Today I wrote all morning (words, not music) and planned to sing in the afternoon. I had a solid two hours available and I was looking forward to singing at Pape Station again.
Of course, I'd had to get myself into the mood. Often, when I'm preparing to sing somewhere, I have to consciously boost myself out of the introspective doldrums. Usually, in the course of doing vocal warmups, tuning my guitar, packing it into the case with CDs, capo, tuner and so on, I find myself feeling more positive about the upcoming performance. By the time I'd done that today, I was feeling more energetic about the prospect of busking.
You'll notice I didn't mention packing my guitar strap.
Damn.
I did this once before. That time, I went all the way back home for it (which takes about 45 minutes and requires a long and heavily-loaded walk) and came back to sing. Although some musicians play in the subways sitting down, and I might have been able to find a small box to use as a seat (or used my knapsack), I don't do this. I'm a tiny person to begin with. If I sat down, I'd feel nervous about being trampled. Also, the optics aren't good; I can't afford to look even a notch more needy.
So I went home. This time, I didn't plan to return. It was hot, I was tired, and I wouldn't have as much time to sing as I'd hoped.
As I boarded the bus southbound, I wondered about all the other unheard music in the world. How much art is not being made, because something important was forgotten, carelessly left on the side table during a moment of distraction? How much music is not being played because of things that are lost, or that were stolen?
Do we have enough time to recover such things? What happens when we just let them go?
This afternoon, I'm writing this, which I wouldn't have otherwise.
+++
This also seems a good time to mention the Spinner Bottles.
About halfway up my Pape bus route, there's a tree that's decorated with Spinner Bottles. I know that's what they're called because there's a big sign telling me what they are: "Spinner Bottles!"
They're for sale, these Spinner Bottles. (Keep saying that over and over again. It takes on a funny nonsensical looping rhythm much like the things themselves. Spinnerbottlesspinnerbottlesspinnerbottles......)
They seem (from what I can tell, as I look at them for a couple of seconds at a time out the bus window) to be made of large plastic pop bottles that have had long strips cut through them lengthwise. These strips have been pulled out to catch the wind, and they spin on an axis while hanging on a string. They also have decorations, like flowers, on them or in them. I'd say there are thirty bottles or so hanging from this tree.
Does anybody buy them?
I've always wondered.
Then today, as I took the Pape bus home, I noticed another house, across the street and down a bit from the first one, with three Spinner Bottles, spinning away on the front porch.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Coins in the Fountain
One of the judges was someone I know. Well, not exactly know...but somebody I've met before.
A year ago, before my first audition, I worried that this might happen. I was concerned about someone from the local music community, someone who had seen me on a "real" stage, might see me auditioning to be a subway musician and therefore lower their opinion of me.
Today though, unlike last year, I wasn't at all worried about "what he might think" (except that he and the others think positively about my performance). In the course of a year, I had become much less concerned about status in the local music scene and more focused on simple quality of communication.
My audition went well. I did not goofily wave "hi!" to the judge I sort of knew, and he appeared objective and professional. TTC staffers shook my hand as I came offstage and a previous auditioner yelled "beautiful!" from the stands. I exchanged business cards with a talented country duo who sang before me, and marvelled at the skill of the European accordian player (whom I'd met on the subway this year, and who had told me his instrument was worth an astounding amount of money). Listening to him, and knowing he'd make it in for sure, I was reminded of the apples-and-oranges problem of comparing talented local singer-songwriters with world-class classical musicians.
Anyway...whew.
That's over with.
And I definitely felt better, having thrown a few coins back into the fountain, with a wish.
A year ago, before my first audition, I worried that this might happen. I was concerned about someone from the local music community, someone who had seen me on a "real" stage, might see me auditioning to be a subway musician and therefore lower their opinion of me.
Today though, unlike last year, I wasn't at all worried about "what he might think" (except that he and the others think positively about my performance). In the course of a year, I had become much less concerned about status in the local music scene and more focused on simple quality of communication.
My audition went well. I did not goofily wave "hi!" to the judge I sort of knew, and he appeared objective and professional. TTC staffers shook my hand as I came offstage and a previous auditioner yelled "beautiful!" from the stands. I exchanged business cards with a talented country duo who sang before me, and marvelled at the skill of the European accordian player (whom I'd met on the subway this year, and who had told me his instrument was worth an astounding amount of money). Listening to him, and knowing he'd make it in for sure, I was reminded of the apples-and-oranges problem of comparing talented local singer-songwriters with world-class classical musicians.
Anyway...whew.
That's over with.
And I definitely felt better, having thrown a few coins back into the fountain, with a wish.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
As Yet Unseen
I spent most of yesterday considering and re-considering my decision to try out for the subway again.
Upon reflection, I realized that I have received so much from the experience already, I could legitimately decide to step aside and let the project be a one-year-only event. As such, the subway year would have a neat, sewn-up quality to it. I would, perhaps, be able to see it as a distinct happening, one chapter in my ongoing story. It would be a chapter that ended when I wanted it to.
As I spoke to friends and family about this possibility, we all realized that my fear of not being re-accepted was a very real concern. If I wasn't chosen again, would that call the whole enterprise into question? Would it undermine my confidence in other areas of my musical life? At one point, I decided that the risk wasn't worth it and that I should call the audition off.
Meanwhile, outside, a storm raged. A tornado warning went into effect, as strong winds gusted from every direction, and pressure built up in black clouds overhead.
This morning, the skies are still cloudy, and my outlook still mixed. But at some point between yesterday night and this morning, one thing did become clear.
My experience as a subway busker has always been about risk.
I have never known, when I start to sing, what the people coming up the stairs will think: whether they will think my music is beautiful, or boring, or essential, or superfluous, or if they will even hear it at all. I've had no control over their responses. Even when I've thought, "ahah, there's a family approaching, I should sing 'Teach Your Children'..." and I've tried to do that (with mixed success) usually they haven't even noticed.
It has been the times that I've sung directly from the heart, from--and to--a place of more universal communication that transcends individuality and even time, that miracles have occurred.
The right music has in fact found the right ears.
Over and over again, despite my frequent doubts and fears, I have experienced those miracles. Singing to an as-yet-unseen audience is a risk, and somehow, it has been no gamble at all.
Upon reflection, I realized that I have received so much from the experience already, I could legitimately decide to step aside and let the project be a one-year-only event. As such, the subway year would have a neat, sewn-up quality to it. I would, perhaps, be able to see it as a distinct happening, one chapter in my ongoing story. It would be a chapter that ended when I wanted it to.
As I spoke to friends and family about this possibility, we all realized that my fear of not being re-accepted was a very real concern. If I wasn't chosen again, would that call the whole enterprise into question? Would it undermine my confidence in other areas of my musical life? At one point, I decided that the risk wasn't worth it and that I should call the audition off.
Meanwhile, outside, a storm raged. A tornado warning went into effect, as strong winds gusted from every direction, and pressure built up in black clouds overhead.
This morning, the skies are still cloudy, and my outlook still mixed. But at some point between yesterday night and this morning, one thing did become clear.
My experience as a subway busker has always been about risk.
I have never known, when I start to sing, what the people coming up the stairs will think: whether they will think my music is beautiful, or boring, or essential, or superfluous, or if they will even hear it at all. I've had no control over their responses. Even when I've thought, "ahah, there's a family approaching, I should sing 'Teach Your Children'..." and I've tried to do that (with mixed success) usually they haven't even noticed.
It has been the times that I've sung directly from the heart, from--and to--a place of more universal communication that transcends individuality and even time, that miracles have occurred.
The right music has in fact found the right ears.
Over and over again, despite my frequent doubts and fears, I have experienced those miracles. Singing to an as-yet-unseen audience is a risk, and somehow, it has been no gamble at all.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Two Shades of Blue
Bay Station - 10:00 a.m. - 11:45 a.m. (Maybe $6.50? I haven't bothered counting.)
In previous posts, I've mentioned that certain songs seem to suit certain days. For reasons that aren't immediately apparent, random individuals will respond to one song over others--and it won't be the top song of the day before. I usually look for the reason behind the popularity, but I often end up wondering if I'm simply making it all up: if I'm just looking for meaning in this little movie I'm creating for my life, and I'm picking the best song for the soundtrack.
Anyway, today's song-of-the-day was "Two Shades of Blue". It's a new song, written about a month ago. I've played it in the subways before and at several open mics. It was written while en route to the subway. (I hadn't noticed before but now it seems important.)
It starts out like this. (Oh, and a little "ha ha" aside here: I've learned that if I decide to publish my blog as a book, I must excise all lyrics written by other songwriters, because it would be too expensive to get the rights to them. But I can publish my own! So here goes.)
Why do we say that we're blue when we're down
When high up above all that blue shines around
That's just a riddle so old that it's new
Love paints a picture in two shades of blue
You get the idea: the thing that gives us joy also brings us sorrow, and vice-versa. We get them all mixed up, even as we obsess about them, and meanwhile we're right in the middle of both, all the time. (Don't worry, there won't be a quiz.)
No matter how Two Shades Of Blue stacks up as a song, it does reflect pretty accurately how I feel about singing in the subways, and the fact that I've stayed so long, and that (so far) I still plan to re-audition on Saturday morning. Here's the last verse:
The beauty of life is you don't have to choose
To live is to love and to love is to lose
So what's a poor colour-blind poet to do?
We're caught and we know it, in two shades of blue...
I'm always right on the fence. Is it worth it, or not? I don't know. I do notice that when a friend asked me today whether I'd do it if no money were changing hands, I said no without hesitation. Money validates. And singing in the subway prevents me from spending time on activities that make more and more reliable money, even as it keeps me connected to other people (some of them), and to the world I live in and to my spirit, which in turn energizes me to do what I'm best at. Again, mixed blessings.
So, the auditions. 11:30 on Saturday morning, at the Canadian National Exhibition, behind the Food Building.
Today, by chance, along came the Special Constable from the TTC who'd encouraged me at the auditions last year. He asked me how the year had gone for me. (I said it had been great but that donations were unsteady; he blamed gas prices.) He wished me luck and will see me on Saturday. (It's supposed to rain.)
The auditions, of course, are unlike singing in the subways. There's an audience there. They clap. As my friend said at lunch today, maybe they should videotape people singing alone in an empty corridor for an hour, while people file by ignoring them.
In previous posts, I've mentioned that certain songs seem to suit certain days. For reasons that aren't immediately apparent, random individuals will respond to one song over others--and it won't be the top song of the day before. I usually look for the reason behind the popularity, but I often end up wondering if I'm simply making it all up: if I'm just looking for meaning in this little movie I'm creating for my life, and I'm picking the best song for the soundtrack.
Anyway, today's song-of-the-day was "Two Shades of Blue". It's a new song, written about a month ago. I've played it in the subways before and at several open mics. It was written while en route to the subway. (I hadn't noticed before but now it seems important.)
It starts out like this. (Oh, and a little "ha ha" aside here: I've learned that if I decide to publish my blog as a book, I must excise all lyrics written by other songwriters, because it would be too expensive to get the rights to them. But I can publish my own! So here goes.)
Why do we say that we're blue when we're down
When high up above all that blue shines around
That's just a riddle so old that it's new
Love paints a picture in two shades of blue
You get the idea: the thing that gives us joy also brings us sorrow, and vice-versa. We get them all mixed up, even as we obsess about them, and meanwhile we're right in the middle of both, all the time. (Don't worry, there won't be a quiz.)
No matter how Two Shades Of Blue stacks up as a song, it does reflect pretty accurately how I feel about singing in the subways, and the fact that I've stayed so long, and that (so far) I still plan to re-audition on Saturday morning. Here's the last verse:
The beauty of life is you don't have to choose
To live is to love and to love is to lose
So what's a poor colour-blind poet to do?
We're caught and we know it, in two shades of blue...
I'm always right on the fence. Is it worth it, or not? I don't know. I do notice that when a friend asked me today whether I'd do it if no money were changing hands, I said no without hesitation. Money validates. And singing in the subway prevents me from spending time on activities that make more and more reliable money, even as it keeps me connected to other people (some of them), and to the world I live in and to my spirit, which in turn energizes me to do what I'm best at. Again, mixed blessings.
So, the auditions. 11:30 on Saturday morning, at the Canadian National Exhibition, behind the Food Building.
Today, by chance, along came the Special Constable from the TTC who'd encouraged me at the auditions last year. He asked me how the year had gone for me. (I said it had been great but that donations were unsteady; he blamed gas prices.) He wished me luck and will see me on Saturday. (It's supposed to rain.)
The auditions, of course, are unlike singing in the subways. There's an audience there. They clap. As my friend said at lunch today, maybe they should videotape people singing alone in an empty corridor for an hour, while people file by ignoring them.
Sunday, August 14, 2005
My Secret Identity
I forget about it when I'm not there.
When I am away from the subway, or away from any part of my music and writing life, I'm usually not aware that I miss it. I may feel disconnected, but from what, I'm not sure. If I think of my creative experience, I do so in a parenthetical way. I look at it as a footnote, a by-the-way, an aside. It's not my real life. Is it?
One of my favourite movies from the past year is The Incredibles, in which two former superheroes, a man and wife, must set aside their previous secret identities in order to live what is generally viewed as a normal and responsible life. Mr. Incredible becomes an insurance salesman. Plasti-Girl becomes a mother of three.
Although they settle into their new roles with admirable stoicism, Mr. Incredible hasn't left his super-alter-ego behind altogether. Late at night, he and a buddy (also a closet superhero) go out on clandestine rescue missions. Plasti-Girl, now Super-Mom, is too busy to do the same, or to notice.
As the story unfolds, their "former" identities re-emerge. (That's all I'll give away here, in case you haven't seen it.)
I identify with that former super-couple, as do, probably, most people past the age of 35, especially those who are still engaged in a creative passion which may not always dovetail neatly with the other parts of their adult lives.
You can be a superhero and an insurance salesman, but not at the same time. You'll likely have to keep your identities secret from the people who know you by day or by night. You might even find yourself cutting yourself off from your own secret identity at times, in order to keep things chugging along acceptably.
That's why, when I'm not engaged in intense creative activity, I tend to forget about it, or minimize it. It's a self-protective strategy. A way of staying sane.
This weekend, I had a very long, challenging conversation with someone who could not sympathize with the difficulty of keeping the various roles in my life in balance. As I write this, I now see his point. It would be hard for Mr. Incredible to stand around the water cooler chatting about how hard it is to get up in the morning after he's spent the night flying around the city. Everybody'd be jealous. Or think he was just bragging. Meanwhile, the regular moms in the park probably wouldn't want to hear about Plasti-Girl's constant temptation to expand.
But I can imagine Plasti-Mom, seeking connection and wanting her friends to experience something of the same exhilaration she feels when she stretches, asking whether they too might have a Secret Identity--some sacred pursuit that might rocket-fuel their existence, even for a few minutes a day?
It's funny...at one point during that long, challenging conversation, I did walk away to get some air. But I didn't pick up my guitar or consider going to sing in the subways. I walked right by my psychic phonebooth, not even attempting to don my cape.
If I had, I might have flown clear of the frustrating minutiae in which we were trapped. I might have seen something on the horizon that made our petty conflicts seem irrelevant and damaging.
I didn't believe in My Secret Identity just then, just when I needed it most.
When I am away from the subway, or away from any part of my music and writing life, I'm usually not aware that I miss it. I may feel disconnected, but from what, I'm not sure. If I think of my creative experience, I do so in a parenthetical way. I look at it as a footnote, a by-the-way, an aside. It's not my real life. Is it?
One of my favourite movies from the past year is The Incredibles, in which two former superheroes, a man and wife, must set aside their previous secret identities in order to live what is generally viewed as a normal and responsible life. Mr. Incredible becomes an insurance salesman. Plasti-Girl becomes a mother of three.
Although they settle into their new roles with admirable stoicism, Mr. Incredible hasn't left his super-alter-ego behind altogether. Late at night, he and a buddy (also a closet superhero) go out on clandestine rescue missions. Plasti-Girl, now Super-Mom, is too busy to do the same, or to notice.
As the story unfolds, their "former" identities re-emerge. (That's all I'll give away here, in case you haven't seen it.)
I identify with that former super-couple, as do, probably, most people past the age of 35, especially those who are still engaged in a creative passion which may not always dovetail neatly with the other parts of their adult lives.
You can be a superhero and an insurance salesman, but not at the same time. You'll likely have to keep your identities secret from the people who know you by day or by night. You might even find yourself cutting yourself off from your own secret identity at times, in order to keep things chugging along acceptably.
That's why, when I'm not engaged in intense creative activity, I tend to forget about it, or minimize it. It's a self-protective strategy. A way of staying sane.
This weekend, I had a very long, challenging conversation with someone who could not sympathize with the difficulty of keeping the various roles in my life in balance. As I write this, I now see his point. It would be hard for Mr. Incredible to stand around the water cooler chatting about how hard it is to get up in the morning after he's spent the night flying around the city. Everybody'd be jealous. Or think he was just bragging. Meanwhile, the regular moms in the park probably wouldn't want to hear about Plasti-Girl's constant temptation to expand.
But I can imagine Plasti-Mom, seeking connection and wanting her friends to experience something of the same exhilaration she feels when she stretches, asking whether they too might have a Secret Identity--some sacred pursuit that might rocket-fuel their existence, even for a few minutes a day?
It's funny...at one point during that long, challenging conversation, I did walk away to get some air. But I didn't pick up my guitar or consider going to sing in the subways. I walked right by my psychic phonebooth, not even attempting to don my cape.
If I had, I might have flown clear of the frustrating minutiae in which we were trapped. I might have seen something on the horizon that made our petty conflicts seem irrelevant and damaging.
I didn't believe in My Secret Identity just then, just when I needed it most.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Vacation's Over
I have been talking to the man in the wheelchair outside the Beer Store.
It started yesterday, when I was on my way to a place called The Grasshopper. It's a cozy little three-steps-underground bar that has an "open mic" on Wednesday nights. Unlike Fat Albert's (which is on vacation for the summer) and other open stages, there's no long sign-up list of artists at The Grasshopper. There is, however, an open mic, a really open one, sitting invitingly in the middle of a stage, waiting for someone to come up and seize it. It's a good place for my songwriting friends and me. Yesterday night I was headed there by streetcar and I was feeling especially happy because I'd just finished a new song. It's called "Giant Slide". I wrote it on Tuesday at the end of a family vacation, when we were sitting on the sand at Wasaga Beach, a frozen-in-time summer tourist town.
When I'm excited about a new song, I feel like a new person. I'm more energetic and confident and likely to connect with anyone I see. Songwriting takes me to a new place entirely. It's a holiday in a notepad (add an instrument and, heck, you're all expenses paid at a luxury resort) No wonder I find myself climbing into that vehicle (and revving up the pen) even when I'm riding in actual cars, and especially when I'm hanging around beaches on family vacations.
The vacation's over. Or it's just starting. More likely it never ended.
So back to the guy in the wheelchair.
I had always avoided him. For me, he personified the cause too lost to help. My children had noticed him--he does not wear shoes or socks, his feet are patchy and swollen with sores, as is one of his hands. The kids could not understand why he did not wear shoes even in the winter and I had no answer for them. I fear and avoid this person normally; I have no response, no generosity that could make a dent. Yesterday though, humming and buoyant, I met his eyes--which were clear and bright blue and lively--and smiled and went over to talk.
He could barely speak, but he gestured toward my guitar with his good hand, then pointed at himself and grinned.
His meaning was unmistakable. "You play?!" I asked, giving him a dollar.
He nodded enthusiastically but indicated his crippled hand, which prevented him from playing anymore. Continuing the conversation without words, he started moving his other hand as if on a fretboard...and SANG a blues guitar lick for me.
Today I returned to Pape Station. The woman at the Gateway Newstand seemed less friendly than usual today, which rattled me at first, as did a man who seemed to make fun of my hat. I played for couple of hours, selling a pair of CDs to a wonderful man who had just seen The Rolling Stones at The Phoenix last night, meeting a teacher from my daughter's school, watching several daycamp groups file by. In honour of The Stones, I played "You Can't Always Get What You Want". And I played "Giant Slide" of course, confirming my suspicions that I haven't yet memorized the words. As I was packing up to leave, one woman donated a dollar and wished me good luck at the auditions.
As is my custom now, I bought something at the Gateway store, and said hello to the woman there. She told me business is very slow. It's true, I said. Other people have told me that, everywhere, not just on the subways.
As I came home, the man in the wheelchair was outside the Beer Store, for the second day in a row. I wasn't sure whether to stop today (this is always the question...do you stop? Do you stop again? Do you never stop stopping? How is this done?) and was walking past him when I realized he could see my reflection in the Beer Store window.
"HELLO!" he shouted out at the window because he couldn't turn around. I stopped.
I saw that today he wasn't doing as well as he was yesterday, even though his eyes were still penetrating. Placing some change into the paper bag he held (small change, not the kind needed) I asked him if anyone was looking after him...whether he just looked after himself...?
I knew the answer...and there was nothing I could do but hold his (good) hand for a few seconds, knowing that at one time, he was playing and singing too.
It started yesterday, when I was on my way to a place called The Grasshopper. It's a cozy little three-steps-underground bar that has an "open mic" on Wednesday nights. Unlike Fat Albert's (which is on vacation for the summer) and other open stages, there's no long sign-up list of artists at The Grasshopper. There is, however, an open mic, a really open one, sitting invitingly in the middle of a stage, waiting for someone to come up and seize it. It's a good place for my songwriting friends and me. Yesterday night I was headed there by streetcar and I was feeling especially happy because I'd just finished a new song. It's called "Giant Slide". I wrote it on Tuesday at the end of a family vacation, when we were sitting on the sand at Wasaga Beach, a frozen-in-time summer tourist town.
When I'm excited about a new song, I feel like a new person. I'm more energetic and confident and likely to connect with anyone I see. Songwriting takes me to a new place entirely. It's a holiday in a notepad (add an instrument and, heck, you're all expenses paid at a luxury resort) No wonder I find myself climbing into that vehicle (and revving up the pen) even when I'm riding in actual cars, and especially when I'm hanging around beaches on family vacations.
The vacation's over. Or it's just starting. More likely it never ended.
So back to the guy in the wheelchair.
I had always avoided him. For me, he personified the cause too lost to help. My children had noticed him--he does not wear shoes or socks, his feet are patchy and swollen with sores, as is one of his hands. The kids could not understand why he did not wear shoes even in the winter and I had no answer for them. I fear and avoid this person normally; I have no response, no generosity that could make a dent. Yesterday though, humming and buoyant, I met his eyes--which were clear and bright blue and lively--and smiled and went over to talk.
He could barely speak, but he gestured toward my guitar with his good hand, then pointed at himself and grinned.
His meaning was unmistakable. "You play?!" I asked, giving him a dollar.
He nodded enthusiastically but indicated his crippled hand, which prevented him from playing anymore. Continuing the conversation without words, he started moving his other hand as if on a fretboard...and SANG a blues guitar lick for me.
Today I returned to Pape Station. The woman at the Gateway Newstand seemed less friendly than usual today, which rattled me at first, as did a man who seemed to make fun of my hat. I played for couple of hours, selling a pair of CDs to a wonderful man who had just seen The Rolling Stones at The Phoenix last night, meeting a teacher from my daughter's school, watching several daycamp groups file by. In honour of The Stones, I played "You Can't Always Get What You Want". And I played "Giant Slide" of course, confirming my suspicions that I haven't yet memorized the words. As I was packing up to leave, one woman donated a dollar and wished me good luck at the auditions.
As is my custom now, I bought something at the Gateway store, and said hello to the woman there. She told me business is very slow. It's true, I said. Other people have told me that, everywhere, not just on the subways.
As I came home, the man in the wheelchair was outside the Beer Store, for the second day in a row. I wasn't sure whether to stop today (this is always the question...do you stop? Do you stop again? Do you never stop stopping? How is this done?) and was walking past him when I realized he could see my reflection in the Beer Store window.
"HELLO!" he shouted out at the window because he couldn't turn around. I stopped.
I saw that today he wasn't doing as well as he was yesterday, even though his eyes were still penetrating. Placing some change into the paper bag he held (small change, not the kind needed) I asked him if anyone was looking after him...whether he just looked after himself...?
I knew the answer...and there was nothing I could do but hold his (good) hand for a few seconds, knowing that at one time, he was playing and singing too.
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