Tommy

I could tell he'd want to talk the minute he came up the stairs.

With dirty clothes and long unwashed hair, he was drunk but didn't look threatening. I returned his smile and continued to play and sing. He took up residence beside the garbage can next to the designated busking area.

"Heeey..." he sang, not out of tune, while pantomiming a guitar strum.

I kept singing: "That flavour's an acquired taste...a bitter taste, it's true..."

"Hey, she's really good!" he called out. People rushed past us, looking uncomfortable. A few made a point of giving me some change, as if to demonstrate that they'd rather donate to a busker than a bum.

"It's working," he said, figuring that he was helping business. "Keep singing!"

I tried, but forgot my words and stopped. "So, you must be a musician." It's always a safe bet.

"Yeah, yeah!" he said. "Here, lemme show you..." He reached for my guitar.

"Actually, I can't let you play here," I said. "It's against the rules. People would ask you to leave."

That wouldn't be such a bad thing, of course. But I knew that I was on my own. I'd have to manage this interaction myself, unless a TTC staffer or special duty policeman happened to come along. The shopkeeper at the Gateway stand was keeping a watchful eye, but he seemed more entertained than concerned.

"C'mon," he insisted. "One song. 'My Sweet Lord'". He reached for my guitar.

"No, I really can't let you." He tugged at it gently.

I saw then that even though he was drunk, he was stronger than I am. I had to make sure he didn't become angry.

"Well, okay. One song. Half a song."

Sure enough, he knew the chords, and sang out with a clear and strong voice...too loudly for the public corridor. I quickly bent down to turn down the volume on my amp.

"My Sweet Lord..."

I couldn't help it. I chimed in automatically with "Hallelujah..." even though people were filing past us with alarmed expressions now.

"My Sweet Lord..."

" Hallelujah..." I continued, then suddenly came to my senses. "Okay, thanks, that's great. Maybe you can teach me the song." I took the guitar back from him.

Without waiting for him to demonstrate the chords, I surprised myself by playing the right ones immediately--no doubt aided by the stress of the situation.

"Maybe I can sing one for you now," I suggested. And I started singing "Crossing My Mind" as well as I could, to keep him from interrupting again.

"Issat your song?" he asked as I sang. I nodded quickly, and noticed that the man at the Gateway stand was smiling openly at me with clear approval. Why, I wondered? Was he pleased that I'd avoided a confrontation, or was he just enjoying the song?

No-one donated as they walked past, but I'm sure I sang "Crossing My Mind" better than I ever have...glancing occasionally at the man, who kept urging people to listen to me.

When the song was over, he held out his hand and told me his name, which was Tommy*. He said he's had "more guitars than years". Forty-five, I'm guessing.

"So...Lynn," he repeated. "What was your last name again?"

"Harrison," I said. "Like George."

"She's gonna make it," he said to no-one in particular and the Gateway man. And by that, I thought he also meant, "Not like me". But he just shook his head and didn't say it.

He wove back down the corridor a couple of times to shake my hand again, before leaving. "Tommy Mitchell," he said. "Like Joni."



* I've changed the name.

Needed and Wanted

One of my goals for the day is to actually write another blog posting and finish it.

As you can see, my blog has been somewhat dormant lately, which isn't such a bad thing. I've been doing lots of writing work lately for paying clients. Although the jobs don't allow me the opportunity to ramble on about songwriting or other artistic activities, they do require concentration and creative effort, which makes them satisfying. The paycheque I receive is important as well. But I suspect that the most important reward for me is knowing that my work is needed. I enjoy making other people's jobs easier, helping them communicate more clearly with their staff and clients. I like seeing that happen in real time.

My music work is needed and wanted as well, but often I don't see the transaction take place. People listen to my CDs when I'm not around. (This is a good thing. Sometimes well-meaning people put on my CDs when I'm at their parties, and I have to concentrate hard to focus on the conversation at hand, instead of my acquaintance's response to the background music.)

I've run into people by chance and they've told me, "I listen to your CD all the time". If I hadn't run into them, I would never have known that. When I reflect on the artists who mean the most to me, I understand this fact from the opposite angle. I can't send a fan letter to an artist every time I listen to their music; that would amount to stalking. We can't do that.

So we don't. We think warm thoughts about them, tell our friends how much we love the artist, praise them on the Internet or wherever we can, and go about our business. And we keep listening to the music (or enjoying the painting on our wall, or reflecting on the novel, or re-reading the poems). Meanwhile, the artist is also going about her business: trying (often unsuccessfully) to attract the attention of influential people; writing songs without knowing when they'll be performed or if they'll ever be recorded or distributed. A profoundly gifted songwriter I know recently expressed her fear that no-one would care whether or not she put out another CD. I was surprised because, compared to many other artists, she's received high-level critical praise: people have told her that her work is valuable, and yet, she doubts it because that validation doesn't happen constantly.

It doesn't happen as constantly as the phone ringing, as my client needs a rewrite on the corporate newsletter. Or as constantly as the kids' interruptions through the day, as they need me to arrange a playdate with a friend or go to the store to buy a new pair of sandals. The validation doesn't come as constantly as the drip in the basement which needs to be fixed, and will require thousands of dollars which can be made immediately by writing corporate newsletters, but perhaps not at all by making art.

As I was driving back from a small house concert this weekend, I listened to a CD that I hadn't listened to lately, by a singer-songwriter named Eliza Gilkyson. The record is called "Paradise Hotel" and it's an excellent collection of songs which will appeal to anyone who also likes Emmylou Harris, Lucinda Williams and Roseanne Cash. At the house concert, as I chatted with the audience beforehand, someone had commented on how songs (mine in fact) had become the "soundtrack of their life" and another person remarked that he'd noticed that wonderful effect in movies: how songs actually seemed to magnify the small details in the frame and provide more emotional power to the experience. (He expressed it so well, I wanted him to become some kind of public campaigner for the value of art.)

I thought about that as I drove north from Buffalo to Toronto, noticing how Eliza's eloquent words and soothing melodies elevated the scenery, made it all seem like paradise. When I got home, I sent her a short note by e-mail to tell her how much I enjoyed her music. As always, the fanmail paled in comparison to the actual experience. How can I pass along to her the deep knowing that her music counts in the universe...that it's needed and wanted...when that need seems to be best expressed in the moment, in real time, and in personal experience? Even in live performance, there's a distance between the artist and the audience...but never a distance between art and the heart that receives it.

Maybe by knowing, and expressing, how much the art of others means to us, we can become aware of how others are experiencing our art as well. We can be reassured that valuing and validation is taking place, beyond our field of vision and beyond our time and space.