First Day

I arrived at Pape Station shortly after 8:00 a.m. When I found the yellow-dotted floor-space designated for musicians, I was surprised at how narrow and humble it looked. I put my guitar case down and proceeded to get organized, which turned out to be more challenging than I expected.

I’ve always had a tendency to fumble around with my guitar strap and such and it seemed that this morning I was especially awkward. At one point, when I was rummaging around in my backpack to find CDs to display, a woman paused to say "excuse me, your papers are flying away". Sure enough, my set list had flown out of my open guitar case toward the staircase that led down to the tracks. This was a result of the huge whooshing wind that swept through the corridor every time a train passed by.

This whooshing wind turned out to be a significant problem, because I wear my hair long and believe that I don’t look attractive in a ponytail: an opinion that may need to be revised shortly. I realized as soon as I started playing that it would be difficult to play and sing with hair constantly flying in my face. To cope with this, I adopted a pattern of standing in one direction when the wind swept one way (as the westbound train approached), and casually turning and facing the other direction when the wind blew the other way as a result of the eastbound train. Meanwhile, I was continually tossing my hair back in what I hoped was a natural-looking and attractive gesture: as if all musicians always toss their hair back, all the time.

The first woman who threw change into my case was a black woman in her sixties or seventies. She threw it in during my first song, Complicated Things. I followed that with When I Walk I Run. After that, I can’t remember what I played in what order, but I do remember playing Sam Larkin’s Love Drives a Beautiful Car (twice) and Mirabeau Bridge, as well as my own songs, My Messy House, It’ll Grow On You, Keys, Where Do You Call Home, Smooth Stones, When I Walk I Run (again), Fred Eaglesmith’s I Like Trains and my song "Crossing My Mind". I managed a neat trick during that one…I sang it twice in a row without stopping. In the middle of it, my friend and fellow musician Steve Paul Sims came over and threw in some change, and we had a brief conversation while I continued to play the instrumental part of the song. By the time our conversation was over, the song was too, so I just kept playing it and started all over again. Several people smiled and gave me change during that one.

When the first lady gave me money, I actually choked up a bit while singing and was worried I might actually lose my composure. But I kept on going and found that generally I was able to keep up a confident "really having a great time" expression, and I was usually able to remember the words and chords of whatever song I was playing. At times however, the technical aspects of the music proved more difficult than I had expected.
As you’re watching the people coming and going, especially if you’re a confirmed people-watcher and have always enjoyed that aspect of public transit, it’s very easy to lose your train of thought—or train of chord. That happened to me a few times, and in such a fumbling, apparently incompetent way that it would have been a complete disaster if I were on stage and people were actually listening. However, it’s clear that on the subway, they aren’t. They just pass by you in their distracted way, never the wiser that you obviously missed that tricky F sharp minor chord or whatever. You can stop in the middle of a song, repeat a verse, leave out a chorus, substitute completely non-sensical lyrics or quit playing altogether and nobody will bat an eye.

Occasionally though, they do pay attention. One woman, a well-dressed woman in her fifties, came up during a song and asked me (while I was singing) whether I’d be back tomorrow because she wanted to buy a CD. Immediately realizing (with the wisdom that comes from, oh, 20 minutes of experience) that I could stop the song I was playing without offending the other subway-goers, that’s exactly what I did, I stopped the song. Then I negotiated that she’d take a CD today (I’d even sign it for her), give her a business card and she’d mail me a cheque. While I was doing the transaction with her, a young woman asked how she could reach me, so, fumbling around again (didn’t I organize my business cards ahead of time?) I managed to find her a card. Many people, over the course of the morning, smiled and nodded and said I had a beautiful voice.

Two of my friends, Vance and Kelli, stopped by to visit. Vance talked to me for awhile (I was already conscious of the fact that I was supposed to be working) and hung around to hear a couple of songs. To my surprise, he told me that the acoustics were great: he could hear me perfectly. This came as news to me, because I felt I couldn’t be heard at all…especially when the big crowds came through after being let off the buses in the above loading bay. "No, it sounds great," he said, "your voice really carries." Despite that, by 9:20 (after singing for an hour), in the middle of yet another rendition of "Love Drives A Beautiful Car" (who knows why I felt compelled to sing that in the subway) my voice seemed to vacate the premises. Suddenly it just wasn’t there. I sang, but it was suddenly a diminishing whisper. Uh-oh.

After trying rather worriedly—and unsuccessfully—to sing another song, I thought I might as well pack it in. So I gathered up all my change (mostly loonies and toonies, one $5.00 bill, and an apple from Vance) put the CDs and business cards back in my backpack and packed up the guitar.

I headed over to the Gateway Newsstand which was about 15 feet across from my post. The man at the counter was a young man who spoke with what I took to be an African accent. He had seen my entire performance but hadn’t met my eyes. Now he was suddenly concerned: "You are leaving?"

I explained that my voice was giving me trouble. He pointed to the Halls Lozenges on display beside the candy. In broken English, he asked whether my voice had been sore for a long time, many days? I told him no, the problem had just started. Just now. When I was singing. Over there. (Hadn’t he seen my whole shift? But then I remembered, ahah, nobody’s listening.) He recommended that tonight I take hot water and keep it in my mouth, while sucking on the Halls, before going to bed. I said I’d try it. He’ll be back tomorrow, which is Saturday, and I told him I’d see him then.

When I got home, I discovered that in that first hour, I’d made $18.50, and if you add the $15.00 I hope to get from Teresa who bought the CD, that’s $33.50—plus the apple—not bad for an hour’s work, as long as my voice holds up.