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.
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