Summertime

"Oh, there's that nice girl with the guitar. I've been missing her."

I could hear them speaking from halfway down the corridor, two women in their sixties speaking sotto voce.

Even though I often suspect that I'm being mistaken for several other, younger, girls with guitars who've played on the Toronto subway system, I'm happy to be described this way. I smile and play energetically as they approach.

"Hello, Dear. How are you?" one asks with a warm smile.

"Fine thanks!" And I actually am.

+++

Because I've been feeling less-than-confident about subway singing recently, today I sought a busking location that was as much like a concert hall as possible.

The only ones I could think of were Spadina and Queen's Park subway stations. Of the two, Queen's Park was more likely to be well-travelled on a Monday afternoon, so that's where I went.

Unfortunately, the escalator under the glorious vaulted skylight was under repair and the floor space reserved for buskers was occupied by dismantled escalator parts. I wondered yet again: is every subway station continually under construction, or am I simply drawn to the ones that are?

I considered riding the subway to a better location, but in 32 degree heat I couldn't be bothered.

Taking my cue from the harpist who resourcefully created an alternate space for himself at Broadview, I decided exactly where I wanted to stand and started singing in the best part of the corridor.

+++

Today I played three well-known summer tunes and repeated them often.

"Summertime" ("...and the livin is easy"), "I Can See Clearly Now" ("gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day") and "Here Comes The Sun" were all popular with passers-by. At one point, a man walked by and pulled out a harmonica, playing along with "Summertime". I wished he could stay longer.

I think I'll add more sunny-day covers to my repertoire. "You Are The Sunshine of My Life" would be good, I think.

Also, I want to write a great summer song of my own.

(There I go again, raising the bar on myself. Yup, I'll write a definitive summer song not unlike, oh, George Harrison, George Gershwin and Stevie Wonder! Well, might as well aim high.)

I have to say, it felt good to be singing in the subway today, and I was relieved to be enjoying it again.

When my mood lifts after a down period (not just about busking, but about the "music career" in general) I wonder, what was I thinking? How could I not enjoy singing songs I love for hours at a time and having strangers thank me?

(Queen's Park station - Almost 3 hours in the middle of the day - $36.29)

Even if...

...I don't audition again, I still have until October to keep playing.

The Sound of Silence

Last Tuesday, at Bay Station, the busking wasn't going well.

I was feeling marginalized and under-appreciated. I was wondering why I wanted to do this in the first place and questioning the quality of my music. I know to expect those insecurities now. They're part of busking territory and a craggy feature of many artists' daily landscape.

I know that's just part of the deal. And I figure it's up to me to deal with it.

So, until now, when I've felt this kind of insecurity while busking, I've squared my shoulders and tried harder.

I've responded by singing louder and more clearly, by paying attention to my fingerpicking, adjusting my posture, fiddling with my amp, picking another "better" song.

I've tried to tune in more fully to the people around me: to be as emotionally and spiritually connected as possible to the song, the corridor, the people, the guitar, the universe.

But on this particular day, I was inspired to do nothing.

I found myself taking breaks of about a minute long and simply standing still.

At those times, I listened to the sound of the corridor without my singing. It wasn't exactly silent, but it was definitely quiet. I heard shoes clicking on the tile floor, soft-soled shoes shuffling along. Occasionally there'd be the sound of a stroller. Mostly though, there was a quietness. A gentle absence of music.

I noticed it. And I noticed other people not noticing it.

The sudden absence of music didn't register any more than its unexpected presence.

But the quiet acceptance became part of my song.

The Barbeque Question

We spent this afternoon at a backyard barbeque party, to honour friends of ours who are moving to a larger house across town.

At one point, a friend asked me a familiar question. "How are you? How's your music career going?"

As always, The Question was asked kindly and with a certain tone of concern. My neighbours have known about my career for several years now, and it's probably clear that I'm not getting rich on it. (Few people are surprised, perhaps, that we're not the ones who are moving.)

I have fumbled this question many times--looking at times over-confident and at other times desperate--but to my surprise, this time I was fine with it.

Smiling, I thanked my neighbour for asking and said it's going very well. I mentioned a couple of gigs and the new CD coming up.

I didn't mention the subway, even though I know from experience that it would have made for entertaining barbeque conversation.

Today I felt like keeping it my little secret.

Expectations

I might think that I can figure everything out and decide where this is all leading. But the subway is still a surprising place.

I headed to Pape Station this morning because I had a couple of free hours. Until I decide once and for all whether or not to re-audition, I have to keep doing my research.

To my surprise, the people at Pape today seemed particularly friendly. (Well, the Gateway Newstand man wasn't, but perhaps he was missing Phil.)

Within ten minutes, two people came along and asked me for my card. (The first one approached me before I had even played a note.) They were music and media people who might like to work with me, above ground.

In an hour and a half, I earned $17.89.

Today that seemed pretty good to me, probably because I went in with low expectations.

Fire Juggling

Over the last few days, I've been re-considering my decision to audition for the subway again.

When I started this project, I said "it's only for a year". (At one point, I described it as similar to "A Year In Provence", Peter Mayle's chronicle of his unexpectedly challenging sojourn in France.) Lately, when I've been telling people I've re-applied, some friends' eyebrows have risen even further up.

For all the joys of sharing these songs I love so much, and meeting so many interesting people in the process, there has also been a steady drip, drip, drip of doubt.

I've felt a growing irritation that in our society, it's perfectly okay to walk right past someone doing something generous and life-affirming and creative (doesn't have to be singing, could be fire-juggling or reciting poetry or making chalk paintings) and pretend they're not there.

At times, I've been annoyed at myself for not being a better juggler. For not being more talented, more unconventional, more compelling in my songs and performance. (There's still a temptation to blame myself when people walk right past, despite my belief that ANY unknown artist, however gifted, would have more or less the same level of success.)

I've also been critical of myself for not being a better juggler in other ways as well: for not managing the family/business/music balancing act in such a way that I could succeed in a more conventional (respectable, impressive) way.

Throughout the experience so far--and in the course of any given hour--two states-of-mind seem to be vying for supremacy. (Flip, flip, flip go the flaming batons.)

One is pride. (Confidence, self-acceptance.)

The other is shame.

(Playing with fire, indeed.)

+++

The interplay between these feelings (as well as the interplay between love and fear, generosity and selfishness...) fascinates me. The energy created by that tension is, I realize, part of what has kept me playing in the subway.

At the same time, the feelings are real and probably do have real consequences if not handled with caution.
I'm reminded of the warning my songwriting friend gave me at the beginning of the year: "You have to be careful. People burn out."

I think that this must have been what he was talking about. The insecurity and feelings of alienation must've gotten to his friends, like toxic fumes.

The shortest route to a healthy and self-protective outlook would have been the "up" escalator.

An Audience of One - Part 2

Having handed over Pape Station to Phil, I headed westbound to Bay Station.

A plastic sign that read "Caution: Wet Floor" was set up beside the busking rectangle. Sure enough, a long trail of salty residue extended along the corridor. Looking overhead to see if anything was still dripping, and deciding that it wasn't, I opened my guitar case.

Before long I had settled into my usual routine of excellence and invisibility.

The Bay corridor, as always, with its bright white ceramic tile, had the pleasing acoustics of a giant shower. In today's hot weather (28 degrees and sunny) it started to feel pleasantly steamy, and I was reminded of the expensive health club I once belonged to back in the days when I made lots of money.

A kind woman in her sixties wearing a cheerful yellow jacket came over and said "Thank you for your music."

A one year-old in his stroller played "peek-a-boo" with me as his mother pushed him along, eyes straight ahead.

And a man wearing a fedora caught my eye from a distance. Something about him made me know for certain that he would like my songs. Perhaps all independent musicians engage in 'audience-profiling', that is, quickly analyzing the age range and personal style of a potential listener to see if they're likely to appreciate what we play. I'm pleased that often I get it right...I can tell who I'm trying to reach and I'm happy when I do.

Earlier in the year, I thought that perhaps I shouldn't be identifying potential supporters from a distance...that it's somehow opportunistic. I've changed my mind on that. Now I think it's just another legitimate form of marketing. And it gives me what I need, which is an actual audience.

This particular man made a donation and then listened from around the corner (which is exactly what I would have done). I knew he was there, and that knowledge gave my performance of one song a new energy and focus that hadn't been there before. Afterwards, he complemented me wholeheartedly and went on his way.

After he left, I stayed for a few more hours, even though donations were slim and personal interactions were infrequent. It's interesting that I do stick around longer in those situations. I'm more likely to stick around long enough to eventually see a return, instead of quitting early and cutting my losses.

When two women arrived with violin and cello to play in the space, I was finally prompted to call it a day.

I picked up my jean jacket from the floor and noticed it was damp. Something must have still been dripping.

(Bay Station - 11:00 approx to about 1:45 p.m. - $24.93)

An Audience of One - Part 1

"Wow! You rock!"

That's what Phil said to me today, hearing me for the first time as he bounded up the stairs at Pape Station. Phil is a beaming, athletic black man who has been playing in the subways for many years. I heard him here just the other day, playing an enthusiastic version of "Daydream Believer". (Or was it "Last Train to Clarksville"?)

He had hoped to play at Pape today but I got there first.

"Keep playing!" he encouraged me, saying he wanted to listen for awhile before moving on to another station.

The man at the Gateway Newstand didn't hear this conversation. He was pleased to see Phil and asked him when he was going to start.

Phil discreetly shook his head and nodded in my direction. The Gateway man looked disappointed.

Now, we all have our audiences. Phil, it seems, is part of mine. But the Gateway man is part of Phil's.

Not wanting to stand in between a performer and his fan, I decided to go somewhere else.

There's enough room in the underground for everybody.

(4 songs, $3.50)

The Walk Home

As I walked down Broadview hill, heading south from the subway station that I decided to avoid tonight, I thought about the one thing I did today that seemed to happen quickly and easily.

Early this morning, I filled out and mailed in my application to audition for next year's Subway Musicians' program. It was a pretty automatic decision. These days, whenever I run into another TTC musician, he or she asks "did you get your application in?" and we nod knowingly at each other.

Tonight the sky was a beautiful combination of violet and gold, with delicate pink clouds framing the skyline. The view from Broadview is exquisite: there's something about the angle of the view that puts the office towers in graceful perspective, their hard angles balanced by the gentle sweep of the long, curving hill.

The houses that look onto this view are very expensive, perhaps a million dollars or more apiece. There are a few apartment buildings too, which offer the same prime views for presumably more affordable rents. Of course, the view is free for all who decide to walk this hill or sit on a bench to appreciate it for awhile.

As I reflected on my decision to apply again, I wondered at my response to the musicians I've seen recently. Frankly, they did look down-and-out--not only when I was feeling tired and disconnected but also when I was in a good mood. Yesterday, as my son and I came back from a doctor's appointment, I made an effort to speak to a man playing a harp at Broadview station. (Because the performance area is now completely piled up with construction materials, he had boldly taken up residence right in front of the main staircase where he couldn't be avoided.) I approached him, change in hand, but he looked up at me with such weariness and caution, I quickly dropped my attempt at conversation along with my quarters.

I don't want to look that down-and-out.

So why risk it?

Why not stay above ground, choosing only to play the "good" gigs at the "right" places? Why not stay comfortable, setting my sights on the glittering city skyline instead of the dusty subway wall?

I think it's the crack in the wall that intrigues me, all those broken places at Broadview station that are taking the entire year to be repaired. As Leonard Cohen wrote, "there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in"... The light that gets in during dark moments is more appreciated, more necessary. It's then that songs do their best work.

It's a lot to ask of a song...to expect it to stop the train of fears and disappointments that threaten to overtake us all. It's truly miraculous that it occasionally does. Adam's music finds me at the bottom of a stairwell and lifts me up...a song idea overtakes me and the whole world is brilliantly new.

It's those little miracles we hope for that keep us coming back, I guess, like prospectors panning for gold.

Empty Pockets

It's the end of the week, and I'm tired. I've been out late for several nights in a row. I'm behind on a long list of projects at home and for work. I'm impatient to get my latest CD finished, but I don't want to spend any more money on it.

And I'm missing our car.

When we finally retired our little Honda Civic a few weeks ago, I tried to put a positive spin on it. I've been walking more--a LOT more--and I've been riding the subway much more frequently. We joined AutoShare, Toronto's innovative and economical car sharing network.

Although we've been managing as well as can be expected, I'm feeling a lot less efficient. It's taking me longer to get things done. I'm tapping my feet in impatience as I wait on trains. Public transit doesn't feel like a positive choice at the moment, it feels like an uncomfortable chore.

Meanwhile, I'm passing subway buskers.

Routinely, I listen for them as I get off the train at a station where I know there is a designated performance area. By chance, the musicians I've been encountering lately have not been my personal "favourites". The music they play isn't to my taste or isn't something I appreciate. I find myself evaluating them negatively and comparing myself to them, especially if their licence number (and therefore their status on the subway musicians' ladder...yes, there's a ladder even here) is inexplicably higher than mine.

Not feeling at all generous, I'm withholding my coin.

I'm darting past them as quickly as possible, not meeting their eyes or being encouraging. I do glance at their guitar case (accordion box) to see how well they're doing (ie. how well I'm not, because they're in the spot and not me). My thoughts lean toward comparisons and complaints. I don't feel connected to the other musicians...in fact, I want to distance myself from them.

At sundown tonight, after my last errand of the day, I decide to walk home.

Passed Over

A few days ago I mentioned that folk festival season is coming up. Over the last few weeks, they've been announcing their lineups.

This year, because I deliberately wanted to concentrate on the subway as my primary performance venue, I didn't officially apply to very many events. By not applying to very many, I insulated myself somewhat from the disappointment of being turned down by all of them.

But I did apply to a few specific events which I would have been personally well-suited for. I sent out customized, personal packages to the artistic directors, feeling hopeful but not overly optimistic.

In Canada, there are probably enough excellent acoustic performers to grace a thousand folk festivals.

As always, I got the disappointing news by reading the festivals' lineup announcements. It seems nobody's sending out responses to applications anymore.

But I thought of an exception. For a period of time, I worked with a woman who had to turn down dozens of filmmakers applying for grants. She graciously and courageously phoned unsuccessful applicants, saying something along the lines of "I'm so sorry. We wanted to fit you in but just couldn't this time." In doing so, she earned the applicants' continued respect and ensured that they'd apply again. She understood the importance of acknowledging the people who reached out to her, even if she couldn't provide everything they wanted.

In the subway, when someone says "keep it up" or "good job" or simply nods in my direction instead of reaching in their pocket, I still appreciate it. It's worse to be simply ignored, as if one doesn't exist. Funny how the phrase "passed on" (they "took a pass" on me) is similar to what we say when someone dies. "He passed away". (The person turning away is the one doing the dying.)

Since I've been busking, I've noticed a definite change in my response to rejection. The thousands of mini-rejections are good practice for the bigger ones. So I didn't get booked to play EverybodyFest? That's okay, there'll be others. There's a toughness in my response now that wasn't there before--both a new toughness and a new flexibility. The calluses on my fingers are harder now too, allowing me to play longer and with more strength and assurance. In order to keep those calluses, I have to keep playing, to keep rubbing up against opposition.

So often, the losses aren't real anyway. They're "paper losses"--only wished-for expectations that don't exist in the here and now. When I see them for the mirages they really are, they evaporate into the air. I become more receptive to my actual experience, continually surprised by what's just around the corner and by the sources of support that reveal themselves.

The Amp On My Back

Early in the subway year, I was told by a passing stranger that my guitar couldn't be heard.

So I went out and bought a small battery-powered amp, which weighs about fifteen pounds. It fits neatly into a backpack, which I carry with me, along with my guitar in its hardshell case.

At one point, I tried to load everything onto a nifty little pull-cart, but I couldn't get the hang of it, so I went back to shouldering the load myself.

Lately, as I've been moving from station to station looking for a place to sing, it's occurred to me that the amp on my back is making the journey more difficult.

I use the amp because I want to be heard. I want more people to hear me. I want my songs to carry. The amp magnifies and enhances my sound. I feel it makes me sound more "professional".

The amp works as it's supposed to. Now I can be heard from a greater distance. You don't have to be right up close to appreciate my songs.

At the same time, this amp on my back slows me down. It's a burden, but one I'm happy to take on as I try to launch my songs into the world, to make them go further and faster.

Sometimes I wonder what people are thinking. Whatever is she carrying in that big pack? And while she's already got a guitar!

Well, I'll tell you what's in that pack. Expensive CDs, a few press releases, nice-looking business cards, side musicians that get paid, song contest entries, photographs, bios...a whole bunch of little amps.

Meanwhile, yeah, I'm carrying the guitar no matter what.

I'll be carrying it for the rest of my life. And it will be carrying me.

I wonder how long I'll be hauling that amp.

Spadina

Last time I was on the subway, I was told I was going to Spadina.

Maybe I should have just gone there first.

But instead, I started at Pape station. It was around ten o'clock on a sweltering Saturday morning. The Pape performance spot was occupied by a large electric keyboard, waiting for its owner to return from a break.

Next I tried Yonge, the busiest station and one that I often feel too shy to play. Adam Solomon, the Juno-winning guitar player, was there. Always warm, bemused and soft-spoken, he talked with me about the challenges of the subway gig. Coming from the Caribbean, he feels everyone is moving "too fast". Like me, he wishes more people would take a moment to enjoy the music. He planned to stick around for awhile and suggested I try Eglinton.

A longhaired guitar player was there, playing very jangly material. His songs don't exactly blend in in a soothing way. (As I continually remind myself, there's no accounting for taste.) He starts selling me on Spadina. "There's this really long corridor leading up to the spot, so people have a long time to make up their minds. And the acoustics are great."

It's true, the corridor is really really long. It seemed even longer in 32 degree heat with an amp on my back. Until about a year ago, the corridor featured a moving sidewalk, but it had been removed. Trudging along, I remembered a conversation I'd had with a musical friend who pointed out that twenty years ago, it was easier for music artists to get on a career track, with radio play and record label support. Those vehicles don't exist any more for the vast majority, who have to get wherever they end up on their own power. (Trudge, trudge.)

The musician was right, also, about the acoustics in the performance space. The reverb was just as warm as it had been at Christmas, last time I was here. Once again, I thought the spacious and attractive foyer would work well as a concert auditorium.

The sound was so pleasing here, it made up for the slow donations which lately have been typical. (I figured, you could come up with lots of reasons not to donate while walking the length of that corridor.) After four songs without any contributions, I realized that I was genuinely enjoying the experience simply as a rehearsal. Over the course of the next two and a half hours, I played several of my songs much better than usual, playing off the acoustics of the room, trying new guitar fills and unexpected rhythms. For ten minutes, I also played an instrumental improvisation around "This Little Light of Mine".

It's unlike me to be so laid-back and jazzy. (Must be Adam's influence...or maybe the heat.)

+++

Today I had several memorable donations: from parents and children, from a disabled teenage girl, and from a brave man who declared loud enough for everyone to hear, "It's lovely! Lovely! Keep singing!"

The most unusual donation, one of the most unusual of the year so far, came from two teenage boys.

As they arrived at the top of the stairs and started striding across the vestibule, one of them gestured at me and said clearly "For instance, I wouldn't pay anything for that..."

Startled, I forgot my lyrics but kept playing, looking away from them and figuring they were having some discussion about what kind of music they liked. I wasn't offended, just momentarily off-balance.

Meanwhile, the boy's friend, having noticed what had happened, reached into his pocket and threw a few coins into my case.

By doing so, he obliged the first young man to stop, get out his wallet, and give me a dollar.

(Spadina Station - 11:15 to 1:39 - $31.77)

Next Stop: This Stop

As I was riding on the westbound train, the conductor brightly announced the next station along the line.

"Next stop, Spadina Station! Spadina!"

I glanced up from my book, enjoying the ride and happy to have someone else tell me where I was going.

The train rolled on and I continued to read. As predicted, we pulled into Spadina station. The happy voice came on the loudspeaker again.

"Next stop, Spadina Station. Spadina!"

I looked up and almost said to the car in general, "No it's not! The next stop is Bathurst!"

Then I caught myself, laughing at how important it was for me to point out that we are headed someplace, we are!

It was funny, how outraged I was, when a happy voice overhead told me that I could look forward to arriving at the place I'm in right now.

Still Standing

For several days now, I've been riding the subway more frequently as a passenger, and it's been interesting to see things from that side of the tracks.

I've been disappointed that I haven't been running into many other subway musicians. I'm surprised that they've been scarce (maybe it's just my timing). The weather is beautiful outside, which I expect would make for good busking. On the other hand, on a beautiful +29 degree day, why would you want to spend any more time than you have to in a dark and dreary subway corridor?

The most obvious difference between my passenger experience and my busking experience is that when I'm a passenger, I'm moving, and when I'm a busker, I'm stopped.

I wonder, actually, whether this makes people uneasy.

In the city, we're all trying to get somewhere. The faster, the better. We're trying to move past the station we're in to a better place. A destination.

Meanwhile, the subway musician (and the panhandler, the Outreach salesman, the artist selling little paintings or bead necklaces) is stopped. Standing still. Staying put, right here and now.

And she's singing.

That's just weird.

Now, do you reward that kind of behaviour with a coin or a smile? If you do, what are you saying? That it's a good idea to jump off the track of forward-motion even for the time it takes to hear a song...or to pause long enough from a conventional career path (to spend time as a parent or as an artist) that you might consider never getting on again?

My impression from talking to people over the past year (friends, family and strangers) is that they're happy to support this activity as long as it appears to be headed somewhere. Indeed, many people who donate to me on the subway tell me openly that they hope I move ahead quickly and find myself on a more prestigious stage soon.

My own inclination is the same...to keep moving.

When I do find myself standing still, by choice or by circumstance, sometimes I'm slow to appreciate the beauty of stillness...and to celebrate, simply, still standing in the place that I am. I'm reminded of that old R.E.M. song: "Stand in the place that you live, then face north...think about direction, wonder why you haven't before."

It's coming up to festival season again. Folk festivals are prestigious landmarks for singer-songwriters. I like to play them. And, like many other highly-accomplished songwriters I know, I don't get booked to them as often as I'd like. There is more than enough music to go around. When well-meaning friends ask "So, are you playing lots of festivals this summer?" assuming that I am, it's with a pang of ambitious regret that I tell them, no, not this year.

Like the passengers moving through the station this morning, I often wish I was moving further, faster.

Instead, I am standing.

Still.

Singing.

Enough Music To Go Around

This morning I went to my favourite stomping ground to catch the morning rush hour. I was in very good spirits and my guitar and voice sounded bright and cheerful.

The crowds were much thicker than at other times of day. But nobody was stopping.

Not that I blame them. We're all trying to get somewhere.

It was striking, what a small fraction of people made a point of reaching into their pockets today. It reminded me of some comments other subway musicians had made to me recently, that they feel people are giving less than they used to. It's not scientifically provable...but we all share the same feeling. Fewer people are donating than you might expect.

Many people are walking by wearing iPods these days. We've devised a way to create isolating bubbles of sound for ourselves even when we're not driving cars. We can listen to our own personal playlist that plays all the time and blocks out everything else, even when we're in "public space". Probably we're always doing this with the continual soundtracks in our heads, but the iPod makes it sexy. (Here's a fantastic compliment that I get from time to time. As someone is walking by, he removes his headphones to check out what I'm singing.)

I do believe that "crowd-think" is a big part of donation patterns. It's not as if I hold each person personally responsible...and in fact, I make a point of smiling and looking content so that people won't feel guilty if they're too pressed at that moment to reach into their pockets. Of course, the individuals who do donate something (this morning a young woman in a headscarf donated a nickel and another donated five dollars!) shine like gold.

They seem to know they're doing something unusual...something even vaguely rebellious or subversive, giving to someone when they don't have to, when it's purely up to them, when there's more than enough music to go around anyway.

(8:02 to 10:45 - $30.62 - which seems pretty average, until you consider the number of people. Conservatively, I'm estimating that 250 people passed through Pape Station this morning.)

Walk On By

The universe is laughing at me.

Today we went out to a big yard sale in our neighborhood (or to quote a Fred Eaglesmith song, a "big ass garage sale") and I spotted a Famous Canadian Singer-Songwriter.

He was standing outside his house selling stuff.

Now, I’m terrible at these chance meetings. Even if I remind myself ahead of time not to be awkward, I always end up saying something dumb. While it may not be insincere to say something such as "I love your music and I'm a singer-songwriter myself", it certainly can seem needy.

Having learned my lesson many times, I now simply walk on past, sometimes giving the Famous Person a friendly but casual glance which reassures him or her that no, I am not another stutteringly awkward fan (or, worse yet, a stutteringly awkward fan who is also an obscure singer-songwriter).

Making matters even more complicated, F.P. was talking to my next-door neighbour, whom I know quite well. But I could handle it. Smoothly, I said hello to her, glanced pleasantly in F.P’s direction and breezed on by.

But not before I overheard him start talking to someone who came up to him with a vinyl LP in his hand, saying:

"Look at this! A record of subway musicians in Toronto!"

(That’d be the 1981 recording "Music For Subways", which featured the first eight licensed TTC musicians.)

I kept walking...choosing not to awkwardly introduce myself as a fan, an obscure singer-songwriter and a subway musician.

Now...and again?

I was surprised at how quickly my mood changed after I started singing--even though, as always, most of the people at Dundas were non-reactive yesterday.

One kind man who stopped and chatted with me reflected on how reserved people are in Toronto. He pointed out that in European cities--and in Montreal and parts of the Maritimes--singers like me would attract a crowd. We laughed when we noticed that when he stopped, thus creating a crowd, the people walking by were suddenly more interested. (When he left, they ignored me again. That's okay...I'm used to it.)

Even so, making positive and genuine connections with even a few people was enough to change my mood.

In any crowd, the number of people who connect with me is always a small fraction of the whole. Because the show must go on, no matter how little money is coming in, subway performance is essentially a form of public service. In my experience, there's no better way to get out of a self-centred and self-defeating thought pattern than by giving something away.

Singing in the subway forces me to focus on giving instead of receiving. (It's not that I don't want to receive...it's just that I always give at least as much as I get.) It also forces me to live in the present.

When I'm singing on any stage, no matter how humble, I'm not worrying about success or status. I'm not comparing myself to others. I'm not worrying about the future or negatively evaluating the choices I've made in the past. In the immediacy of the song, I am never dissatisfied.

I am fully in the Now, and it is enough.

+++

When I am not out singing, I observe that a new worry has just been added to my "fret list":

Auditioning for next year.

In just a few weeks, the TTC will be accepting applications for the 2005-2006 Subway Musicians program.

I find myself, simultaneously, worrying that I might not get in again and wondering if it's something I want to continue.

Queen's Park? Osgoode? Union? King? Queen? Dundas!

I tried Queen's Park station first. A man was playing the accordion in the performance space, with no TTC Musician's License in sight.

I asked him if he had a license, but he didn't speak English. I gave up and kept going.

Next, I tried Osgoode. The construction of the new elevator was noisily underway, with a constant high-pitched whining sound that would be impossible to rise above.

Now I was making my way steadily south along the horseshoe-shaped loop of the downtown subway line, hopping on and off trains. The next performance location was Union.

I hauled my guitar and amp up the stairs, listening intently.

I could hear a violin. So back down I went.

King Station?

A free busking space, but virtually no people. Having gone to all this trouble, I might as well go to a spot that's populated.

Queen?

I had heard that this performance spot was always free. And I could see why.

It was directly behind a pillar.

And in front of the pillar stood a panhandler, coffee cup outstretched. (Okay, this is really bad feng shui.)

I returned to the street, looking at my watch and realizing I'd spent forty-five minutes looking for a place to play. I bought a paper from the Outreach saleman at the streetcar stop, intending to go home.

And I thought: you can't give up now.

So I walked through the mall to Dundas subway station.

I hesitated, listening, outside the corridor that links the northbound and southbound platforms. Sure enough, I heard an acoustic guitar and a man singing "Suzanne".

I could tell it wasn't Billy James, the fabled original TTC musician whom I suspected had played in this corridor when I was young. But it was definitely a busker.

I had already spent a fair bit of change on other buskers today, and on TTC fares.

But I needed to connect with the singer. Before entering the corridor, I fished out another dollar.

He was busking without a license and was happy to give me the spot. We talked for a few minutes about music and songs and this life. He held a TTC Musician's License for many years, decided it wasn't for him and quit, but has recently returned to busking. He wished me well and continued on down the line.

When I finally started to sing, I was so grateful I found myself positively beaming at the people passing by.

($21.52)

I Heart Fred

Last night, I went to a Fred Eaglesmith concert hosted by friends of ours who were celebrating their 20th wedding anniversary in fine style.

I admire Fred, not only for his fine songwriting and compelling performances, but the fact that he took control of his life and built his music career from the ground up. He's done it the old-fashioned way: going on the road and playing hundreds of shows a year.

There's a part of me that envies him.

He has a song called "I Want To Buy Your Truck". It goes "I wanna buy your truck/I don't like what I'm doing/I wanna give it up/I wanna do something else... I like the way that it shines/hey I'm really stuck/in this life of mine/I wanna buy your truck."

Seems strange, doesn't it, that I'd even think of comparing my life to his. He's a man, I'm a woman...he's rural, I'm urban... His children are mostly grown, mine are not (and he's the dad). And yet at the heart of things, we're songwriters. That's what makes us tick. As songwriters, we want to reach people with our songs.

There's a part of me that's definitely a homebody...a milk-and-cookies kind of mother like my mother before me. I stick close to home.

And sometimes I feel stuck...like the cookies stuck to the pan because I never pay enough attention to them.

I wanna do something else...

Last night, as Fred signed a CD and a t-shirt for me, I mentioned my subway busking...and later I wondered if he thought it was a good idea or a bad one. Deliberately playing in a place where hundreds of people are ignoring me every day, playing for small change? Why not get on the phone and book some gigs?

I wanna buy your truck...

Well, I don't have a truck.

Right now I don't even have a car.

I don't have the ability to tour constantly right now. I don't have the energy, the wherewithal, the heart, the guts or, truly, the desire.

What I do have is the hunger to write songs and sing them for people. Any people. Anywhere.

That's the heart of this songwriting calling, no matter in which direction you take it.

So I put on my new autographed "I Heart Fred" t-shirt and headed downtown.