Re-Orienting

Yesterday I headed for the TTC Head Office with the other newly-licensed musicians for this year's orientation session.

On the way there I noticed a very well-organized busker at Yonge & Bloor with a point-of-purchase stand for his CDs, which I don't think is allowed. I noticed two men on the same subway car talking about this musician, and I could tell we were all going to the same place.

At the meeting, I sat with a very nice young couple I had met at the auditions, a polished duo that sings classic country songs with just the right amount of style and twang. Like me last year, they listened attentively as management explained what to do and not to do on the system (stay within the yellow dots/get charged with assault) but I could tell they also wanted to know what TO do while performing. Stake out a regular spot and time? Play upbeat songs? Dress up? Down? Smile at people or affect an air of professional nonchalance?

The marketing staff at the TTC, helpful though they are, don't have the answers to those questions--nor the really big ones.

What kind of art can you create that will shine through the often depressing minutiae of the daily grind? How can you sparkle when you're singing under flourescent lights and pressed against a wall beside a garbage can? How will you create a life of harmony and balance, honouring your creative spirit while attending to financial security, providing services that people will reliably pay you for in addition to good works that are essentially voluntary?

In all likelihood, the staff don't even realize that some of us in the room are concerned with such questions. They may, in fact, assume that we do this simply for money, that the money's always good, and that we're involved with a simple economic transaction. Perhaps some musicians in the room see it that way.

But I suspect that many of them, like me, are always struggling with those deeper questions: trying to answer them by wrestling with the underground and, in the process, either walking away from the fight or learning to embrace it.

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At one point in the meeting, a friendly voice spoke up from the back of the room, reminding everyone that we need to welcome newcomers (I still consider myself one, having done this only part-time for a year) and to always have fun.

"That right," said one of the staff. "Thank you, Billy."

It was Billy James, the original busker on the Toronto subway system, who fought successfully to have a licensing system established so that musicians would not be charged with trespassing. (I hope I'm framing that correctly...in any case, he was the pioneer.)

When I started this journey last year, I remembered that in 1981, as a newly-arrived student at Ryerson, I had interviewed a subway musician. At that time, I was too shy to admit, to him or for that matter to myself, that I was also a musician and songwriter. I had put such childish things aside to pursue a mainstream career in broadcasting. I could afford to put a quarter in his case...but I didn't think I could afford to follow my heart and my music.

In the in-between years, I had forgotten about the assigment, lost the cassette tape, and forgotten the man's name. Over the past twelve months, as I worked as a subway musician, I started hearing the name Billy James. Could it be the same person?

At yesterday's orientation session, I took a deep breath and introduced myself and told my story, to which he said (as I knew he would) "I would have encouraged you. I would have told you to make music." He went on to say how very fortunate he feels to be a musician, and to have influenced--even in a small way--so many people over the years.

As I listened to him--still just as good-looking and healthy and intelligent as he appeared 24 years ago (though with considerably less hair)--I could tell that I was looking at a very rich man.

And I felt grateful that I had turned around in time, re-focusing my career around my music even though I had initially planned to leave it behind. I was grateful that in those intervening years I hadn't forgotten who he was--or who I was--and that I'd jumped on the same train, just in time.