Union Station and a Voice of Experience

This morning I sang at Union Station for a couple of hours, in an unusual walkway between the main subway station and the Go Train terminal. At first, when I was looking for the little dots, I went too far and ended up in an adjoining mini-mall. The shopping concourse near the Go Trains looks a lot like a subway station, except for the number of snack food chains and—horror of horrors—the piped-in music over the loudspeakers! That was a pretty obvious clue that I was in the wrong place. But I was glad to experience Muzak near a subway station, so I could appreciate how completely wrong it seemed.

Of course, when I say "I sang at Union Station", you might imagine the gloriously historic train station itself, with one blissful singer (me) smack dab in the middle of it. (Has any major celebrity done this? I must look it up on Google.)

Yes, singing in that part of Union Station would be a peak life experience. But actually, singing in the walkway between the subway and the Go Train station isn’t half bad either. The acoustics are great (who knows exactly why)—and it’s even more fun when people donate and buy CDs as they did this morning.

+++

On my way back home, I met Roger, an experienced subway musician. He was singing at Yonge/Bloor, the station I consider the psychic centre of the TTC. It’s a huge, multi-leveled subway station that serves as the axis for both a north-south and east-west line, and frankly, it intimidates me. (Maybe it’s like concert venues: I’m comfortable in my own local clubs and feel a little queasy at the thought of playing the Air Canada Centre. Not that I need to worry about that any time soon.)

Roger Ellis is a sweet-voiced, gentle bear of a man whose calming presence is a genuine gift to all who hear him. In keeping with his personality, his original songs have a balanced, peaceful quality. A professional musician for many years, he sings and plays with ease and grace, whether it’s his own song or somebody else’s. (I have to admit, I never grow tired of hearing Simon & Garfunkel's "The Boxer", which he was playing today when I arrived.)

The first time I met Roger, we were both playing at a small outdoor festival. From the stage, he made a point of welcoming his fans from Davisville subway station. That made a big impression on me. It was impressive that people had followed him from the subway to a larger venue—and inspiring that he was so publicly positive about his underground experience.

Today, Roger took a break from "The Boxer" to speak to me and provide helpful advice. He talked to me about how to save my voice and about the possibility of cooperating with other musicians to make best use of time at certain stations. Once again, I was struck by his generosity in sharing the tricks of the trade. In some other music circles, I had encountered a certain competitiveness (even if it was unconscious) but I hadn’t found that so far on the subway system.

As much as I enjoyed talking to Roger, I was very conscious of not wanting to over-stay my welcome. Dozens of people had passed by as we were talking. I wanted him to start playing again so he could make more money.

I was halfway down the stairs to get onto the Danforth line when I heard him pick up exactly where he’d left off, ten minutes ago. "When I left my home and my family, I was no more than a boy, in the company of strangers, the quiet of the railway station, running scared, laying low…seeking out the poorer quarters where the ragged people go…"

The Pape Station Hit Parade

I visited Pape Station today after having lunch with a friend who is a successful advertising writer and published author. He’s been a sounding board for me over the years as we both have wrestled with the questions of why we write and what we should do with what we’ve written.

Like most of my friends, he’s interested to hear about my subway experiences. Over lunch today he asked me about the responses I was getting from the public. When I told him that I appreciate any and all expressions of interest, he asked me half-jokingly how many "hits" I got per shift.

He was kidding when he used the word, which is usually used for website visits, but I knew exactly what he meant and it seemed oddly appropriate. He wasn’t just talking about donations but about eye contact, positive comments, little nods in my direction.

I thought about it for a second. Twenty or thirty an hour? Possibly more? I’d been counting money, but I hadn’t been counting points of connection.

I headed to Pape Station after lunch, determined to try to count the "hits".

+++

As usual, I started out feeling a bit concerned that it might be an "off" day. Today I thought it had more to do with the general mood of the public than anything I myself was doing. Let’s see…it’s November 23rd, that’s getting close to the end of the month…it’s almost exactly a month before Christmas so people are starting to feel pressured…did that account for the higher-than-average number of sour faces I noticed this afternoon?

Or maybe it was the weather: damp, cloudy and increasingly cold. And at Pape Station, the wind was blowing through the corridor with even greater ferocity than I remembered. At one point, an entire crumpled section of newspaper flew through the hallway in front of me.

Anyway, I started singing as usual. For the first few songs, nobody seemed to glance in my direction, although a few people donated money anyway (which counts as a "hit" even though there’s no personal contact).

I got warmed up by the time I sang When I Walk (I Run) and the crowd seemed to really like that one. (When I started my busking, I thought that some songs would be surefire subway "hits", that is, donation magnets. So far, though, I haven’t found this to be the case—except that some songs end up being hits on particular days. For example one day might be a Room To Love day and another day might be an I've Been Busy day.

Sometimes I think that if I just tune in clearly enough to the mood of the station, I’ll be able to pick the precise songs that everyone needs. Although I realize it must sound nutty to do so, I do find myself believing that hundreds of seemingly unconnected individual people, streaming through a subway station on a Tuesday afternoon, might need the same song at the same time, and that I might have written it. Now there's an artist's ego for you.

As I kept singing, the hits did start to come. Today there were several women who stopped in the middle of the walkway and took the time to dig in their purses for change. I felt badly for one woman who did this and then turned away before I could properly thank her. She started to run as she heard the train pull in, and I realized she probably missed her train because she took the time to make a donation. (Guilt: another excellent emotion for today’s subway musician.)

A number of people donated in a particular way that I feel I should describe. They toss in their coins with a sort of defiant pitch—a little angry fling--and they almost never accept a "thank you" in return or make eye contact. It’s not that they don’t want me to be there (I’ve seen that expression too and it’s quite different). No, this is a "damn-it-all-here’s-a-dollar" kind of gesture, as if they’re mad at the world but giving back to it anyway. I like these people. I’d even listen to them if they wanted to get up and sing something or stand on a milk crate and rant for awhile.

Then there was another kind of hit. A middle-aged man came up to me as I was singing and started belting out "Out in the West Texas town of El Paso…" at full volume. In case you're not familiar with the song, it’s called "El Paso" and it was a hit for Marty Robbins who wrote it, as well as The Grateful Dead. After trying to carry on with my own song for a bar or two, I gave up and obligingly tried to play the Marty Robbins tune, immediately failed, and stopped playing. To explain why he’d interrupted me, the man said the song I was playing sounded "just like it". (My new song "Music Everywhere" sounds nothing like "El Paso".)

I also met my friend John, who was calling it a day after busking since 7:00 this morning. (John is definitely my Number 1 Hit Subway Musician.)

Six musicians passing through nodded in a collegial kind of way, including two keyboard players and a man with a guitar who paused beside the garbage can as if he was scheduled for this station and was preparing to bump me from the spot. Something told me he wasn’t a licensed TTC musician, but I wasn't sure. After waiting a few minutes, he smiled at me and headed back to the subway before I could ask him if he wanted to play.

+++

Predictably, I lost count of the hits—the moments of personal contact--with people at Pape Station today. I’m sure it was at least thirty or more. And now, writing at my computer alone in my house, I realize why that seems so amazing and valuable.

As a writer and musician, I can go through whole days in which the only contact I have is with my family and a few friends. If I have a particularly busy day I might talk to three or four clients on the phone, maybe see six friends on the way to and from school, have contact with a sales clerk at the grocery store or the post office. My personal contact is limited to people I know well—a small circle—and casual contact is usually confined to something very transactional, like buying stamps.

When I perform for large audiences, I get aggregate contact: one large group made up of lots of individuals.

On the subway, I get regular personal contact and positive encouragement from dozens of complete strangers.

I give to them. Each of them.

And I am losing track of who is giving to whom.

Busking Addiction?

The other night I went to a friend's CD release party where I met another singer-songwriter who had an unusual take on busking. When I mentioned I was singing on the subway, he immediately frowned and became very serious.

"You have to watch out for that, you know."

What?

"You can burn out. I've heard it happens. You need to be careful."

I wondered what he meant. Did he mean that you get demoralized after awhile when so many people pass you by? Do you get tired of your own songs? Do you get sick of singing and playing?

Or is it something more sinister, like obsessive gambling? Is subway busking the crack cocaine of musical performance?

+++

I was still thinking about this, two hours into my second day at Yorkdale.

Despite the cold, I was doggedly working my way through my entire repertoire. In any given subway shift, I try not to repeat songs very often. I stick mostly to my own songs, adding a few covers I know well. (At the moment, this is exactly three, not counting Christmas songs.) I usually don't play long enough to get through my entire list of 48 songs, but I came pretty close at Yorkdale today.

This was interesting, because I was cold from the moment I got there. I wasn't feeling as energized as I had on Thursday, and because I'd been to Yorkdale once already, the second day didn't have the same novelty value. The crowds seemed equally receptive today, but not exceptionally so, as most people seemed pretty focused on getting to the mall and getting their shopping done. I saw several people rushing by with large wrapped gifts today and in their honour I broke out my first official Christmas song: "Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas".

So why did I stay as long as I did: almost two and a half hours without a break?

I figured it had to be the Pavlovian lure of instant payment each time I played another song. I thought of gambling addiction: "If I just play one more song...just one more!...maybe somebody will buy a CD!" Was that it?

I told myself I'd quit after the next donation...then someone would toss in a loonie and I'd say I'd just finish the song...and then another crowd would be passing through so I'd start another. I told myself I should finish with something great...something definitive...some appropriate send-off for two and a half solid hours of playing in a cold walkway. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas?

(I finally did switch my amp off, collect my change and go home. It was my biggest donation day yet: $56.63.)

More Yorkdale

The Yorkdale busking stop is right in the middle of a glass-domed walkway that looks out over the Allen Road expressway (a short four-lane highway) and the subway trains themselves, which come above ground at that point. The walkway is just wide enough for four narrow lanes of pedestrian traffic, which is to say, it's pretty cozy.

At many of the stations I played at, there was a lot of space between the busker and the public--so much space that each one could comfortably ignore the other. This wasn't true in the Yorkdale pedestrian walkway. In fact, people tended to bump into me here. While it seemed a bit claustrophobic at first, it seemed to ultimately work to my advantage. When forced to meet eyes with a performer, people actually did and seemed to enjoy it. They smiled, nodded, said hello and threw change. Thursday had turned out to be an excellent day for me, with lots of money and encouragement coming my way.

Thursday had been a beautiful fall day too (this November in Toronto feels more like September) and the walkway was quite warm. By Saturday, however, the weather was rainy and several degrees chillier, which was definitely noticeable in the busker stop.

I kept my coat on and unpacked enthusiastically, remembering my positive experience of the day before. I set out my CDs, which looked especially festive with Christmasy ribbons attached (hopefully a good marketing idea). As I started to sing, I had my usual out-of-place feeling for few seconds but quickly got into the rhythm of things. I realized when you're a busker, starting to sing is much like getting into a swimming pool. It seems cold at first but you quickly get used to it.

+++

It's remarkable to me that now I can simply break into song in public. Even after I started working as a "professional singer", actually singing in front of anyone was challenging for me unless I had a certain amount of architecture around me (ie. lights, a stage, and some distance between me and the audience).

Today I noticed how freely I simply picked up my guitar, tuned up and started singing even though nobody was listening. It seemed to go against all the social conventions I'd been brought up with. Don't speak too loudly in public! Don't call attention to yourself! Don't speak unless spoken to! Maybe that's why busking seems so uncomfortable to many people: it seems to go against some basic values. Even though I have an official license displayed in my case, when I start to sing it always feels as if I'm doing something without permission.

Yorkdale

I made it to Yorkdale as planned.

I ended up parking miles and miles away from the subway stop, because the mall is under construction and the most convenient parking lot was out-of-service. So, hefting my guitar and amplifier-laden backpack, I hiked my way through the mall.

Yorkdale is the kind of mall I can't afford to shop at. Since I decided to become a mother and singer-songwriter simultaneously, I've been a devoted Value Village shopper. Today I was sporting an Italian-made asymmetrical tapestry-quilted jacket for which I paid $14.99. I'm so accustomed to paying second-hand prices for clothes, I can't imagine paying "real" prices for anything, not even that beautiful floral leather-and-shearling jacket in Calla's size in the Gap Kids window... I was tempted to go into the store, not to actually buy it, but just to see how much it cost.

But when you're barging through a mall with an amplifier on your back, you have a certain momentum. So I kept on walking.

+++

When I arrived at the busking stop, another musician was already playing, so I let him know that I was scheduled there and offered to come back in fifteen minutes. That would give me time to find the Lewiscraft hobby supply store and hopefully the pillow-stuffing materials for Calla's class.

Fortunately, the store was right next to the subway entrance and it had exactly what I was looking for.

The only problem was, after I finished busking I'd have to walk all the way back through the mall with my guitar, my amp and a five-pound bag of Fibrefill.

+++

When I returned to the busking post, the other musician started packing up and was eager to give me advice, like all the other musicians were when I saw them. I realized then, for the first time, that it must be somehow obvious that I'm brand new to subway busking.

"You'll think that you're not getting anything," he advised, "but don't give up. It'll come."

I nodded.

As he packed up his stuff, he loaded it onto a compact little baggage cart. "You need to get one of these," he said. "Ten bucks at Honest Ed's." Good advice, I thought, remembering the five-pound bag of fibrefill.

He also urged me to come back on Saturday "and stay right 'til 9:00 o'clock!" when the stores close. I hadn't planned on doing that, but I realized he was probably right. It would be one of the first big shopping Saturdays before Christmas. He seemed very tuned in to the holiday season and its potential for busking.

"What stop do you have at Christmas?" he asked.

I looked at him blankly.

Hmm...I guess it IS obvious that I'm a beginner.

Next Stop Subject to Change

Today I'm off to Yorkdale: a large stop connected to a big affluent shopping mall. It'll be my first time busking in nine days. I can't wait to get back to it.

I had intended to go on Tuesday, but Calla was home from school with a bad cough...and yesterday I was on school lunch duty plus I had freelance writing work to do for a small advertising company.

My time is always parceled out in little chunks. Little chunks...oh, that reminds me, I must stop by Lewiscraft craft supply store in Yorkdale Mall to buy stuffing for the pillow-making project in Calla's class. And I must stop at bank machine to avoid paying for it entirely in coins.

Last month I posted my subway schedule on my website, as accurately as I could, with the caveat that "all times are subject to change". I suddenly realize that's actually quite a clever pun that I didn't recognize when I wrote it. And it's turned out to be true: all times I've shown up on the subway have been subject to change--and sometimes in large quantities.

But back to what I meant the first time: "all times are subject to be changed as my schedule changes." Truth was, my schedule kept changing so often, I couldn't keep it updated and a few people came by to see me and were disappointed. (Sorry, Ken, Eva and Jim!) So, given the chaotic and unpredictable nature of my life, I figure I should keep my ever-changing schedule to myself.

In some ways, I feel a bit envious of John, whose personal schedule is so free he can actually spend 8 hours a day playing cover tunes on the subway system. And then I hesitate to even express that thought: after all, I'm in the enviable position of having a family, a husband who works (though that too can change, and not for the better, at any moment as we've discovered through several layoffs, and his current contract only runs until March), a house and ways other than busking of making money (such as a few small advertising jobs I'm procrastinating on as I write this).

So far, I don't have to work the subway for a living. But all things could change.

The Zen of Guitar String Maintenance

I was especially happy with tonight's performance.

Last night went well too, but making the transition between singing on the subway and singing on stage proved trickier than expected.

Tonight I felt at home once again on an actual stage.

Before the show, I did several things to prepare myself psychologically (having felt that I'd been somewhat unprepared the night before). Both nights, I had about an hour to fill at the venue before my performance. Tonight I filled it by knitting (something I hadn't done for months, but which I hoped would be relaxing, and was) and by reading a copy of Shambhala Sun, a Zen Buddhist magazine my father lent to me.

The November '04 issue focuses on "the art of spiritual practice, and the spiritual practice of art". I was especially moved by an article about writing which reminded the reader that it's the being (not the producing) that matters: an important reminder for writers like me who are prone to publishing, recording and, uh, blogging. The editorial was helpful as well, suggesting that inspiration comes from becoming comfortable with situations as they are, even if they're irritating, and of making an ally of the unpredictability of the mind.

That phrase "unpredictability of the mind" really rang true for me, as I remembered my mind's revved-up hyperobserving of the night before. Between the magazine and the knitting, something worked. I felt accepting and responsive throughout tonight's show, even when I broke a guitar string in the middle of it.

This is a public "thank-you" to the opening act singer (his name is Dave Cramer) who so graciously changed my string when I spontaneously asked him to. Hopefully, if I keep up with the Zen spirit of relaxed response to irritating circumstances, someday I'll be able to change my own strings on stage. (I've seen Fred Eaglesmith do it.) So, something else to aspire to. (I say that without judging myself. Much.) In the meantime, thank you Dave.

1st Non-Subway Show

Tonight I'm in Winnipeg, after playing the first of two concerts at local churches. They're the first full-evening shows I've done since I started playing in the subway.

I had anticipated that my busking would affect my "official" performances in interesting ways. The first change I noticed was that my rehearsal time, to prepare for the shows, was streamlined. Because I previously played only a couple of shows a month, I had to work pretty hard to get an entire evening's material up to speed. No more! As I began to prepare for this weekend's performances, I realized that I had some forty songs well-memorized and rehearsed. I even remembered what key I played them all in.

What wasn't up-to-speed, however, was patter--the between-song banter that touring performers (the ones that play hundreds of dates per year) are so good at. My idols, the Canadian alt-country songwriter Fred Eaglesmithand American folksinger Cheryl Wheeler, are so funny between songs they could legitimately have careers in stand-up comedy.

On the subway, of course, I don't have to say anything between songs. I don't even have to finish songs.

Predictably, my patter was a little rough around the edges last night. I'd start funny little stories and realize, mid-anecdote, that I didn't have a snappy ending. (O-kaaaay...back to singing!) The audience, though, was warm and appreciative. So warm and appreciative, I found it a little unsettling.

No stranger to what¹s called "imposter syndrome", I have at many times in my life felt as if I was faking it.

I felt like that when I was working as a comedy writer. I felt like that when I was working as a screenwriter. And I felt like that tonight, even though my songs sounded stronger than ever.
I made fewer mistakes than usual on the guitar and recovered from any glitches a lot more smoothly. Same went for lyrics. In one song ( "Stage") I sang verse three instead of verse two, but realized quickly enough to sing the missed verse the next time around (with no eye-rolling, grimace or self-deprecating explanation, either). My voice was in great shape and I sang well and tried to enjoy the fact that one hundred people were sitting in their seats and looking straight at me and listening to every word I sang and noticing what I was doing with my guitar and I wonder what they're thinking for instance that man over there doesn¹t seem to be enjoying it but the lady next to my mother is smiling and how many people are here anyway and I wonder if I should sing two more songs before the break or three and did I put lipstick on before going onstage and...aaaiiiiieeeeeee!!

At one point, it crossed my mind that I might not be able to handle the pressure and might have to actually leave the stage.

Despite this loud and irritating inner dialogue, I managed to keep singing.

Since I started playing on the subway, I've gotten used to an amazing amount of background noise. If the audience isn't making it, looks like I'm capable of creating it myself.

"So...how's it going?"

Today I went to a meeting of songwriters who give workshops in Toronto schools. All of us are experienced performers who get a kick out of encouraging children and teenagers to write their own songs. It's funny though...they look at us as if we're enormously successful (I guess it's just a matter of perspective). I'm sure many of us have noticed the contrast between their image of us as "successful musicians" and the reality that it's hard to earn income from our artistic pursuits.

After the meeting, we mingled and caught up on each other's news. And I noticed that a pattern was recurring. Lately, whenever I go to gatherings of other musicians, people say things like "So, I hear you're singing on the subway."

Long pause. "So...how's it going?"

They inevitably seem a bit taken aback when I honestly say, "It's fantastic!" And they're perhaps a bit concerned for me when I gush about how it's changed my life for the better.

"Really?" they ask. (Long pause.) "Well, that's great!"

A few weeks ago, a songwriting friend confided that she thought I'd be too shy a person to enjoy busking. I was surprised by that at first, but then I realized that when I'm not actually performing, people usually take me to be a quiet and reserved person. I remember someone even called me "retiring" once. (I can't remember who said that now, and it's probably for the best.)

Last night, at an open mic, another licensed TTC musician was the featured performer. He had a theatrical and athletic style of performance, which involved dramatic leaps toward the audience and exaggeratedly beckoning hand gestures. (I was reminded of a hypnotist. "You WILL throw me change!") Retiring he ain't.

Anyway, I remember reading once that one should re-invent oneself often. I guess my subway musician jaunt is turning out to be a dramatic reinvention. Maybe this is me coming out of "retirement".

Warming Up at Osgoode

Today I came back to Osgoode, prepared to freeze.

I was also meeting a friend for lunch. This was a very generous and supportive friend who, it turned out, was not only happy to stand in a subway station listening to me for seven (seven!) songs, but who also called out requests (songs from my first CD…at first I wondered whether or not I'd remember them) and even applauded. She encouraged me to keep playing for several minutes after I would have called a lunch break, resulting in a few more precious loonies.

As expected, my hands were cold by the time I reached the station. I had always wondered how musicians managed to play outdoor winter gigs here in Canada and had assumed I’d be hopeless at it myself. What I hadn’t realized, until today, was that because your hands are constantly moving—and moving quickly for that matter—they are exercising and warming up. (Okay, so this is why I didn't become a doctor or a physiotherapist.)

For years I’d avoided cross-country skiing because I assumed I’d turn into a popsicle (like I had, for instance, on the winter hayrides of long-ago Girl Guide trips, which were horribly cold because we were completely inert and sitting on the back of a tractor). When I finally went skiing, I sweated—and loved it!

Today at Osgoode, I didn’t exactly work up a sweat, but I didn’t freeze either, and I managed to play a full hour without getting frostbite. (I know, I know, my new friend John probably does four hours at a stretch in mid-February, but we all have to start somewhere.) The more vigorously I played, the warmer my fingers got and the better the music sounded. Good plan.

+++

Early in my shift, a man came up and enthusiastically donated. Then he picked up the CDs and looked at them as if he might buy one. I stopped my song and chatted with him (trying to sell the CDs) and then he took me by surprise.

"Do you have a capo?" he asked.

"Um, yeah, why?" I responded.

Turned out HE wanted to play a song. Before I knew it, I’d taken off my guitar (what was I thinking?!) and was listening to him play HIS song in MY spot. (I had no idea I was so territorial.) I also realized immediately that he didn’t have a license and this sort of impromptu jamming with friends (newfound or otherwise) was specifically frowned upon.

He was a nice guy and it was a sweet song. But as I listened to him as politely as possible, I just kept thinking, please, please let this be the last verse.

Note to self: figure out what to say next time this happens.

First Signs of Winter at York Mills

It’s starting to get cold.

I noticed it yesterday when I dropped in at York Mills, where I was scheduled, for an hour. The busking post at York Mills (in the upper reaches of the city) is in a long corridor, like the kind you find in airports. When I arrived, John was there, the musician I met first at Pape Station.

He explained that the acoustics were pretty good here.

"That is, when nobody’s around."

He took a break and I started to play, and realized what he was talking about. The sound was all rich and echoey, until huge crowds of high school students came streaming through, all talking to each other and laughing.

When they did (every few minutes) I could have actually stopped playing, the sound disappeared so completely. Then they disappeared around the corner and my guitar and voice came back again. It was weird.

I find that crowds aren’t terrific for donations. It’s too hard to break away from the pack, and people are happily engaged in simply getting from one place to another, which is fine with me. Sometimes when people try to make an effort to donate, it can be downright dangerous as they unexpectedly cut in front of another person’s path. Better in that case to just keep walking. I understand completely (and I don’t want to be at the scene of a collision).

Because the corridor seemed so long and far from the exits, I was surprised to discover it was cold.

And so, to honour the changing temperature and the tiny ice-flakes that I saw drifting down today, I sang "Snow", one of my small handful of official "winter" songs.

(This gets me thinking, am I expected to learn Christmas carols?)

Royal York for a Second Term

This morning I went back to Royal York. It was another stunning fall day, which lifted my mood a bit despite the fact that George W. Bush had just been re-elected.

Whenever I play in the subway, I don’t go with any kind of plan for what I’m going to sing. Now that I’ve been playing regularly, I have about thirty songs that are comfortably up to speed, and I generally let my mood and the vibe of the station determine what I play.

This morning, without really thinking about it, I found myself playing songs that made reference in some way to making the best of a bad situation.

In Spite of It All ("I still find reasons to smile") was the obvious one and I started with that, even though I wondered honestly if I still thought it was true. I followed it with Tall Trees ("They were here before artificial light, the dropping of the bombs and the darkening of the night"). Then I surprised myself by the reference in Einstein's Brain to "a world that’s gone insane".

This morning, just like in the days following September 11th, 2001, I found myself wishing I had some definitive song that summed up the beauty and terror of the times. Not having written such a song, I wished I could sit down immediately and jot down exactly the right musical response. Isn't that what songwriters are supposed to do?

But today, like three years ago, I found myself feeling so weary and overwhelmed by the magnitude of the world’s problems, I didn’t think I could make a song out of it. Maybe if I had a solitary eight-hour stretch for writing and contemplation I could try... (speaking of which, I realize I must pick up Calla from school an hour from now). But even if today were completely free, I suspect my feelings would be too raw and unsettled to organize into a good lyric.

Maybe that’s a songwriting cop-out. Off the top of my head, I can think of five writers I know who’d probably be able to do it just fine.

Maybe it’s laziness. Or maybe it’s just that I don’t write well when I’m sad.

This morning, I did feel sad. I had actually voted in the American election—for the first time ever—because I was born in the States and retain U.S. citizenship despite having become a Canadian. John Kerry impressed me and I had been feeling optimistic that he could unseat George W. Bush. Actually, it seemed incredible to me that any effort was necessary to get rid of a guy who outright lied, obscured the facts and expressed such disdain for careful and rational thought. I would have voted for Homer Simpson over George Bush. So I figured a majority of Americans would vote for Kerry.

Apparently not. (Maybe I Was Wrong)

After getting up this morning, I received an e-mail from my Dad who said that although the results are disheartening, there’s nothing to do but get on with living.

So I headed off to my scheduled stop and played a handful of songs.

+++

Many people stopped today, including a woman who stood stock-still in the middle of the station, listening to me for two songs after paying me a toonie. Another man bought a CD and took my business card because he wanted to come see a full performance…and he wondered whether I might be interested in playing an art gallery opening sometime.

Steve, who bought the sample CD the other day, returned and stayed true to prediction.

"Do you really want to know what I think?" (Do I have a choice?) "Well, it's not exactly my cup of tea…" (Why am I not surprised?) "But I’ve been playing it all the time in my car." (Well, there you go.) "You kind of remind me of Leonard Cohen." (Leonard Cohen??? An absurd comment on so many levels...) "And you sound a lot like a girl I heard on CBC Radio about a year ago." (Yes, that was me, on a show called "Fresh Air".)

He paused and looked at me differently. As if I was, actually, a professional.

+++

Toward the end of my shift, my friend Ken, a lifelong folk music supporter and painter, came to visit. I felt much the same way I did when my friend Brenda came to Sheppard the other day. I was slightly embarrassed that these people who so believed in me and my music had to watch as the rest of the world passed by.

Of course, I realized as I had coffee with Ken afterward, he’d been watching that happen for several years now. "You’re doing all the right things," he assured me. "I just wish there was more I could do for you to move your career forward."

I told him that he already had done a lot, just by saying that and by being there. And I gave him my standard speech (most days I believe it) about the value of music (art, books, good works, etc...) not being measured solely in terms of the amount of money generated or the actual number of people listening. But I knew what he meant. When you cast your vote for someone, you hope that the majority of people do the same thing.

+++

Later that afternoon, I watched the Kerry-Edwards concession speech, and I was re-energized (briefly anyway) by John Edwards' call to not give up. In fact, something he said sounded like it might make a good song lyric: "You can be disappointed. But you cannot walk away."

Monday Morning at Royal York

I was scheduled at Royal York station on Monday morning. It’s located in the far west end of the city in a pretty, established neighborhood called The Kingsway. I liked the location immediately as I parked conveniently at the Green P parking. Then, hauling my backpack and guitar, I almost got stuck in the turnstiles at the automatic entrance—but oh well. It’s a sunny day, I’m here on the dot of 9:00 and I’m feeling optimistic.

Royal York seemed to have a higher-than-average number of senior citizens than other stations, which seems to work well for me. Many of them stopped, deliberately got out small change purses or wallets and dropped some coins into my case, often giving me an encouraging smile. One man gave me a five dollar bill (again, it almost blew away) but preferred to do it very anonymously, not meeting my eyes.

Another fellow who’d seen me at Jane station also stopped and told me that he’d recently bought two CDs from another subway musician but had been disappointed when he listened to it at home.

Ahah, I thought, here’s a chance for me to sell one of my $4.00 discounted "Learning Curve" disks that I keep on hand for just such a purpose!

(When I manufactured my most recent CD, it came out slightly quieter than intended. In the utter loss of perspective that often befalls artists creating their own legacy, I paid to have the whole thing re-mastered. As a result, I have hundreds of orphaned disks lying around my house. Now, when I play the quieter disks beside the re-mastered ones, even I can’t tell the difference.)

Since Steve was in the habit, obviously, of buying CDs from subway musicians, I thought he’d be a good prospect for the $4.00 CD. Oddly, however, he seemed suspicious of it.

"Or you can buy the $20 one if you like," I said.

He went on about the other musician. "That guy, you know, he was a professional."

"Oh," I said, not quite knowing what he was getting at.

"Do you, like, play clubs and stuff like that?"

"Yes," I said brightly, and explained that, like all other musicians on the TTC system, I am a Working Professional Musician Who Plays Professional Gigs All the Time.

He still held the $4.00 CD and eyed me suspiciously.

"Okay," he said as he put a five dollar bill into my case. "If I don’t like this, you’ll hear about it."

I had the uncomfortable feeling that he was right.

+++

I made $18.50 at Royal York today, after playing for about an hour.

Also, today is November 1st, so I did a little inventory.

In October, I played approximately 18 hours on the subway over the course of 16 days. Our schedule started on October 8th, so we had a late start. I sold 3 full CDs and one sample CD. Another guy said he’d buy a CD if I met him at Osgoode station the next day but we missed each other and...okay, that doesn’t count.

In total, I made $285.61, or just under $16.00 an hour.

Friday After Work - Jane Station

Jane Station, dusk, Friday afternoon.

This was one of the yellow stations--like Yonge--tiled in a shade that might have been called "Harvest" or "Goldenrod". My performance area looked onto a large open vestibule, much like a large change room at a public pool. The acoustics were fantastic.

Trickling through the station were people coming home from work, all looking very, very tired.

I myself was tired. Before my shift, I had a meeting with a writing client in the neighborhood. Before that I had gone to the garage to have two tires changed (re: yesterday's flat), written two press releases for another client, made lunch for my 7 1/2 year old daughter and carved ten jack-o-lanterns as a parent volunteer in her Grade 3 classroom.

One of the reasons I enjoy singing so much is that I have to be completely present. I can't be multi-tasking. In order to attract donations, I have to put myself completely into the song and let the rest of my day fall behind.

That said, it took me several minutes to acclimatize myself to today's performance. It was hard to adjust from being a busy professional person to being a busker.

Maybe because of that adjustment, I started my shift with the strong feeling of being out-of-place and of this enterprise being completely futile and silly. My songs, instead of sounding reassuring and calming, sounded somehow naïve. Where Do You Call Home?and Complicated Things, sounded too pretty for this stark urban environment. I tried to counter this by singing a more "gritty" song (I've Been Busy) but still had the feeling of being a fish out of water.

Everyone seemed to be ignoring me, so I tried imagining that the half-rectangle of yellow dots that enclosed me was actually a protective and loving force field. I also tried singing solely for myself, remembering that at the heart of it, this is rehearsal time. As I glanced at the $3.50 in "seed money" that was still there by itself after five songs, I wondered whether this would be the first subway stop at which I'd earn absolutely nothing.

Then (thank you, thank you, thank you) an elderly woman dressed in a bright fuschia blazer walked deliberately over to give me some change. As she did so, she said "Such lovely music."

She was followed shortly afterward by a woman dressed entirely in purple, with purple leggings and purple-and-silver hair. (Right, I remembered, it's the Friday before Hallowe'en.) She seemed to want to say something to me, but was too polite to interrupt in the middle of a song.

One person who did run up to interrupt was a girl about my daughter's age. She came within a foot of the guitar and said breathlessly, "You're a very good singer!" and then she started to strum the guitar herself, forcing me to stop.

"Thank you," I said, "I'm glad you enjoy my songs. Do you like to sing?"

"Yes!" said the girl, still strumming.

"That's great," I said. "What's your name?"

"Shania," she said.

+++

Finally, a man came along while I was singing Room To Love. He stopped and picked up both of my CDs, which I always display in my case. While continuing to sing, I managed (not sure exactly how) to show him that it was Track #5 on "Lynoleum". When I finished the song, he requested Where Do You Call Home?to see what it sounded like, so I played that one for him on the spot. He bought both CDs and thanked me for making his day.

I hope he realized how much he'd made mine.

Chickening Out at Eglinton

Today I planned to sing at Eglinton station because I had a meeting in that part of town. (I'm helping out with some organizational duties for a local music festival.)

Unfortunately, on my way to the station I got a flat tire. (I know, I know, I’m supposed to take the TTC.) While I was waiting for the CAA man to come replace it (and yes, I should learn to do that myself) I took a peek at Eglinton station.

I remembered Eglinton from the time of my life when I was a highly paid television scriptwriter, working for TVOntario, which is located there. Back then, I shopped in the adjoining mall for new clothes, I ate out frequently at spiffy restaurants nearby and I didn’t mention to any of my professional colleagues that I was a songwriter. If I had a nagging feeling that I wasn’t on exactly the right path, it was neatly compensated for by the large paycheques I was receiving.

If my Former Self, zipping in and out of meetings at Eglinton and Yonge, could see me now, what would she say? Congratulations for following your dream and your creative spirit? Or, what were you thinking, stepping off the lucrative commercial writing ladder?

Looking at the crowds at Eglinton Station—clearly a good prospect for busking—I didn’t have the heart to find out.

Because of the flat tire, I was delayed and therefore hungry. If a former client ran into me here while I was singing—no matter how well—I’d probably burst into tears. Talk about deflated.

+++

Instead, after lunch, I headed back to my beloved Woodbine.

Another interesting detail of this station is that the busking post is directly across from a reflective panel of glass: you can watch yourself while you’re singing. I like that. It reminds me that I actually look pretty good.

Today, several people actually apologized that they didn’t have any change handy. A few people stopped at the top of the escalators leading down to the train, so they could listen to me for as long as possible before the train arrived.

One man stopped, apparently delighted, as I was singing my song "Luminous Veil". Not exactly a peppy song, it’s about the suicide barrier over the Don Valley Parkway near Broadview Station. (Broadview is currently overtaken by construction, but it’s the closest station to my home and I have my eye on it.)

Later, a lovely Irish man, himself carrying a guitar, stopped to talk and donated a toonie. It turns out he’s a licensed street musician. (I didn’t know Toronto issued licenses for street buskers too!) He invited me to the Yonge Street Mission on Thursday nights, where another subway musician whom I know also plays. He kindly suggested that it’d be okay for my husband to come along, if it would make us both feel more comfortable.

Also, if I understood him correctly, he said he'd made an appearance once on the TV show "Touched By An Angel". I could believe it.

He urged me to keep singing. "By God, it’s good."

+++

When I was driving around today, I heard CBC Radio talking about Joni Mitchell, who has just received an honourary doctorate from McGill University. In honour of the occasion, they played one of my favourite Joni songs, "Help Me".

Shelagh Rogers suggested, wisely I think, that it would be interesting to study the theme of freedom in Joni Mitchell songs. She remembered the lyrics "We love our loving, but not like we love our freedom" and "I was a free man in Paris."

I remembered another lyric. "He was playing real good, for free."

Famous at Osgoode - Oct. 26th

Today I really did run into a famous person. It wasn’t Prince, but I’m pretty sure it was The Artist I Think It Was. I recognized him because we’d met before. Not only that...he kept hanging around, probably to figure out if I, too, was The Person He Thought I Was. ("Yes, as a matter of fact, I am!")

Toronto being the centre of the cultural universe that it is, many famous people ride the subway. This must be a huge challenge for them. When I sing on the subway and people notice me, at least I don’t have to stop and politely answer the question, "Aren’t you Lynn Harrison"? ("Why yes!")

This particular Famous Person (name withheld) is primarily famous in Canada, although he has had some success in the States as well. Twenty years ago he and I were involved in the same amateur performing organization. (He was, it should be noted, an Artist More Likely To Succeed Than Me even then.) We didn’t know each other well, but as I watched him today I could tell he had a nagging feeling he knew me. He gave himself away when he casually drifted over near my post and back again several times.

Today I played and sang better, at times, than I ever have in the subway. In fact, if some form of evaluation were possible, I bet that my rendition of Smooth Stoneswould be the best I’ve ever done. (This is one of my older songs, written in the mid-nineties. Over the course of my career, I have probably played it hundreds of times—and twenty times this last week alone. So: you only need to sing your songs four hundred times to make them sound fantastic in a subway station!)

However, the song I was playing when Famous Person kept casually walking by was Einstein's Brain, and I managed to screw it up magnificently—not only forgetting a chord but saying "Rats!" a couple of times when I missed it. (At least I won’t be cited for profanity on the TTC.) It was weird. I rarely red-flag my mistakes anymore—even on stage.

Of course, I did say "rats" ("@#%$!" "*#@#@!", etc.) a lot when I was just starting out…that is, when Famous Person used to know me.

Anyway, he didn’t stop, and I hardly blame him. After all, I would have said hello, and confirmed that we had this long-ago tenuous connection. He’d think I’d want him to somehow assist my career in some way, which actually I wouldn’t. I know he can’t really do anything. He’s probably wondering what his own next gig is going to be.

And he’s so famous, he can’t sing on the subway.

(If you’re reading this, Mr. Famous Person: Yes, we did used to know each other. I love your work. I hope you liked the song and can use it in your next movie or something. I promise I won’t screw it up, but if I do I’ll be very funny and charming.)

+++

Osgoode must be my unofficial Lucky Station so far. Another person asked the magic question "Did you write that?!" (In Spite of It All). He bought a CD.

King Station - 4 p.m.

The first set of yellow dots I found was in a modern walkway adjacent to the actual subway station—-but it was full of construction equipment and a recycling bin. Guess I’m not supposed to play there.

When I found the right place, I liked it immediately. It was a warm little corner tiled in daffodil yellow, off to the side of the bottom of an escalator. It even had a little bench close by where someone could sit down. I was close enough to the trains to actually see them—which was a first. I found it inspiring. (Besides, I had my amp.)

When I started to sing, though, I realized the problem.

As soon as people got to the bottom of the escalator, they swung away from me and darted toward the train. Also, it quickly became clear that I needed to use discretion while meeting their eyes as they got off the escalator. Nobody wanted a singer-songwriter to pounce on them.

All of this added up to a pleasant performance environment, but not very much money.
At first, this rattled me. After several minutes of feeling like a piece of furniture (as I glanced empathetically at the bench beside me) I wondered whether I could actually stick it out in this location. Today I was feeling a bit insecure. A bit out-of-place. Superfluous. (Note to self: learn Elvis Costello’s "All This Useless Beauty".)

Then my eyes fell on the TTC’s promotional poster on the wall beside the escalators. It read "Achieve peace and tranquility. Take the TTC." It was illustrated with a lovely picture of bamboo.

So I decided to sing while staring at the poster.

While trying my best to achieve peace and tranquility, I sang "I’ve Been Busy", "Crossing My Mind", "It’ll Grow on You", "Complicated Things", "Einstein’s Brain" and "Room to Love". People looked my way and smiled, but few dropped money into my case.

Maybe I wasn’t achieving the perfect measure of tranquility?

Or maybe it wasn’t me at all…just the feng shui of the performance area?

Or maybe all was indeed well in the universe. (Second note to self: learn "You Can't Always Get What You Want".) Something must have been working, because regardless of how many people came by, next time I looked at my watch, I'd been singing for two hours at King Station.

Two friends visited me and donated. Another friend tried, but only found the performance area with the recycling bin.

Saturday Afternoon, Pape Station

This afternoon I returned to Pape, my comfortable little neighborhood station. Today is Saturday, and a beautiful fall day at that, so lots of people were going somewhere.

As always, I ran into people I knew. I’m already getting much better at responding to acquaintances who are concerned that I’m busking. I immediately try to put them at ease. ("My music career is going really well...I'm doing this as an interesting side project." Yeah, that's the ticket.)

But here's an interesting thing. A surprising number of friends who’ve encountered me here by accident have left without contributing any money. The vast majority in fact.

Why is that? It must be socially awkward, somehow. They must think it’s condescending to give me some change. They must not know what to say. (How about "here’s a quarter"?) Like the people at Sheppard pretending not to see me, people who know me seem to prefer to stop and chat about my music career—-but will do almost anything to avoid acknowledging that money is changing hands. ("Eew!")

Meanwhile, people who seem all but unable to contribute anything continue to do just that. Today a very downtrodden looking fellow laboriously emptied out his own pockets of pennies. Pennies!

I also had my first repeat customer: a man who said he’d seen me at Woodbine a few days ago but hadn’t stopped because he was in a hurry. When he donated (a toonie!) he did it with a flourish and a well-placed overhead lob.

+++

The other night I went to one of my favourite open mics and played three songs.

Two experienced subway musicians were there that night as well and they were full of helpful advice. One of them, it turns out, does well at Sheppard. ("Were you on the upper level or the lower level ?" he asked. I had no idea.) They suggested staking out a regular location and time. ("After a few months, people get to know you." A few months at Sheppard?!)

The other subway musician at the open mic admitted that when he learned I’d gotten my license, he considered trying to talk me out of it.

When I got up to play, I told the audience that I’ve been playing in the subways for a couple of weeks now and I’m getting pretty used to it.

"So," I said, "Would you mind standing up, walking back and forth and throwing change at the stage?"

It got a big laugh.

But when I got home, having not earned anything, I felt a bit deflated.

Where’s my dollar a song?

Then I recalled that, in fact, one of my subwaying friends had left the venue early, to head downtown and make some money.

Sheppard Revisited

When I arrived at Sheppard Station today, I deliberately entered by the doors closest to the performance area so I wouldn’t get lost.

Often when I arrive, I tell the ticket attendant that I’m here to play, and he or she lets me in without paying a token.

Unfortunately, the Harlendale Avenue entrance was an unmanned one, where you have to pay a token to get in the automated doors. I went to the machine to buy a token, and promptly got my toonie stuck in the machine. I started doing mental math: I’ve just spent $4.50 at the Green P parking, and I’ve lost $2.00 buying a token. Trying another machine, I successfully bought a token for $2.50. So far the trip to Sheppard has cost me $9.00.

Yesterday hadn’t been very financially successful, so I changed a few things today. First of all, I brought my newly-licensed amp along. Second, I arrived 45 minutes earlier, in an effort to catch the morning rush of commuters. And third, I positioned myself across the hallway from where I was yesterday (there were two sets of yellow dots here—this is a posh station!) hoping that the traffic flow would be more advantageous.

+++

As I played at Sheppard, I felt that in general, people seemed less receptive to the idea of a musician in their environment compared to other stations. When I watched more closely, I recognized a range of openness in people’s expressions. Most people, it seemed, were simply not registering my presence on their faces. For some of them, this was likely a deliberate choice ("Oh no, a subway musician! I know, I’ll pretend not to see her!") Other people may have been genuinely less aware of me, especially those wearing headphones. (Oddly, however, a surprising number of headphone-wearers DID seem to notice me—maybe because they were more engaged in the act of listening itself?)

When hundreds of people act as if you’re not there, it’s really possible to believe that you’re invisible. Have you ever had that feeling in a restaurant, when the waiter inexplicably forgets about you? Have you ever wondered how they could possibly not see you, even as you’re raising your hand into the air and trying to catch their eye?

That’s the feeling you get when you’re playing and singing your best, when you know you’re playing good songs, when you know you’re in tune, and hundreds of people simply pretend you’re not there. (In some ways, it might be better if someone came up and said, "That song really sucked".)

Once again, I was reminded of Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, and for that matter, the Cone of Silence in that old 70’s sitcom, "Get Smart".

The Cone of Silence would comically descend when activated by private eye Maxwell Smart, enclosing him and his confidante in a space-age plexiglass tube, so that they could have their conversation in secret. The Cone was always uncomfortably small and it never really worked. You always COULD hear poor Max talking conspiratorially with Chief or Agent 99, until they got fed up with it and demanded that Max de-activate the Cone.

Likewise, I noticed that the people who seemed determined not to see me often inadvertently looked in my direction, despite themselves.

Whenever that happened, I didn’t know whether to smile understandingly or look away too. ("Don’t worry! I don’t see you either!")

On mornings like these, the (precious) few people who DO smile and nod, or donate some change, instantly melt away the invisible layer of ice that seems to surround me.

And I have to admit, that layer of ice isn’t comfortable.

+++

Oh yeah. I made $5.75 at Sheppard today. Yesterday I made $8.80, but my friend put in $5.00.

Oct. 20 - Sheppard & Osgoode

This morning I intended to get to Sheppard station, in the upper reaches of the city, to catch the morning rush hour. But I had an actual gig last night that went late, and it was hard to get out of bed. I was surprised at how different it felt, last night, to be playing for an actual audience of people sitting still.

I finally made it up to Sheppard at 9:15 and realized that finding the yellow dots would be particularly difficult. Sheppard Station is so huge, it’s more like an airport than a subway station, with two levels of tracks and many hallways on several levels. I felt as if I’d moved up a notch in subway station posh-ness, from the 1950s architecture of the Bloor-Danforth line to the sleek modern terminals to the north.

Sheppard was particularly state-of-the-art, because an entire new arm had been built onto the subway system starting at Sheppard. When I look at the subway maps today, compared to the ones I was familiar with from the 80’s, the new branch at the top always makes me feel confused.

This deluxe station had another tempting feature: a Cinnabon cinnamon roll outlet. At first I thought this was a big plus. But then I realized it was competition.

Playing at Sheppard did feel like playing in an airport, with people moving swiftly past me as if they were on a moving sidewalk. Most of them didn’t even glance up while they walked purposefully toward the station or the buses.

A friend of mine came to listen this morning, pretending at times to be simply an interested stranger. We wondered if this ruse might help business, but it didn’t seem to. I was worried that she’d be disheartened by the number of people walking past, but instead she was encouraged by the people who made a point of stopping. (Note to self: optimists make excellent friends!) Also, she noticed before I did that I received an important donation today: my first subway token.

+++

Later this afternoon, I found myself back at Osgoode to finish my amp test, having never connected with the TTC fellow the day before. While I played, one of my fantasies about playing in the subway came true. A woman stopped halfway down the corridor, turned around and deliberately walked back towards me to listen. As I finished the song, she asked, "Did you write that?".

Osgoode - October 19th

This morning I went to Osgoode Station (on the University Line, near City Hall and the court buildings) because I had bought an amp to use while busking, and it needed to be tested and approved by TTC management.

I decided to get an amp because a recent passer-by (an Italian or Portuguese man in his sixties) had stopped, pointedly, to lean in close to my guitar and tell me he couldn’t hear it.

Having made his point, he left without contributing.

So I decided to get an amp.

But before you can use the amp, you have to get a permit for it and agree on maximum volume levels. Over the years, subway musicians have at times attracted negative attention for playing too loud. Remember the guy in the movie Spinal Tap who insisted that his amp "goes to eleven"? He wouldn’t be approved. Unfortunately, the man from the TTC was running late, so I decided to play until he got there. (Without plugging into my amp, of course.)

Only seconds had passed before one of the last people I’d want to see me busking came swishing through the corridor. She was a former friend, a talented and ambitious singer who had parted company with me after a misunderstanding. I was sure she’d see subway busking as beneath her (no pun intended).

I knew that she wasn’t on my e-mail list, so seeing me here would be a complete surprise.

A pleasant one, apparently.

She smiled and said hello, eyebrows raised in interest. And breezed right on by.
I felt proud of myself for maintaining a posture of confidence, success and joy as she passed (despite the fact that I was freezing, waiting for someone and not collecting much money here anyway).

Of course I tried to sing better than ever...and flubbed the high note.

I hoped she’d already passed through the turnstiles and couldn’t hear me.

+++

I stayed at Osgoode a half hour. During that time, a disabled man shuffled extremely slowly down the corridor. His clothes were hanging awkwardly off him and he seemed to be looking straight down, watching his feet take every difficult step.

As I sang, I saw him dig in his pockets. I realized that in order to stop him from giving me money, I’d have to stop in the middle of the song and turn his donation away. That would surely embarrass him, so… I decided to sing directly to him, not to the rest of the station, for just those few seconds, and to sing as beautifully as I could.

Slowly raising his arm, he dropped a dollar into my case.

Crazy Person At Queen's Park

Today I realized that I’m averaging a dollar a song. Isn’t that the same as iTunes?

+++

I arrived at Queen’s Park station at 6:30 p.m. and started looking for the yellow dots. I was scheduled for the “evening shift” which meant I could show up any time between 6 p.m. and midnight. The crowds were slim all along the University line, because many of the government and hospital workers in the area had already gone home.

When I couldn’t find the dots, I asked the ticket booth attendant, who told me the performance area had recently changed. He thought he’d heard a musician “somewhere over there…but I hope not, cause it’d be cold”.

True, I thought, as I headed in the direction he pointed and found myself in a very long hallway leading away toward the street exits. When I found the yellow dots, they were at the foot of a deep escalator and stairwell, directly underneath College and University and the Ontario Hydro building.

In fact, it wasn’t actually cold. It was, however, scary—like the bottom of a deep dark well. A skylight overhead revealed that the sun had already gone down. A few people trickled down the escalator and walked toward the station with their backs to me. Meanwhile, the well-lit subway station and ticket booth seemed miles away.

Hmm. I looked around for a minute or two, considering whether or not to stay. When I noticed that professional-looking people were coming down the escalator at a steady pace, I decided to give the location a try, and started to unpack. However, something told me not to display my CDs with my name on them, and I was particularly cautious while sprinkling the seed money into my guitar case.

The acoustics made me feel hopeful as I started to sing “Room to Love”. The very high vaulted ceiling, combined with the tile floor and walls, gave the little dark corner a church-like atmosphere.

Halfway into the second verse, a professional-looking middle aged man (a doctor, perhaps?) made a point of stopping to dig in his pocket and throw me a dollar.

But then, just a few bars later, I heard a weird wailing sound coming down the escalators toward me. I sang, and the wailing increased in response. Oh no. Whoever it was was coming down the escalators directly toward me. And he was interested in the music.

The man who emerged was a very large, drunk, toothless and apparently crazy man. He seemed about three times my height and weight. He was talking to me loudly but was difficult to understand because he was drunk and speaking with a heavy accent. I couldn’t quite grasp what he was saying, but I sure noticed him kick my guitar case.

Was he aggressive? Or just excited? It was hard to tell. But I figured it was probably safer to assume he was trying to be friendly, and to respond nicely to him so he wouldn’t get mad.

Looking him in the eye and smiling, I asked him how long he’d lived in Toronto. (25 years.) Where was he from? (Africa, he said at first. But then a few sentences later he said Milwaukee. Milwaukee?!) Then he asked me if I knew any African music, which he evidently was trying to describe to me. I responded that unfortunately I was just leaving (even though I hadn’t even finished my first song) and started packing up my things. Meanwhile a small crowd had gathered, no doubt due to the fact that a huge drunken man was looming over a tiny female singer-songwriter and yelling at her.

“Do you need any help, Miss?” one man asked me.

“Yes.” (What did it look like?!!) “Go tell the TTC guy in the booth.”

They left, leaving me alone with the guy. Brilliant.

I kept smiling at him and saying nice calming things, while I hoisted up my guitar case and backpack. Blessedly, he said goodbye and lumbered up the stairs.

So, lesson learned. I resolved not to play solo in darkened corridors where no
TTC employee could see me.

+++

I played half a song at Queen’s Park and earned one loonie. There you go, a dollar a song.

Woodbine

I hadn’t been planning to busk today. Instead, I thought I’d just travel around the system, checking out the various performance locations. But as I thought about doing that, I realized that I’d feel frustrated not having my guitar with me.

I must be hooked.

So I headed over to Woodbine Station--an unscheduled stop for me. The performance area was free. It was located in between the two sets of escalators leading down to the trains—a nice friendly corridor in toothpaste green.

Right away, a woman came along and gave me six dollars. Then a man tossed in a loonie—all before I’d finished my first song.

The rest of my shift continued that way, with people tossing in loonies and toonies mostly, and other people just nodding and smiling. I noticed, for the first time, that the majority of people can’t really get to their money: it’s deep in their purses or in inaccessible knapsacks. So I found myself appreciating the nods and smiles as much as the actual coins. Also, I noticed a surprising number of people who were limping or coping with some other form of physical disability. (As it happens, I've been struggling with a herniated disk in my lower back, so I'm limping too. Standing and singing is one of the most comfortable things I can do.) Also, as on previous days, I noticed many people who looked beaten down and desperate—more in need of music than I was in need of change.

A couple of people stopped to listen or chat and left without dropping anything into my case. Today it didn’t seem to matter.

When I’d been playing about an hour, I noticed the woman at the Gateway Newstand waving at me. I could see her kiosk from where I was playing. It was up a small flight of stairs, about a hundred feet away. She was leaning far out over her chocolate bars and magazines, because otherwise I wouldn’t be able to see her. As she beckoned me over, I actually looked around to see if she meant me. Then with my guitar still strapped on, I hurried over to accept the loonie she held in her hand.

+++

When I headed home on the Pape bus, two women sat down beside me. They’d been drinking already (it was now 2:30 p.m.) and they wanted to talk. After asking me about the guitar, one of them told me that she likes to play Neil Young and Pink Floyd songs, and the other said she’d taken up percussion. She explained proudly that because she’d been a dancer all her life, drumming came naturally to her. Then out of nowhere she said:

"You know, you have to follow your soul. It doesn’t matter what anybody else thinks of you."

+++

I have written four new songs since I started playing on the subway.

Trip to Islington

The last time I visited Islington subway station, I was a first-year university student visiting a friend. That was 22 years ago. Nothing about the station looked familiar when I arrived at 2:05 this afternoon. I consulted the guidebook that the TTC provided for musicians. It said that the yellow dotted performance area was "on the Mezzanine Level, against the back wall of centre set of stairs and escalator, opposite the bus transfer area". "Mezzanine Level"? How about "Parking-Lot Sized Expanse of Grey Concrete Floor"? I wandered onto it, guitar in hand, scanning the floor for yellow dots.

Sure enough, I looked down and there they were, right under my feet. The performance area was overlooking the escalator and stairwell that led down to the trains, positioned in such a way that (if you wanted to) you could play over the railing to the people heading downstairs. (For that matter, you could throw yourself over the railing and plunge to your death in a dramatic act of singer-songwriter suicide.)

The performance area seemed to be precisely in the middle of the subway station. If you looked south, you saw the people going down. If you looked west, you saw people walking away from you toward the buses. If you looked north, you saw people coming up the opposite stairs (and immediately veering away from you to get to the bus). And if you looked east, you saw people headed for the lottery kiosk. But most of the time, you’d look out onto two-hundred square feet of empty tile floor which looked like an empty roller rink.

Okay, I thought, I can deal with this. The acoustics are probably great, right? Might as well give it a shot. So I unpacked my guitar, set myself up and started to sing. Right away I discovered a new challenge. With no wall behind me, only the balcony-like railing, I didn’t feel comfortable turning my back to the people going downstairs. Nor did I want to ignore the people coming up the stairs in front of me. (Why was I worried, though, about ignoring anybody? After all, everyone was clearly ignoring ME.)

As I played, I caught people’s eyes and smiled, but to no avail. I was suddenly reminded of Harry Potter’s Invisibility Cloak.

But wait! Some of the people heading downstairs were obviously enjoying my performance. They were smiling up at me as the escalator transported them down…down… But what were they going to do: lob quarters at me up and over the rail?

Meanwhile, other people at Islington Station who wanted to support me had to cross the concrete floor in a dramatic and purposeful way—as though they were crossing an empty high school dance floor or crossing the floor in Parliament. Nobody was having any of it.

At one point, an intense looking dark-skinned man about my age and height came over and very deliberately caught my eye as he threw in a few coins. As I said "thanks" I suddenly realized something. That guy looked like Prince. Yeah, THE Prince. I’m singing away and thinking, he did move to Toronto didn’t he? Which rich neighborhood did he and his new wife move into? Was it anywhere near Islington? As he walked toward the downstairs escalator I tried to play more brilliantly. As he walked away, I wondered if I had just missed the Chance of a Lifetime.

But it couldn’t really be Prince.

Prince couldn’t wander around on the subways, he’d be mobbed.

Besides he looked a little on the heavy side. For Prince.

Maybe this is what happens when you’re desperate for attention: you turn passers-by into celebrities.

I stayed at Islington for almost an hour and made about $5.50, one dollar of which I spent at the Gateway Newstand. (I noticed today that it’s spelled incorrectly; shouldn’t it be Newsstand?) The proprietor had listened to my whole performance and had smiled encouragingly at me, and I figured I should reward myself with something, so I picked up a roll of Werther’s butterscotch candies. As I paid for it, the owner pointed to the space just beside the garbage can, directly opposite from his counter.

"There, that would be a good place for you," he said.

"Thanks," I said, "But we’re supposed to stay inside the yellow dots."

"Oh," he said, looking a little mystified.

Second Day

DAY TWO

I’m trying not to think too much about the fact that somebody stole a five dollar bill out of my guitar case.

Today is Saturday. I thought that perhaps people would be in a more generous mood on the weekend but it seemed to be just the opposite. Change had been collecting more slowly than yesterday, so I thought I’d sweeten the pot by tucking in a five dollar bill that I’d kept at the ready just in case. I added it to the take about midway through my two-hour shift.

Fifteen or twenty minutes later, when I looked into the case, the bill was gone. Who had taken it? How had they taken it without me noticing? At first I figured it must have been somebody actually putting change in the case, but later I decided that might be pretty hard to do. Considering how much time I spent actually facing away from the case and toward the direction of the two stairways, it wouldn’t have been hard for someone to filch it when I wasn’t looking.

All the same, it made me mistrust the general public and second-guess virtually everyone who had come into contact with me. That guy who caught my eye and smiled: was he trying to distract me? The fellow who was listening over by the garbage can, was he just waiting for the right moment to make his move?

But hold on a second…what about Hurricane Pape, the gigantic whooshing wind? I hadn’t been thinking about it as much today, because I had worn a hat to keep my hair in place. But couldn’t it be the real culprit? In one furious gust, it must have whisked away my hopeful little five dollars onto the floor of the corridor where some lucky TTC passenger picked it up. That must be what happened!

Even if it didn’t, it was probably better to blame the wind and hang on to my faith in humankind.

Going into Day Two at Pape Subway Station, I was prepared to meet the challenges that I had faced the day before. My favourite hat neatly dealt with the windswept hair problem—and gave me a bit of style, I hoped, even though I had bought it in 1993. It also occurred to me that I could learn that old Dusty Springfield song, "Windy", and pull it out at particularly blustery moments.

Even more important, I determined to not lose my voice for the second day in a row. Before leaving the house, I took the homeopathic remedy my chiropractor had prescribed and reminded myself not to over-sing.

You can’t out-sing a train. Yesterday I was focusing on my performance and trying to get everyone’s attention. Today, I was much more aware of the subway trains themselves and the actual noise they were making. When I realized that I’d been trying to out-run the train with my voice, it struck me as ridiculous and even a bit, well, arrogant. These trains are really, really loud! They are trains: big, hurtling machines of metal that run right over my voice no matter how loud I sing. You can’t compete with them, so it’s better to simply step gracefully aside and just sing quietly or hum or play a little instrumental when the train is going by. There’s no shame in this.

Nor is there any shame in not attempting to meet people’s eyes and smile encouragingly at them, because you can’t compete with a train of disinterested people either. When they walk by in the hundreds, all ignoring you, there is really nothing you can do. So you have a choice: either pack up and go home or keep singing.

This morning, I sang for longer than I did yesterday, and I saw more people, even though yesterday I sang during rush hour. When I started, I thought I’d actually be able to count the number of people passing by. Not a chance. I also thought I’d remember every person who made eye contact and threw some money toward me—but even now, after only two days, the individuals are starting to blur.

Today, several people stood out. There was an older gentleman who stopped and listened to a whole song (thought I’d remember which particular song it was, but I don’t) and came over to praise me for my music, saying "It’s my kind of music! And everyone would like it, even children!" Well, yes, I thought as I thanked him, and that was the idea when I auditioned for the TTC: Everyone would like it! And maybe they do, but I don’t really know that for a fact unless they toss me a quarter.

Then there was the grim-looking musician who I saw early in the morning. I caught his eye and said hello, hoping for camaraderie, and was met with only a gruff "Do you have a license?" Dropping my friendliness, I said "Yes I do" and he moved on without a word. After that I took the badge off from around my neck and put it in the case where everyone would see it. He came by an hour later and coolly checked out my take. (I wished the five dollar bill was still there.)

But the best customers of the day were three young teenage girls who stopped to listen, apparently in awe. I was playing "Where Do You Call Home?" and they were thrilled to tell me how wonderful it sounded, even though I was still playing and singing. (This seems to be a trend. People think they can come up to you and hold a conversation even though you’re singing a song.) I finished the song, even though it seemed a bit weird to do so, and gave them all business cards, which I autographed for them personally and added inspiring messages: "follow your heart and your dream". One of them said she’d keep it forever in her wallet. Another asked what record label I was on. And a third, when she said goodbye, said "I love you."

I started singing at 9:50 a.m. and stopped at 11:40. Not counting the five dollars that disappeared, I collected $20.20.

First Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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