Saturday, December 24, 2005

Looking for Christmas

Over the last three days, our family has lost a number of things. The first one was Tucker's Advent calendar. I have fond memories of my childhood Advent calendars, which had coloured pictures underneath each square and much finer chocolate than they seem to have now. Somehow or other, I've always managed to give my own children Advent calendars, even though we haven't been doing a very good job of defining Advent because we haven't been going to church.

But Tucker's Advent calendar got lost this year. I have no idea where it is. His sister's calendar is still here...and it seemed ridiculous to insist that she share hers with him, so she's just gone ahead and eaten up all the dates without fanfare. We told Tucker it'd turn up. But it didn't. It'll probably show up in time for Easter, in time to join the chocolate bunnies.

The next thing that went missing was the recipe for Molasses Crinkles. They're going to be part of the three-cookie homebaked spread I bring to Dave's Family's Christmas Dinner tomorrow because I'm in charge of dessert. I didn't realize until now that I must've unconsciously been trying to conjure up my own family Christmas by baking so much, and by baking traditional family recipes, but that's obviously what's going on. I was well-organized with all the ingredients ahead of time (molasses, ginger, cloves) and had carefully taken out the page from the ring-bindered Betty Crocker cookbook, the reissued one Exactly The Same As My Mom's that I recently bought at Restoration Hardware. I thought the Page would be hard to lose...being 8 1/2" x 11" and printed and everything, but it's gone. Missing.

Some of you may know that I have a hard time with losing things. In fact, that problem became the inspiration for a song called "Keys" ("these little losses bring me to my knees"). But today, because it's Christmas Eve, I was determined to not let these losses get to me. I looked for the things awhile, yes, but quickly enough became philosophical and comforting ("It's okay...have this chocolate bar instead"..."Mom? It's Lynn. I need you to dictate the recipe for Molasses Crinkles from your Betty Crocker cookbook.")

I even stayed cheerful when Calla (who just turned 9) told me that she'd lost the envelope that contained $100 in Christmas shopping money. It was a good idea at the time...I thought they'd both like to have a shopping budget (and they were thrilled) but unfortunately we all ran out of time to actually shop and I ended up running around at the last minute and buying appropriate stuff which they could reimburse me for later. But now, the $100 was lost. She felt awful and offered to pay me back. I tried to minimize it...while looking... looking...looking. Finally the envelope was found in a pile of papers waiting for recycling.

Then, as if I hadn't had enough losses already, I decided unwisely to look for something else: a Shared Purpose for our family concerning the meaning of Christmas. Although I was raised in a faith-ful home, my husband is not religious, and I confess that I've deferred to him somewhat over the years, opting to keep the peace (if not the faith) on holidays and Sundays. Most days it's a reasonable compromise...ordinary life is challenging enough without demanding some sort of higher calling for the whole group...and I've found it possible most of the time to find personal meaning through art and other forms of community.

Yet, at Christmas, I look for more. I hope to renew my own spirit and purpose...and I hope to do that in alignment with the people I'm connected to: the people I love. I hope, I guess, that we all define hope and love the same way, whether or not we find that definition in the Christian church or elsewhere. But can we? Does such a light--one that shines on all and can be commonly defined--really exist? (When compromise is so difficult in families, it makes me wonder.) Some would say it doesn't matter...stop looking. Shrug your shoulders and say, just having a week off from work is enough. That's what Christmas is all about. Why complicate a complicated season by talking about spirituality or life purpose? Those things are hard to find. We've almost forgotten what they look like.

As it turned out, we didn't go to church on Christmas Eve...nor did we go on a moonlight walk or take a drive to see the Christmas lights. I made a really nice dinner (how many other women default to this very basic soul-comforter at all times of stress?) and in a few minutes, we will all sit down together to watch "It's A Wonderful Life". Is that what I'm looking for? Is that Christmas...or close enough?

Tonight, that's all there is to find...a shared work of art, a story about one man's search for meaning ( a movie which is starting now, ironically, as I continue to write my personal message on this individualized medium so darkly called a "blog").

The light will return...we will find the Advent calendar in time for Easter. And tomorrow will be Christmas, imperfectly as always.

Saturday, December 17, 2005

The Karaoke Next Door

Tonight I went to a holiday party hosted by a friend of mine. He didn't have room in his place to invite all his musician friends, so he booked a little cafe space in the back of a stylish historical hotel. About a dozen musicians showed up, and all were invited to sing a few songs.

But in the bigger room on the other side of the wall, it was Karaoke Night.

It was clear from the start that we were in trouble, but we forged ahead anyway, playing our original songs as well as we could under the circumstances and earnestly strumming our acoustic guitars. A handsome young songwriter with a clear tenor voice doubled as the sound man and he kept fiddling with the monitor, to no avail.

In the pauses between songs, we heard the karaoke. "Brown Sugar" by the Rolling Stones. "Hurts So Good" by John Mellencamp. And a particularly enthusiastic rendition of "American Pie".

I thought of the songwriter, Don McLean, and realized that (had things gone somewhat differently for him) he'd fit in with our little group just fine, and he'd probably try to sing alongside the karaoke, too. He'd be just as earnest as we were up there, singing "I knew a girl who sang the blues and I asked her for some happy news".

But young Don with his guitar had morphed into something else entirely: a roomful of boisterous, out-of-tune voices, practically yelling "This'll be the day that I die, this'll be the day that I die".

When it was my turn, I got up and sang my songs. They were okay. One of the maddening things about making original work is that you're never really sure how it's going to be received. The same song can be a huge hit in one room and a complete flop in the next. In this room, the response was enthusiastic, but not wildly so. Not so wild as the room next door.

The truth was, in the pauses between songs, I could tell the singers in the next room were having a whole lot more fun than we were.

Maybe I really wanted to go over there.

Meanwhile, the organizers of the party convinced the hotel management to erect a makeshift door, which succeeded in muffling the karaoke a bit. (The songs were a bit harder to make out. Wasn't that The Eagles?)

It would have seemed, well, heretical to go over to the next room and start singing "Desperado".

But why not, I wondered? After all, we all know the songs, they're what inspired us to start writing our own in the first place. We can sing them really, really well...almost as well as our own.

Leaving early, I went through an alternate exit to avoid the karaoke room. I didn't want to look sheepish, walking past the stage toting my guitar. But now, I kind of wish I'd tried it. Don't you get to pick the song?

I could sing something like..."I can't get nooo....sat-is-FAC-shun..."

And it'd be fun.

Friday, December 16, 2005

JCB 4EVR

Although I often say I know why I write songs, and claim to remember why I chose to be an artist, sometimes I get lost. I get thrown off into the ditch of fear and insecurity and question the value of the undertaking. Climbing out the ditch, I begin to create again, to follow the light up ahead that says "move forward".

In order to stay on the road, I need encouragement from others, as well as basic things like food and sleep. I also need great art made by other people. Today I am especially grateful for a song and video called JCB, which I invite you to enjoy.

Like many artists without mass audiences, I sometimes complain about "big money music" and the commercial-scale distribution that comes to some creators and not to others. I've said, at times, that everyone should just create in their own backyards so that everyone could be appreciated equally.

If that were the case, we wouldn't all get the chance to be united by art. The world's a big, divided place. If a few beautiful things can be seen and understood by many, we might be able to work together to heal the world. A big distribution machine can be a powerful vehicle for transformation.

Just like a giant yellow digger.

Okay, have you watched it yet? If not, watch it now. Now let me tell you why I think it's great, and why I hope the songwriter Luke Concannon and his partner John in the duo Nizlopi succeed beyond their wildest dreams.

The song is told from the perspective of a five year-old boy riding with his father who drives a big construction vehicle. As they drive, they "hold up the bypass", irritating other drivers who want to go faster on the highway. The boy is proud of his father, glad he's not in school, and all fired up in his imagination, inspired to tranform into huge dinosaurs and robot toys. The simple, acoustic song is illustrated with in childlike line-drawings by animator Laith Bahrani.

The poetry is full of British-isms that most North Americans wouldn't know: JCB, bypass, "having a top laugh", etc. Doesn't matter. Few listeners will have ridden in a digger. Doesn't matter. It's a "children's song" (nope, it isn't, and doesn't matter).
(It's also getting really really popular, and therefore seeming suddenly commercial, and even being offered as a--shudder--ringtone. Doesn't matter.)

The reason any of us write, and the reason we are drawn to great art, is because great art describes humanity accurately and therefore reflects its beauty. When someone, anyone, illuminates their own little corner of the world, we are all celebrated and affirmed. We watch it over and over, or listen to it, or come back to the painting, because it makes us feel well and whole. We look to the art as we look to a lover's eyes: eyes that see us and know us and love us as we are.

JCB captures the interplay of strength and vulnerability that makes up the human journey, which is joyfully evident (in a dreamlike way) in childhood. It's also, of course, about the love between parent and child, the power of the imagination, and the vehicles that move us. The biggest vehicle of them all--the one that moves young Luke the artist--is Love.

Love is slow and sure and will not be moved by irritated, small people in little cars.

Love moves in a straight line, to a good place.

The child in the story knows this. We all do.

And that is why JCB will be the Number 1 song in the UK this Christmas.

Wednesday, December 07, 2005

Jill, Cyndi and a Person Who Rhymes With Itch

Last night I saw Jill Sobule and Cyndi Lauper in concert at Massey Hall in Toronto. Sandwiched in between them, like an unappetizing layer of devilled ham, was a well-known female comedian.

As a performer, I know it's bad form to do a few things. One is to complain, onstage, that one isn't getting paid enough, as this woman did early in her set. Another is to swear repeatedly while prancing about onstage during the headliner's signature song. (Cyndi Lauper's biggest hit, in case you missed the 80's, was "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun". She-who-shall-not-be-named must've noticed that another word sounded just like "fun"...and so she just yelled it over and over. During the song. Bad form, as I said.)

The effervescent Jill Sobule was terrific, taking requests from the audience during her captivating and warmly-received set. Later on, she enthusiastically joined Cyndi for an encore, while Mean Individual (also called back to the stage) sulked about having to do more work.

Cyndi Lauper was bopping around in fine form, decked out in a black leather bustier (which she acknowledged was a bit uncomfortable) and belting out her tunes like it was '85. A class act, she impressed everyone when she (while singing) convinced a hunky guy in the audience to hoist her onto his back so she could ride up and down the aisle. She also spoke warmly about her young son (who has given up the drums for hockey) and pledged her support for the Erase Hate purple-wristband campaign undertaken by the mother of Matthew Shepard, a young gay man killled in a hate crime.

Both Cyndi Lauper and Jill Sobule were such positive, generous spirits throughout the evening--giving, enthusiastic and respectful of the audience--it's hard to understand why they were on tour with The Negative Celebrity at all.

And it's hard to understand why anyone in the audience was laughing and clapping.

Maybe some people see her as a daring, edgy, brave person. If so, I wonder if they'd support an unknown "comic" if he or she mouthed off onstage without bothering to write any real material and insulted the headliner? Was this just a case of celebrity-worship? (During Cyndi's set, a guy sitting next to me didn't bother to clap for any song...until "Time After Time", "True Colours" and "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun". See what I mean? For him, the valuable part of the performance seemed to be whether or not he had heard it before.)

Maybe the performer is successful (to whatever extent she is) because she's venting all the pent-up rage many people are feeling these days. If she's a reflection of the public's current consciousness, I'd say we're in more trouble than we thought. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the skewering of deserving targets (such as George Bush) but I get nervous when the "performance" slips into inarticulate rage. Keep the guns away from the comics, folks!

I'm always rooting for the nice people, the eloquent ones, and the ones still smiling. Call me crazy.

Jill Sobule's latest CD is called "Underdog Victorious", and it further develops a theme she's been working with for years: may the little gal win. May good prevail. (She sang my favourite song of hers, called "Bitter", last night: "I don't want to get bitter/I don't want to turn cruel/I don't want to get old before I have to.") Cyndi Lauper has always struck me as a bit of an underdog too. When she emerged at the same time as Madonna, I might have predicted Cyndi would have become the bigger star (yeah, yeah, and I'm no good at stock tips either), but here she is, playing Massey Hall instead of the Air Canada Centre--and rockin' out anyway to her ace songs.

All three women performers, striving to keep their audience engaged and their artistic spirits aloft, have (no doubt) lots of things to complain about: declining audiences, rising costs, depressing world events...you name it. Two of them put on an entertaining show with class and maturity.

Just because you're an underdog doesn't mean you have to be a bitch.

Monday, November 28, 2005

Out of the Box

A few days ago, I took delivery of several large cardboard boxes of new CDs. Inside, there are many shiny cellophane-wrapped copies of "Broadview", my latest collection of recorded songs. Inside each jewel case, there's an even more shiny thing, the disc itself.

Embedded in the shiny discs is the digital information that makes up recorded music...the science that allows people to play someone else's song in their home or car.

And deep inside each song is the shiniest thing of all: the desire to share an emotion, or to describe something beautiful or meaningful...the urge to write it down, to tell someone, to capture it.

As soon as it's "captured", we see how elusive it is: I look at the boxes in my living room and I think, that's not shiny. That's just big and heavy and challenging: inventory that must be moved.

So today, I spent most of the day addressing envelopes, sending CDs flying around the world, moving them in the hope that they will move people in turn, and that the shiny new songs of others will find their way back to me.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

Six Songs, Minus Six

I really wanted to go sing in the subways today. I wanted to go display my new CD "Broadview" and see if anyone would notice that it has the same name as a subway station.

Nope.

But they did notice me doggedly playing, as the sub-zero wind whistled through Osgoode Station and I sang "It'll Grow On You". Subway busking would always be fun if it took place in comfortable temperatures, when people aren't hurrying by with mystified expressions. I think that's called a concert hall, but never mind.

Yet, it was fun, in its own frosty way. It's cool (ha) to know that I can actually play and sing while freezing.

I lasted six songs at Osgoode. When I nodded at the TTC ticket-takers, who shivered behind the glass, the woman in the parka applauded. I laughed and said, "thanks, but it's way too cold!" and she let me through the turnstiles without paying another fare.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

What song would you sing?

In the movie "Walk the Line", Sam Phillips of Sun Records challenges the auditioning John R. Cash by asking him with a sneer: "If you only had one song to sing to be remembered by, what would you sing?"

I've thought of that question before. In fact, I tried to write a song about that question a year ago, but although I finished the song, I've never sung it in public. I like the song, now that I think of it. And I see the dodge in it, too: it's one thing to recognize the question and quite another to answer it.

The other night I went to an open mic where each songwriter played two songs. Many good performers were there, including a writer I've heard maybe ten times. Many of those times, she's played one particular song. It's wise and likeable and memorable (as she is). And because the song reveals a lot about her life and worldview, it's helped me get to know her...or feel I do...in a relatively short period of time.

Meanwhile, at the same open mic, I played two brand new songs: one that had just been finished that afternoon. I like art forms that can be completed and shared spontaneously...little sketches and essays and songs. Some of the songs I might never sing again...and there's nothing wrong with that. They have a short expiration date, but that doesn't mean they're not nourishing and tasty at the time.

Still, it's worth shooting for that one song.

When I know that people are going to hear me only briefly, I do choose my song more deliberately. As an artist, it's helpful for me to take note of which songs come up over and over. What do they say? What are they reaching for? What's absent in the songs I don't want to sing again? Or what am I uncomfortable about and unwilling to share?

In those moments when I have one song left, before I'm about to pack up and go home, I notice myself reaching for that one song. No matter which one I choose, there's a little voice in the back of my mind that wonders if there's another one.

I'm still trying to find that song by writing it, and that's why I'm still a songwriter.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005

The Return of the Mexican Coin

Faithful readers will remember my lucky Mexican coin.

It was donated to me during a subway performance. I didn't notice it until I counted my change at home and realized someone must have given it to me by mistake, thinking it was a two-dollar coin.

Today I was walking into the liquor store when I paused to give a woman outside some money. Today it's cold in Toronto, with temperatures just above freezing and a strong wind. I'm afraid I don't have a very consistent policy when it comes to responding to requests for handouts. Usually I don't give, but sometimes I do. It all depends on my mood, the weather and the impression I get from the person asking. Not very scientific, I know...and probably not the wisest policy when it comes to making lasting change.

Anyway, today I paused before going to buy a bottle of wine (a luxury item after all) to respond to the obviously freezing woman about my age outside the door. Reaching into my pocket, I found about $3.50. It seemed awkward to fish out only a portion of that for her, so I gave her all of it, feeling simultaneously generous and foolish as she thanked me profusely.

When I came back a few minutes later, she held something out for me.

"This coin you gave me," she said. "It's a Mexican coin. You should keep it."

Sure enough, it was my lucky Mexican coin. I gratefully took it from her, telling her she was very kind to give it back. And she obviously was kind. Her earnest expression showed how relieved she was to give back something important that was rightfully mine.

Just now, I've done a little research, and I've discovered that the 2 Peso coin (which is what I think it is) is worth about 25 cents Canadian. Not much, and certainly less than $2.00. But both she and I knew it was special. It became even more so when I told her how I had received it and kept track of it until now, and that I'd be writing this story about it later today.

In return, she went on to articulately explain why she (44 years old) is standing outside the liquor store in sub-zero weather asking for handouts. Whether or not I agreed with all of her choices, the background she gave me made me feel better about replacing the Mexican coin with $2.00.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Friday Matinee

In Toronto Life magazine (I think, if memory serves), there's a feature that appears regularly called something like "The Perfect Day". In it, local celebrities describe what they'd do if they had all the time and the money in the world. Usually they end up spending, oh,$35,000 in their mind...imagining buying lots of expensive stuff and going to interesting hipster places. I could never do a piece like that; I wouldn't know any of the cool spots my imaginary self was supposed to go, and I probably couldn't bring myself to spend large amounts of even imaginary money.

Today I had the perfect day though. I sang at Dundas Station for a couple of hours in the morning (earning $43.50) and took myself out to the Rainbow Cinema at Market Square for the 1:00 p.m. showing of "Walk the Line" (a $4.50 matinee). Lunch was excellent: a small bag of popcorn, a cranberry juice, and a bag of peanut M&Ms.

(A word, before I review the film, about the Rainbow Cinemas. Sure, the screens are small, but they're made up for by the big heart of the place. I enjoyed the slightly goofy advertisements before the show--they have the feeling of being produced at home on a graphics program that's missing a few fonts--and I really appreciated the uncommon friendliness of the staff. Interspersed with community-business advertising before the show, there are inspiring words of wisdom up on screen. Here's one I remember: "Time flies, but remember, you are the navigator." This movie theatre hosts "Movies for Mommies" where parents can bring babies...and during the Christmas season there will be free-with-$2-donation movies at 11:00 a.m. on weekends. Plus, the work of a local painter, Fred Harrison, adorns the lobby. Five stars.)

So, you have to go see "Walk the Line"! Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon are terrific as Johnny Cash and June Carter. I was watching, of course, to see how well their musical performances came across (Phoenix learned to play guitar and sing for the role). They're completely believable (more so than "Elvis Presley") and their onscreen and onstage chemistry is wonderful to behold. Critics may say that the film isn't as dark as it might have been (Cash's drug addiction is a big part of the story) but that may be because the love story is the main event here, that and the music. One of my favourite scenes is Cash's almost disastrous audition for Sam Phillips of Sun Records. Phillips is cold and dismissive...the audition jury from hell...but he motivates John to sing honest songs instead of nice politically-correct ones.

Other cool facts: Shooter Jennings plays his dad Waylon in the film...John Carter Cash (June & John's son) Executive Produced the film, Johnny Cash reportedly chose Joaquin Phoenix for the role. Also watch for singer Shelby Lynne as John's mother and appreciate the terrific job done by T-Bone Burnett as Music Director. Highly recommended.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Number 12, Number 12

I've just returned from the CD manufacturer's office, where I needed to approve the press proofs for my album cover. I've been feeling rather behind on all of this.

Despite my best intentions, the CD is being delivered later than I'd planned or expected. As usual, I'm feeling as if I haven't done everything quite well enough, or met the targets I'd intended. The subway has a sign posted everywhere that says "Mind the Gap!" But, plunging ahead semi-consciously as I often do, I sometimes miss the fact that there's a difference between what I expect and what I get, or how perfectly I plan to do something and how well I actually do.

Anyway, back to those number 12s. There are two of them. Two track "#12"s listed on the back of the album cover. The songs are called "Feels Like Spring" (and today it does in Toronto, if you count a chilly rain as spring-like) and "Pennies". "Pennies" is the last song on the record. It's supposed to be Number 13. But it's Number 12. It's another Number 12.

I considered holding up the whole operation to make that Number 12 a 13. Turns out it would have cost me more to do that. Not just "Pennies". More like "Fifty Dollars".

I had painstakingly proofread the text ahead of time, of course. But I hadn't seen it.

Had that extra Number 12 mysteriously manifested itself during the printing process? No. It had just slipped in...a little chink in my armour, a little giggle of a reminder (at the very end of the record too, and on a song about little tiny things) that I can't control everything...that being imperfect is part of the deal...that "mistakes" are woven into the fabric of life.

Maybe my Number 12 is an example of the Japanese concept of wabi-sabi, which acknowledges three basic truths: nothing lasts, nothing is finished and nothing is perfect.

Suddenly I realize that I've managed to end (not end) my project, well, imperfectly perfectly. Some people might even think I did it on purpose. (Or maybe they'll think I'm superstitious about the Number 13.)

But of course, it wasn't intentional. In order for something to be truly imperfect, it has to be done accidentally, doesn't it?

Anyway, right now I consider my extra Number 12 a happy accident. And a reminder that the universe is unfolding as it should.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Fallen Poppies

I wore my bright red corduroy coat today. Beside the stylish subway-station buttons I wear (Dundas, Osgoode), I pinned a red poppy, which almost matches the coat exactly.

As it turned out, this morning I didn't have much time to play at Pape Station. I planned to be out for a couple of hours, but I hadn't counted on the jackhammering. The woman at the Gateway stand tells me that each day it's been pretty constant between 8:00 a.m. and noon, so I counted myself lucky to play uninterrupted for 45 minutes.

During that time, I had conversations with two friends I hadn't seen in several months (now I don't worry too much about taking the time out from singing, because these chance meetings are so valuable) and I gave out a business card to a new friend who enjoyed my music. He stopped to listen while I was playing "Could it Have Been The War", a song I often play around Remembrance Day.

Shortly after that, a decorated veteran came through the station and I tried to signal my respect for him while continuing to sing. In return, he gave me a jaunty little salute, his way of returning my smile. I was glad to be wearing my poppy.

But on the way home, I noticed that despite my best efforts at carefully pinning it on, it had fallen off, somewhere on the road between the Pape bus and my street.

It occurred to me that they may be designed that way on purpose: so that people come upon them by accident and notice the fact that they've fallen, or (a more cynical view) so that people like me must make another donation in order to get a new one.

It seems to me appropriate that we can't hold onto the poppies...that we can't keep them pinned down neatly to our coat or our consciousness...in a moment of inattention, another is gone.

And then we pause to pick another one up.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

The Squeaky Escalator

I heard the noise before I started to descend the escalator at Queen's Park station. At first I wondered if a violinist was in the spot, tuning her instrument or (perhaps) playing something bravely avant-garde.

Instead, it was the escalator itself making the noise: an agitated "squeak-SQUAWK!' that rang through the echoey vestibule every few seconds. It was an intermittent sound that didn't seem to be related to any particular event in the escalator. It was just a persistent protest, like the Tin Man's cry of "oil-can!" at the beginning of the Wizard of Oz.

Oh well, at least no other musician was in the spot. I set up my stuff, chalking up the noise to the dampness, or wondering if it was the ghost of commuters past, come visiting for Hallowe'en.

It'd been more than a week since I've been out singing on the subways, so I found myself a bit out-of-practice. Although my guitar and voice filled up the space thanks to the natural reverb in the busking corner, I found myself tending to over-sing to attract people's attention. Also, after an hour of playing guitar, I noticed a strange prickling numbness in my left hand. Repetitive strain injury? I took a break, stretched my hand and took a drink of water. The escalator squeaked.

Over the last few weeks, I've been digging out from under a higher-than-usual workload, and tending to ignore my need for food, rest, exercise and personal space. I've had that "soldiering on" kind of attitude that I sometimes get when there's too much to do in my life. When I've picked up the guitar, I've sometimes played with an energy that's close to violence, as if music itself could knock down the walls of responsibility and over-commitedness that so often rise up around me. The intensity in my performance worked at Queen's Park subway, attracting many enthusiastic donations (including a $10 bill). I took few breaks as I played, often running one song into another, and pushed aside the sound of the squeaking escalator each time I briefly paused.

But eventually, after 2 1/2 hours, my voice and my hands were telling me I needed to stop. As I packed up, I saw that the squeaky escalator had out-lasted me. There it was, sounding off as loudly as it had at the beginning, saying "You want me to take you somewhere? Then look after me!" Today, I'm thinking of that message, as I take a break from the computer to go to exercise class and to eat lunch.

Sunday, October 30, 2005

I'm still here

Today I received two letters from friends who mentioned that they're still checking my blog...and meanwhile I haven't been posting very regularly. Well, here I am again. Thanks for reading!

Here's an update on my recent news. My third CD, called "Broadview", is now in manufacturing (whew!) and will be ready in about three weeks. I'm very proud of this collection of songs, all of which have been sung on the subway...and in other venues too of course.

The name of the CD refers to the subway station (there's a song called "Luminous Veil" on the record, paying tribute to the safety barrier on the Prince Edward Viaduct, and "Music Everywhere" which was inspired by the three-note "doors closing" signal) but it's also a way of saying "long-term perspective" and also, the "view" of one "broad" (which is to say, me). I'm very excited to be having the CD release party in the vestibule of Broadview station on...wait a sec, bad idea, middle of winter...never mind. The concert will be at Hugh's Room on Thursday, January 12th.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned in the blog that I was planning to pitch a few articles around. One article, which I started as a blog posting but then completed off-line and submitted, will appear as a Globe & Mail "Facts & Arguments" piece in the next few days or weeks. Another one, which was written a few months ago, will be published in the next issue of the Songwriters Association of Canada magazine. Coincidentally, a few other (paying!) writing jobs have come my way, which have kept me busier than usual. Also, I've been completing the book project based on my first year of subway busking. There's been lots of writing going on, but less blogging (and singing too).

But as you know, if you've been reading regularly, the regular singing (and writing) has helped me stay sane and creatively energized since this project began. So I'm sticking to it.

You may notice some changes soon. I'm planning to renovate the blog a little, to allow for the more natural inclusion of essays on a variety of topics. Chances are, most of them will have something to do with creativity, artistic expression and popular culture. (But don't worry, I'll still be busking. Tomorrow morning I'm planning to go out--though I'm a bit out of practice, so I'm not sure have the nerve for Bloor & Yonge, where I'm scheduled!)

More to come...and thanks again for reading.

Tuesday, October 18, 2005

Ears

Last week, the subway musicians who use amplifiers got together at Osgoode station to have our amps registered and approved. We needed to set the appropriate levels for our machines so we won't play too loudly on the TTC and annoy people or cause a safety hazard.

After the amp test, I went to Bay Station to play. The Bay corridor is a long, usually quiet expanse of white ceramic tile. It's not the best-travelled busking spot on the system, but it has very good acoustics.

I placed my amp on the floor, turned it on and plugged in my cord. I set my volume at the correct level and began to play.

I thought, briefly, that the sound of my guitar was more quiet than I expected. I double-checked the amp. The red light was on and the volume was set correctly. I kept on playing confidently and attracted several donations.

I played for almost another half-hour before I looked at my amp again and realized that although the cord was plugged into the amplifier, it wasn't plugged into my guitar.

I had been playing all this time without any amplification, while assuming I had that extra "boost" all along and acting as if I was.

Slightly embarrassed, I plugged in the cord, hoping no one was looking. The new-and-improved sound filled the space beautifully...and I attracted the same number of donations as before.

+++

Meanwhile, I'm trying to finish my latest CD, "Broadview", and finding my ears can deceive me there, too.

I find myself putting the recording and my performance under a magnifying glass (probably driving people around me completely nuts) and not knowing when to trust my own ears. I have good reason to doubt them. Over the course of my life, and as recently as Friday at Bay Station, I have "heard" my music as louder or softer, stronger or weaker, and more important or less important in the big scheme of things.

Early in my career, I sometimes thought my songs and my performances were better than they actually were. That wishful thinking is very powerful. It motivates artists to get out there and play with confidence, and usually the work improves over time. On the other hand, the power of negative thinking is equally strong. When I listen to my work today and compare it to that of major label performers with much more experience (and money), I sometimes find myself paralyzed and unable to hear my work clearly and appreciate it.

The best listening (whether the relationship is between one person and another, or between one person and a song) takes place in an atmosphere of gentleness and trust. There needs to be a willingness to hear...and an ability to tune out the cacophony of so many distractions: other music, mass media, advertising, and our own personal self-talk messages about success, achievement and quality.

When I listen to anyone's CD with an attitude of acceptance and openness, without expectations and evaluations, I usually find something to like about them even if it's not "my kind of music" or if the work has technical flaws. I sometimes find it difficult to listen to my own recordings that way, especially at the final stages of a project, because the music has gotten tangled up in ambition and judgment.

The people who threw the coins into my case at Bay Station were responding to the un-amplified Lynn and the amplified one. It didn't really matter to them how "good" I was compared to anyone else: they don't have any attachment to the outcome of my musical story. They were simply enjoying a song, fully and briefly, acknowledging it gratefully...and moving on.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

The Crowded Field

This weekend, I'm heading to Kingston for the Ontario Council of Folk Festivals conference. This is a once-a-year event where folk festival organizers get together as a community. It's a chance for artists to meet the people who might book them, to drop off promo packages, shake hands, smile--and possibly play some music too.

I must admit, these events make me pretty nervous.

But why? I hear some well-meaning festival organizer ask. After all, everyone's doing the same thing: trying to make wonderful music and spread it around. Yeah, my little nervous voice responds, but some music is being judged more wonderful than others. What if my music isn't important or needed, when there's so much "better" music around?

"Oh yes," responds my mythical Folk Festival Artistic Director, checking her list, "Mmm....you are correct...you are in fact #2,467 on our list this year..." as I bolt awake out of my bad dream.

Folk festivals often take place in small towns and rural areas, on hillsides dotted with wild flowers. On the winding roads up to the weekends of music, the wildflowers are also seen on the side of the road. A songwriter friend of mine wrote about these "Flowers in the Ditch". I enjoy being in these fields of flowers all swaying in time together, all blooming in our unique ways, our colours seeming more intense because we're all crowded together. At the same time, I sometimes feel lost in the crowd, and jealous when another is "picked".

In situations like the subway, I'm the only singer in the vicinity, so I get all the attention. But sometimes it's negative attention because the singing is unexpected and may seem by some to be out-of-place. "What's that dandelion doing there?!" (I have an unfinished song that includes the line "I can't tell the weeds from the flowers anymore".)

It's important that I stand as part of the field, even if I'm not singled out for special praise. (I'm not evading the conference, as I've sometimes done in the past.) I need to focus on others more than myself in such situations...yet I need not be a shrinking violet. (My own props to help me stand taller include new clothes...which I rarely buy...and some well-rehearsed familiar songs that I can sing at the come-one-come-all "campfire room".)

We recently acquired a car, which I'll drive to Kingston. The other day, Dave found a little bud vase that sticks to the windshield with a suction cup. Before I leave on Saturday, I'm picking a flower still blooming in our October garden, and it'll
be with me all the way.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

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.

+++

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.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Gift Exchange

What do you like to do on your birthday?

Some people book the day off work, while others take themselves out for lunch or buy something special. For many people, it's a time to reflect on life purpose, to look at the year gone by and the one just ahead, to clarify goals and renew energy. Of course, birthdays fall on whatever day they do, and often it's not practical to custom-design your own special day. Some years, the birthday ends up resembling an "average day", with its usual combination of small victories and disappointments. On those days, it's important to look around even briefly...to breathe deeply and say "I'm glad to be alive".

This morning, I had a bunch of things to juggle--mostly work-related and family-related--but fortunately (today anyway) I had some say about how I'll juggle them and in what order. What I wanted to do most was to sing for other people, so I headed for the subway.

One thing that struck me today, and which seems to be appropriate in an essay about birthdays, is that it only takes a few people to appreciate you to make your day--and in fact your whole life. We really don't need millions of people to say we're talented or special or valuable or loved. We only need a few.

This morning, although hundreds of people ignored me as always, three people stopped and made me feel extremely special. They reminded me of my family and my closest friends (just like your family and your closest friends) who truly see me and hear me (you) and who love me (you) the way I am.

The people who spoke to me, they didn't know it was my birthday, and I didn't need to tell them. I didn't want them to feel pressured to do something special (buy a CD?) because they already had.

Their birthday gift to me was the reminder to honour myself, to give what I have (a few dozen songs, played and sung imperfectly this morning) and to appreciate the special people in my life. Our exchange didn't take place on a prestigious stage, to great fanfare or applause, but the gifts I will always treasure.

Monday, October 03, 2005

Too Busy Writing to Blog

Sorry I haven't written for awhile.

I've been too busy writing.

It all started when I began to write a blog entry last week, and I realized, hey, this is turning into a publishable essay. So I stopped blogging, checked the submission requirements for this particular project, and tailored my piece accordingly. It turned out pretty well and I sent it in, but I haven't heard back from the editors yet.

At the same time, a new professional writing client landed on my doorstep, with lots of work to be done, and quick. It's both challenging and energizing to be writing on demand again and I look forward to getting paid. It's also enjoyable to be writing about something other than myself.

Of course, the old familiar identity issues are resurfacing. What am I, anyway? An artist? Writer? Singer? Advertising copywriter? Oh yeah, and what about that subway musician enterprise (cue hysterical fit of giggling)? What about that?! When I'm not wearing too many hats, I'm apparently up-turning them for loose change. Does this fit together into any kind of sensible picture?

I do hope so. Speaking of pictures, a photographer is coming to take mine at Pape Station on Thursday, so I have a date to keep. In the meantime, let's hope my new client doesn't ride the subway to work.

Friday, September 23, 2005

My Mexican Coin

This morning as I was getting ready to go out busking, I found my lucky Mexican coin.

I had held onto it faithfully for many months, but sometime during the summer I lost track of it. Maybe I put it in my wallet and mixed it up with my other change. Maybe I accidentally spent it, leaving it as a worthless tip at a dimly-lit restaurant somewhere. I was annoyed with myself for losing the Mexican coin. I even considered going to the Currency Exchange to get another one, though I don't know how much it's actually worth.

I figured it was gone for good. But this morning, I found it in a Ziplock bag along with an ever-increasing mountain of uncounted change.

My Mexican coin looks just like a toonie, so it's perfect to put into my guitar case as "seed money". At the end of every busking shift, I have to subtract the seed money I put in at the beginning, but when I use the Mexican coin I don't have to subtract it. (It's a mind game, I know, but strangely it works for me.)

Earlier this week, I played a short set of songs at a local club, in front of an audience of about 25 people. I felt confident and enthusiastic about the music I was playing, and I was enjoying the physical space: a local restaurant painted a rich warm red, with cheerful paintings on the walls by local artists and a good sound system. I felt great, I sounded great...and the nice lighting probably made me look great too.

This morning at Osgoode station, I played the same songs, and didn't feel that way at all. The environment was cold and unflattering and I felt underconfident. When another musician came by and said hello, I immediately stopped playing, happy for the distraction. When a guitar string broke just after he left, I wasn't at all surprised (the guitar a mirror of my fragile state) and gratefully started to pack up.

Along with a few Canadian dollars, I collected the Mexican coin.

One of the songs I sang, in both performances, had recently prompted another musician to urge me to start shopping my songs around to publishers. This particular song, he thought, had strong commercial potential. The song went over very well on Wednesday night but attracted no notice this morning.

Like the Mexican coin, the song may indeed be worth money, but only if it's in the right hands, in the right setting. This morning at Osgoode Station, the coin sat in my case, dormant, waiting to be transported to Mexico where it could participate in the actual economy...and my songs were similarly square pegs looking for round holes.

It's all a question of fit, I thought, as I slipped my token into the turnstile and headed home.

Monday, September 19, 2005

Bookishness

For the past few weeks, I've been editing my blog postings into something I will publish as a book.

I could capitalize the word ("Book") to emphasize its importance, but just using the word adds a sense of formality and legitimacy to my writing enterprise. So I say it straightforwardly. Book.

I could be cute and create a new word--"blook"--to describe the marriage of book and blog, but, predictably, that trivializes the upcoming work, making it seem an even less worthy project than it already seems. The project's worth, needless to say, is already somewhat in question because of its direct relationship to a blog...and to busking. (Sorry, Gestating Creative Offspring, your lineage does not bode well.)

+++

Two years ago, I heard the word "blog" for the first time, and I thought, "yuck".

It didn't sound like something I'd want to read at all. Plus, I didn't know what it was, and I felt embarrassed about being out of the technological loop. Unlike some people, who may find such embarrassment motivational, I found myself curling up with a good old-fashioned book and shutting off my computer. Then one day, my husband (in his free time at 2:30 in the morning) set me up with my own blog, allowing me to express myself and "publish" at will without having to trouble myself by actually submitting my work to publications.

Thinking about the awfulness of the word itself, it makes me wonder whether blogs were invented as part of an evil plot by the Corporate Media to entrap the hordes of eager would-be-published writers, or at least to keep them very, very busy. Hasn't anyone noticed how much "the blog" sounds like "The Blob"?

"Blogger" also sounds suspiciously like "gobbler"--a devourer of time--and could be an in-joke among published authors who no doubt consider us turkeys. (I know of at least one writer who has successfully published--and been paid for--two articles on busking since I've been writing this blog.)

Like the world of independent music, in which inexpensive recording technology made it suddenly easy for anyone to become a recording artist, blogging has facilitated the free expression of ideas. But it hasn't erased the boundaries between what's considered professional and what's not. While some newspaper columnists may be nervous that bloggers might steal their jobs, I think that's less likely than the other scenario: that capable thinkers and writers (including much better ones that me) will remain bogged down in the blog ghetto, buried under all that crackpot ranting and poor punctuation, unable to rise above the label "amateur".

Okay, personal challenge time. Along with getting my book (BOOK!!!!!) ready for the printed page, I will select and edit a few articles for publication, submit them, and keep you posted.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

The Water Is Wide

In the days following Hurricane Katrina, I've picked up my guitar a few times and noodled with song ideas. Several ideas have come to me but been discarded. There is no shortage of subject matter to write about related to Katrina, from the wrenching human toll to the sudden migration to the bureaucratic incompetence to nature itself.

Like the onslaught of water, the images and words have come relentlessly, a torrent of "what nows" and "if onlys". There is so much to be done and so much to be said, yet I find myself mute in front of the television set, overwhelmed by the losses, not only of whole lives but of all the parts-of-lives, the parts that seem so hard to live without: the houses, the pets, the jobs.

After the initial shock of the event came the rapid rush of understanding of what Katrina means. Thousands of people are now permanently displaced, and their experience will ripple through the generations, as will the echoes of unheeded cries for help in a country where peace and security was thought to be a birthright.

Hundreds of songs will come from this. The best ones, I believe, will come from the people who lived through this disaster and still have strength to sing.

Instead of writing a new song of my own, I have been drawn to an old song that has been sung by many. I find myself singing the traditional folk song "The Water Is Wide" ("...I can't cross o'er. Nor do I have strong wings to fly...Give me a boat that will carry two...and I will sail, my love and I...") Today, that lyric seems to describe the gulf between what New Orleaneans expected from their country and what they received, between what was promised and what was delivered.

That water remains high today, between the shores of dream and reality, fiction and truth.

Friday, September 09, 2005

Where I Stand

With the mail was indeed a letter from the TTC, saying that yes, I did clear the bar to get a Subway Musicians' license for next year.

I didn't clear the bar by much.

It's funny how things turn out. You envision so many endings to the stories, answers to the questions...and sometimes the universe winks at you (as it did when last year my license number was 63 and the orientation session was October 4th) and sometimes it laughs at you.

Because I was ambivalent about continuing to sing on the subways, I thought it possible that I simply wouldn't get in...that the audition process would present an unlikely but unmistakable sign that I'm simply not meant to do this anymore. On the other hand, I felt pretty confident about my audition this year. Now that I "knew what I was doing" I felt sure that if I got in, I'd get in by a pretty wide margin...that my "ranking" would reflect all the fabulous learning I'd done over the past year, the personal growth, the improvement as a musician and performer, the new songs written during the experiene, and so on.

All of that would, I thought, count for something.

And of course, it does. It counts for me. It counts in my inner life and my personal journey, which is completely separate from my public career, in whatever form it takes.

That's a lesson I want to believe I've learned. In fact, it was a lesson I tried to learn over and over on the subway this year: the quality of my work and the value of my contribution cannot be measured simplistically in material and predictable ways. I must continue to stand up and sing even when it appears it's having no effect.

Even though I've spent most of the past year re-evaluating rankings and status--re-defining what I thought of as "success" in music--I was initially disappointed to discover that in the competition to get a subway musician's licence this year, I hadn't done as well as I had in last year's auditions.

After all this, have I really learned anything at all? Haven't I learned that rankings don't matter, and that art defies competitions? Maybe the fact that I was irked by the numbers shows me that I still have a lot to learn in this area...I'm still hung up on winning something and getting somewhere, instead of being content where I am.

The Postman Always Rings Twice

This morning, I was walking down the street on my way to pick up Calla for lunch when a car pulled up beside me.

"Has the mail arrived on this street yet?" the woman asked.

"Nope, not yet", I replied knowledgeably.

"You see, I'm Patrick's mother," she said. "I was hoping to pick him up and take him for lunch."

I told her, as I told you yesterday, that I always look forward to seeing Patrick and that he's doing a very good job.

When he arrived just now (after respective lunches of both mothers and children), he seemed especially friendly when he gave me my mail.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Please Mr. Postman

No, I haven't received my letter yet, so I don't know whether or not I'll be a subway musician next year.

I haven't been singing very much in the subway either. Rather than considering myself stalled, I'd prefer to think I've just briefly pulled off to the shoulder.

Last week I had a bad cold, making singing a challenge (although I did play a show at the City Roots/City Wide festival in Toronto's historic Distillery District). In the three days leading up to the festival, I exhausted our household's supply of ginger tea, which seemed to help. If nothing else, it made me need to pee so often it must have flushed the virus out of my system, thus allowing a dense cloud of ragweed pollen to invade and keep me in the sniffles.

For the last few days, even though I haven't quite admitted it to myself, I've been watching expectantly for the arrival of Patrick, our postman. (Yes, his name really is Postman Pat.)

Like other letter carriers I have met over the years, Pat is a perpetually cheerful guy. He always says hello and smiles and he always has a spring in his step, even when it's fall outside and his mailbag must weigh a ton with the various catalogues and reports he's delivering. Today we received both a Staples and a Lee Valley catalogue, giving me more excuses than usual to procrastinate as I think about all the office supplies and woodworking tools I suddenly may need.

I may not need them after all. But the perception or possibility of need is there. It's printed on all the ink-on-paper communication that comes through my mail-slot. Even if I toss them immediately into the recycling bin, the envelopes lying on my vestibule floor always appear to me, at least for a few seconds before I pick them up, potentially essential.

That's worth something.

And that must be why Postman Pat seems so happy all the time. Many people wait for him with a happy expectancy. If occasionally the waiting is also accompanied by a shadow of suspense (for the mail could also bring unhappy news) it always, also, holds the possibility of a surprise twist that could change everything.

That moment of anticipation, when we're really not sure what is around the corner but even if it might be bad we can't resist finding out, makes Pat a pretty popular guy. No wonder he's always smiling.

Wednesday, August 24, 2005

Music Unheard/Spinner Bottles

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Sunday, July 31, 2005

Stay

10:45 p.m., Eglinton Station

My gig at a neighborhood pub has finished up early. It's Sunday night, on the August holiday long weekend. The Songwriter's Circle was a relatively quick one, with everybody playing five songs to a crowd made up mostly of "regulars".
A few friends had come to hear me--and had left after my last song--and all the musicians had cleared the place.

Saying goodbye to the few people left at the bar, I headed home, taking public transit. Eglinton Station was muggy and desolate. The Bagel Stop was closed up for the night and only a few sleepy people were straggling through.

I noticed the yellow dots (very clean ones, perhaps recently replaced) and walked on by, down the stairs and straight into a waiting train.

It kept waiting, doors open.

("But I don't have my amp! I already did my gig tonight!")

The doors stayed open.

Okay, fine. I get it.

I got up from my seat, hoisted up the guitar and exited the train. As I headed back up the stairs, I heard the three-note "doors closing" chime behind me.

I opened my guitar case, set my license up proudly inside it, and fished in my pockets for whatever spare change I could find. (We five songwriters had earned $7.00 each on "pass the hat" at the bar. I'd sold a couple of CDs too, to someone who already knew and liked my music, so I figured I'd done okay, relatively speaking.)

My guitar sounded quiet, and my voice sounded naked.

("What am I doing here?")

I played three songs, glad that I could make the music stay a little longer for myself tonight. In order to cut through the silence, and because I had no amp, I had to play with as much intensity as possible.

And sing with as much feeling.

I earned three "thumbs up".

And a dollar.

Then I could go home.

Friday, July 29, 2005

The light at the end of the tunnel

On October 8th, 2004, I arrived home from Pape Station on my first morning of singing for Toronto subway passengers, and I found a note on the kitchen table from my husband Dave.

It said "Congrats!! Now start writing."

So I did. And you started reading.

As I've arrived now at a stopping-point for this leg of the "Subway Music" journey, I'd like to thank Dave for being so encouraging throughout the writing of this blog, even as it's kept me tied up at the computer for many hours a week.

It's not over yet, of course. In response to many readers who have said all along, "It's not a blog, it's a book", I'd like to take time now to edit and shape it with an eye to publication. (One particular reader has brought my attention to its potential literary elements and encouraged me to strengthen them.)

This seems like a good time to say "Intermission!" or "End of Part One".

Why now? Well, first of all, I'm not stopping the actual singing. The TTC busking year runs until the beginning of October, and by that time everyone has learned whether or not they are accepted for next year. (I'm planning to re-audition.) Although I've slowed down because of family summer schedules, I'll be re-auditioning and singing regularly through September and hopefully into next season.

But the writing project began when I set out to audition last year, and so it's just beyond the one-year mark now. This is probably a good time to pause and navigate a bit. (And write some songs, too.)

I'd like to thank each of you for reading and offering your thoughts along the way. You are writers, musicians, teachers, painters, filmmakers, thinkers and doers...and you are an inspiration to me.

Among the many "lights" I have found in those tunnels, the most shining one may be that we each provide landing-places and junction-points for each other. We need each other to get our bearings, no matter where we think we're headed. If our work helps anyone move in the right direction, it's good work.

We can do it wholeheartedly, with love and confidence and gratitude.

The last time I was at Pape Station, several day-camp groups of small children came through, as did several families. There were more children than usual that day, and as you know, children have always been my favourite subway listeners. On this particular day though, I was so moved by their presence, I had to look away from them lest I start crying in response to their un-edited and generous looks of fascination. One of them, as she passed, saw my CDs in my guitar case and called ahead to her teacher, "Her name is Lynn!!!" as if that alone were a discovery of great importance.

Simply our presence is of great importance. While we're here, we cannot help but love.

+++++

I will update the blog again after the auditions for the 2005-06 season, which take place at the CNE on the weekend of August 20th. I have to take time to prepare my 7-minute audition medley! I'll also let you know how the results come out.

I do hope I get in again...and at the same time it's a highly unpredictable process. Whatever happens, this year has taught me more about myself--and what songs are for and about--than I ever would have predicted. Also, although I haven't done a final tally, I've earned several thousand dollars at it, which has made a big difference in completing my CD, called "Broadview", which will be released in November. Four songs on the album ("Music Town", "Music Everywhere" and "Creature of Habit" and "Pennies") were directly inspired by my subway experiences, a number of other new songs have been written but are not yet recorded, and "I Would Recognize You" and "Luminous Veil" took on much greater meaning as I sang them for subway passengers.

Eagle-eyed readers will notice that I never did run into Billy James, the original subway musician I met twenty years ago. I tried to call him yesterday, and got his machine. I'll try again.

+++

Note: A manuscript version of the project does exist, and article-length excerpts are possible too. Suggestions are welcome, particularly if you have ideas about possible markets or other ways to bring the project to a wider audience. Not that there's anything wrong with self-publishing, of course! --lh

Tuesday, July 26, 2005

Ask, and you shall have tea-lights

I could have gone to Yonge & Bloor this morning, but instead I went to Pape.

In daylight, with the Coke stain removed, it looked better than it had on Saturday night. And I felt better. Yesterday night, after the streetcar ride, I'd played at an open mic called, appropriately enough, The Smiling Buddha.

It was was dimly lit, with tea-light candles (none of the other places I played ever had them), twinkly Christmas lights and round cafe tables...and a roomful of friends just waiting to applaud.

But I knew, after the conversation on the streetcar, that all my justification of needing a "real" stage rang false. Whenever I have trouble with busking, it's not about the external setting or the people passing by, it's about me and my thoughts, which frequently return to insecurities and comparisons. I have the ability to sing freely and joyfully no matter where I am; it's my mind that gets in the way, on an irritating and regular basis.

Mulling this over before going on stage last night, I picked up the tea-light and swirled the wax around, causing the flame to go out.

Meanwhile, the singer onstage asked aloud, "Is it the Smiling Buddha or the Laughing Buddha?"

+++

Today at Pape, I found myself disappearing in a new way.

I was less a focus of attention, and more a junction-point, like the subway station itself...and like my friend on the streetcar, who with generosity and delight passed on the wisdom of a busker I never knew.

At one point in the morning, a man came along, trying to keep hold of a crumpled-looking bunch of papers, at risk of being swept away by the ever-present subway wind. (Other than the fact that he was waving these scribbled-on papers around, he looked completely normal, by the way.)

"I'm writing about the human condition!" he said.

And then he went on to tell me something important and true about the human condition, which I agreed with at the time but which I can't remember now. The moment happened, and passed by.

And separately, along came two women whom I'd met at the station before. (One was the opera singer, the other was the first person who bought a CD from me in the subway, on my very first day.) After I introduced them to each other, they kept talking and arranged to meet again for the singer's next performance.

As I watched them smiling and laughing with each other like old friends, I stood off to one side, playing a little instrumental interlude.

(10:20 - 12:25: $19.71)

Connecting the Dots

I would stick them down at the head of a boardroom table. And in the grocery store. I would put them in Value Village and at Costco and in some very expensive store, the name of which I can't pronounce. I would create yellow-stickered artist areas in television studios and radio announce booths. I would put them in church. And in every school. I would place them in court and in Parliament, in hospitals and in jails.

I would lay them down in my living room, creating a refuge in case of argument. I would install them in my children's bedrooms (for them to use) and on my and my husband's sides of the bed. I would put them on every porch on my street. Yellow stickers would grow like dandelions in every front yard.

Even though I wouldn't need to, I would take them outside, to open fields, to hushed forests, to shoulders-of-the-road. I would take them to the top of the highest hill I could climb. And to the edge of the sea.

For the length of a song, anyone could enter that space and feel the magic of changing the world without being seen, of being powerful and yet invisible, of watching masks parade by and seeing masks fall away. By stepping inside that unusual, open-ended box (bounded by a dotted line, allowing you to step in or out, or to pass), anyone could take permission to be someone they didn't know they were. Someone both braver and smaller.

Inside each of these spaces, there would be room for a small open object, turned upward in an invitation: a hat, a cup, a guitar case or a cardboard box. In order to open up this receiving-place, the singer would have to not sing, but instead kneel down in a way so similar to praying, to allow others to take part in the rhythm of give-and-take, even if they weren't intending to, even if their eyes were fixed on something up ahead, and they were barely aware that they were giving anything as they walked by.

There would be millions of these little stages, defined by yellow dots, everywhere in the world. If you looked at them from a distance, they might appear as a map, a map of towns or subway stations, or like like a field of stars in the sky.

Monday, July 25, 2005

Stations in Life

I should tell you that a few days ago I declared angrily, "I'm not going back to the subway. I've gotten everything I can out of the experience!"

For a few days, I sat with this new outlook, feeling relieved that I'd reached that sane decision and confident that I was right.

I had come to the conclusion that it was somehow harmful to experience the feeling of being out-of-place and unnecessary while singing original songs for people who hadn't requested them. I thought that it was simply too uncomfortable...an unnecessary trial.

I figured that I could simply step away from that particular challenge, that I could choose not to confront the sense of alienation that arises naturally from being an artist and choosing to show one's true colours in public.

I chose not to focus on the many miraculous things that had happened to me since I began singing in the subway. Instead, I focused on external perceptions of myself: What are people thinking? Where is this path leading? ("Nowhere!" "Fast!") I reminded myself that I was supposed to be getting somewhere and that I'd better hop to it if I was ever going to make up for lost time.

After reaching the conclusion that busking wasn't for me after all, I found myself feeling amazed that I'd allowed myself to sing in the subways at all. I belong in a different station entirely! What was I thinking? I must have been suffering from some strange amnesia that made me lose my better judgement and follow some dreamy subterranean slope to who-knows-where.

Well, time to wake up. Get on with things. Important things. Certainly more important than singing at Bloor & Yonge, where I was scheduled for the past four mornings.

Meanwhile, I took a streetcar ride to see a friend of mine perform, and I ran into a man I knew from Fat Albert's. I had bumped into this fellow by chance several times...and being the kind of person who notices and appreciates such things, he celebrated each of our coincidental meetings as some kind of little miracle.

"Yes, yes," I said, "what a wonderful coincidence." Meanwhile I was actually feeling impatient, slightly annoyed that I'd have to share my ride with someone, and wondering if I've tended to blow all this coincidence stuff out of proportion.

To make conversation, I asked the banal question "Having a good summer?"

"No!" he declared matter-of-factly, and went on to tell me about the recent death of a close friend, a man with whom he'd shared a house for twenty years. It was Ben Kerr, the man who had made both a name and a living for himself by standing at the corner of Yonge and Bloor singing original songs for passers-by for as long as anyone could remember.

In spite of myself, I found myself drawn in to his story, getting that strange and irritating feeling once again that the universe was trying to tell me something.

An unconventional man by any standard, Ben Kerr had made (it was reported) at least a few stabs at the commercial music world at one time but had chosen the physically and psychically demanding life of a busker as a way to share his musical gifts. Over the course of many years, and highly visible in every season, he'd gained a reputation and earned a sort of respect--though of course most people probably just assumed he was crazy. I hadn't known him; in fact my main memory of him came from the time in my life when I would have rushed past him at Yonge and Bloor on the way to some important meeting.

Meanwhile, on the streetcar, my friend described Ben as a remarkably inspiring and strong person, a source of optimistic perspective in a crazy world. My friend was missing him terribly, and yet still felt inspired by and connected to him, and inspired and connected enough to me to tell me all this.

Today, he said, he was excited to be reading a book he'd found among Ben's things. It was called "Lies My Ego Taught Me".

Saturday, July 23, 2005

Yellow Stickers

Tonight we travelled across town by subway as a family.

As we strode through Pape Station on our way to the trains, our daughter (who is 8) asked me where exactly I sing in the subway. I pointed out the yellow dots.

"You should just carry yellow stickers with you, Mom," she said, "and stick them down anywhere you want to play."

Good point, I thought.

If only it were so easy.

She didn't say what she thought of the actual yellow-dot location, which was beside a garbage can and stained with what looked like dried-up spilled soft drink. Nobody was playing there. At night, I never expect any busker to be singing in the subway, perhaps because I wouldn't feel comfortable playing there myself at that time of day.

At night, when all fears and insecurities are heightened, artists like me need flattering stage lighting. We need tea-light candles on smart bistro tables, the expectant hum of people listening. We need applause.

Tonight, like all the other travellers, our family hurried through Pape subway station on our way to where we were going. Over the course of the night we stopped at several stations, each of them dreary and without music.

I noticed how stark the lighting in the subway was...how sharp the angles seemed to be.

How silent it was.

It was a silence I'd heard at all times of day, at every station, after one song ends and before the next one begins. The silence is both a reason to sing and a reason not to. It calls me to fill the void with whatever beautiful sound I can create. But it also tells me, go home! Go to a place where someone will cheer.

I have taken the lack of applause as a given, accepted it as I would the lack of applause after a soloist's performance in church.

But like all other performers, I have sought applause since I was a tiny child.

When a song is met with silence, I look for something else to fill it. The loving affirmation felt at church, for instance, is so similar to a grateful smile of appreciation or the generous toss of a coin.

For a street performer, making music that most people consider unnecessary, the affirmation is intermittent, coming and going like a wavering signal.

When a busker finishes her set, the man at the nearby concession stand says "Did you do well today?" instead of "Great show!"

It's not a show, really. There's been no agreement. When the interchange has not been entered into by choice, but by chance, it's as if the interchange hasn't happened. People may hear the music, but most pretend they have not.

There's no escaping the silence.

So, if I were to carry around my personal set of yellow dots, where would I put them?

Friday, July 22, 2005

The Corner Office

Today at Queen's Park, I had a strong urge to simply run.

It was as if a voice was saying: Get out! Get out now! Just don't do this!

Stop feeling unnecessary and out-of-place? Is that it? Quit feeling peculiar, singing in my own little corner?

How is that possible for any artist, who is creating something new and uncalled-for, and who inevitably will feel out-of-step with people on their way to the office, on more conservative and traditionally rewarding paths?

That's really the most difficult thing about busking...the undeniable fact (no matter how many donations or smiles one receives) that the music wasn’t officially called for and everybody knows it. The young man walking by carrying a guitar knows it. The TTC employee sweeping the floor knows it. The work wasn’t ordered on Amazon or iTunes. It doesn’t come in a box. And as such, it’s likely to be overlooked and undervalued. By everyone! Not just the people passing by, but by the artist herself.

(I read recently that next year, as part of official Toronto Culture Year celebrations, transit riders will be treated to on-train performances by musicians and writers. I assume these will be industry-recognized writers and musicians, which many people would consider the "real" kind. Just watch: people on the trains will applaud for those and walk right by the busker in the corridor as before.)

This afternoon, I sang and played well, technically speaking. But after a particularly long period without acknowledgement, I found myself not meeting people’s eyes. By not doing so, I retreated into my corner…created a little protective barrier against the uncomfortable realization that at that particular moment I was performing mostly for myself.

I arrived with the best of intentions. I meant to give without reservation, and yet once again I learned there were strings attached. As quickly as I’d untie them (breathe…sing out of generosity…tune in to the music itself…don't think so much don't think so much don't think so much) they would fasten themselves again: the taut strings of my need for approval and affirmation, my desire to make something that has actual commercial value, the tension between my unfulfilled wish for commercial success and the voice deep within that said “sing!” Sing even though no one is listening. Sing anyway. Sing still.

Sing to still the ever-rushing train of anxious thoughts, of wants and fears, that leads me onward but returns to its starting-point, over and over again, in the course of every day.