that I frequently lose my sense of direction.
On the underground artist's journey, there are few landmarks, such as pay raises or job promotions in other fields. The signposts that do appear don't necessarily point to clear destinations. The show might go well, but not earn money. The songs might get better, but never be widely heard. (Other types of artists face the same kinds of challenges. A novelist friend of mine just received a wonderful write-up in a major publication. But he's not sure how that will help him eventually make any money writing books.)
After striving for years as an artist, the career landscape may look pretty much the same as it did at the beginning, just as underground subway stations look identical in all parts of the city. On my own indie artist track, I often find it hard to tell if I've ended up in the right place, and whether or not I should keep going.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
In Jill Sobule's excellent new CD, "Underdog Victorious", the first song is called "Freshman". It poignantly describes how she still needs a roommate to afford her rent, even years into her successful music career, while others who didn't follow their dream now own the building she lives in. I'm assuming the song is autobiographical. Jill is a wonderful artist who is much closer to the Centre of the Music Industry Universe than I am. Still, she's virtually unknown to the general public. I think you'd enjoy both her music and her blog, Jill's Journal.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It's ironic, isn't it, that when I'm singing in the subway, I'm often called upon to provide directions.
So that I don't send someone else down the wrong track, I try to pause and carefully think through their trip and destination. I guess that's what I'm trying to do for myself as well.
It's not unusual for me to mistakenly jump on the eastbound train instead of the westbound, only realizing several stops later that I'm heading in the wrong direction.
Whenever this happens, I hop off the train and (trying to look nonchalant) walk over to the opposite platform at whatever station I happen to find myself.
As an underground artist--not simply a subway musician, but an artist who finds herself outside (I'd rather not say 'beneath') the mainstream entertainment industry--it's not surprising that I frequently lose my sense of direction.
On the underground artist's journey, there are few landmarks, such as pay raises or job promotions in other fields. The signposts that do appear don't necessarily point to clear destinations. The show might go well, but not earn money. The songs might get better, but never be widely heard. (Other types of artists face the same kinds of challenges. A novelist friend of mine just received a wonderful write-up in a major publication. But he's not sure how that will help him eventually make any money writing books.)
After striving for years as an artist, the career landscape may look pretty much the same as it did at the beginning, just as underground subway stations look identical in all parts of the city. On my own indie artist track, I often find it hard to tell if I've ended up in the right place, and whether or not I should keep going.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
In Jill Sobule's excellent new CD, "Underdog Victorious", the first song is called "Freshman". It poignantly describes how she still needs a roommate to afford her rent, even years into her successful music career, while others who didn't follow their dream now own the building she lives in. I'm assuming the song is autobiographical. Jill is a wonderful artist who is much closer to the Centre of the Music Industry Universe than I am. Still, she's virtually unknown to the general public. I think you'd enjoy both her music and her blog, Jill's Journal.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It's ironic, isn't it, that when I'm singing in the subway, I'm often called upon to provide directions.
So that I don't send someone else down the wrong track, I try to pause and carefully think through their trip and destination. I guess that's what I'm trying to do for myself as well.
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