Dundas on Monday Afternoon

I returned to Dundas (following my official schedule) this afternoon, even though the last time I was at Dundas it had been slow for donations.

So, why did I decide to go back there today? It would have been just as easy to return to Pape Station or Bay or Osgoode, where donations tend to be more steady.

As I was playing, I realized something. When hardly anyone is interacting with me, the people who do seem somehow magnified. I appreciate them more. Today I wanted the opportunity to remember each person who donated, individually. In order to remember them, there had to be fewer of them. So Dundas was perfect.

Here are a few the people who made my afternoon:

- The man who donated something before he heard me play, because he was planning to sit down on the bench beside me for awhile,
- The woman who bought a CD. (I realized later that I asked her a dumb question when determining which CD she might like. I asked "Do you have a family" (when I meant "children") Well, of course she has a family. Funny how one can regret something said in conversation even in this quirky social situation!)
- The young man who looked exactly like Kalan Porter from Canadian Idol (maybe he is!) who said my songs were beautiful,
- The young woman with the purple headscarf,
- The child in the pink jacket with her babysitter,
- The TTC Special Constable who winked at me,
- The gentleman named Mike, a musician, who liked my playing, and said "just relax, write your own songs, play them, and you never know!"

Yes, you never know.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Also,

Today someone gave me one of those shiny new Terry Fox loonies. It's a beautiful thing, and I found it inspiring and motivational. I hope that other people, in whatever field they find themselves, discover those special coins in their change and find strength for their own journey.

Intersections

It's not possible or me to sing, or even to write, today. It's Saturday. Between kids' activities, do-it-yourself house repairs and my brother coming over for dinner, taking time for busking is out of the question.

So I'm writing this, in longhand, during our daughter's drama class, when I go around the corner to the nearby Portuguese bakery for an hour. Who knows when I'll actually post this entry? It'll have to be sometime later, when I'm stealing time away from other work, and when it won't interfere with family business.

My subway singing and writing is taking up a significant amount of discretionary time. (I say this despite how quickly I'm typing, which is becoming pretty impressive.) Because both are essentially voluntary activities, leading to small amounts of income, it's hard to view them with the respect one would normally afford a "real" job. Depending on your perspective, neither busking nor blogging may merit any respect at all.

On weekends like these, I'm reminded of how incompatible an artist's life can be with the regular or respectable path: the life of nine-to-five jobs and traditional family roles. It takes an especially understanding spouse to accomodate his or her partner's intense creative periods...to support them even though they don't seem to be leading anywhere in terms of money or prestige. Competence in a creative activity may not, by itself, inspire the artist's family to support the activity--not unless the art itself is considered something that couldn't be lived without.

These days, how much art is viewed that way? Not much, unless it suddenly starts paying the bills.

My subway project has turned out to be more than I expected it to be. It's become, in a way, a vehicle to help me determine where I should be going. Where is my songwriting taking me? Where do I want to end up?

It's appropriate that I find myself at intersections.

Does one career route end in artistic fulfillment and recognition--or in loneliness, self-indulgence and poverty? Does another track (pursuing art as a hobby) lead to a stable family life and financial security, or to an avoidance of a deeper call? Which route leads to authenticity? Which to happiness?

I know. You're thinking, it doesn't have to be an "either/or". That's my belief as well, most of the time, as I continue to attempt to balance the needs of my partner, my children and myself along with my artistic goals and our financial needs. I work hard every day (and have for years), combining an array of paying jobs (mostly related to writing and teaching) with music performances (paid and unpaid), child care and the creation of new work. Although I might appear successful on the surface, I constantly find myself falling short in one or another of these areas. When I get one thing right, I trip up somewhere else: I see that something needs to be better-attended-to--my partner or my children or my bank balance or my health--and as soon as I turn in that direction I hear a voice calling me from another corner.

Some days I feel stuck at these junctions, unable to go anywhere, and I feel frightened and frustrated that I don't know which track to take. Other times, I appreciate the grace afforded me in the middle-ground, where for a brief period I am dependent on no one and no one is dependent on me.

Teach Your Children

My son's teacher needed a parent volunteer for a field trip, so I joined the class for the day.

I had a good time. I did a good job, too, helping Grade 4 & 5's with a computer project that explored Gothic architecture. As I've told you recently, I enjoy working with children. They're open and alive and interested in things--not always the things you hope they'll be interested in, but interested nonetheless. They have a spark.

I see that spark every day when I'm on the subway. Children love public transit, with its big exciting red streetcars and shiny fast-moving trains. It's all very thrilling. When children see me playing, their eyes get wide and they stare without reservation. Just the thought of a child walking past me with a bored expression makes me laugh because it's so absurd!

Actually, if I saw that expression--that grown-up expression--on a child in real life I'd be concerned for his or her health. ALL young children engage with me as they walk past, virtually without exception. Some adults discourage this engagement, while others seem to use it as a "teaching moment" on the joy of giving and the value of music.

Today on our field trip, it felt strange for me to be on the subway accompanying a group of children--instead of providing musical accompaniment for children passing by. I'm not certain, but I believe another subway passenger recognized me even though I didn't have my guitar along. (I was wearing my bright red coat, which has become my busking uniform.)

At quiet in-between points in the day, the teacher and I talked together. I found myself mentioning my subway busking. I also mentioned my songwriting workshops. But I didn't raise the subject of teacher's college.

It seems I'm pretty clear about what I enjoy doing.

At another point in the day, though, the teacher mentioned a relative of hers who is a craftsperson, living a somewhat free-form life without a regular job.

She was justifiably mystified as to how her sister survives...and she was concerned for her future.

Long May You Runnymede

Runnymede, morning two.

I decided to come back the next day at exactly the same time (8:30 a.m.) to see if anything had changed, fishing-wise.

I also made a conscious effort to make sure I went in with the right attitude. Specifically, I reminded myself that I couldn't expect generosity if I myself wasn't feeling generous. Although I had taken a philosophical attitude about yesterday's low donations, I had also noticed a bit of cynicism and judgement creeping in: "Hey guy in expensive suit, while you've got your wallet open, why not throw a coin to the musician..." etc.

So I went in with the deliberate intention of simply giving my songs to the station. I briefly considered not opening my guitar case, but I thought that would just baffle everyone and they're already baffled enough. I reminded myself to smile and to be as generous in my outlook as possible.

Apart from being good for my mental health in general, the technique seemed to work. On Morning #1 I earned $11.40 in 1 1/4 hours, while on Morning #2 I earned $16.18 for 55 minutes. That's 15 cents a minute vs. 29 cents a minute, or a 93% increase in my hourly (minutely?) wage.

It's a small change, I know. But hey, it's small change!

My favourite moment came at the very beginning, when a little girl about two years old, being led by her grandma, wanted to listen and then was persuaded to very shyly give me a coin.

I sang Stage directly to her and she was completely enthralled. I had to end the song on purpose in the middle so her grandmother could coax her away without a tantrum.

While this drama was unfolding, a man stopped to watch the three of us interacting. He was clearly delighted, and then he walked off without donating. It didn't matter one bit.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Thinking of more good Runnymede song puns? (I know I am!)

"Born to Runnymede" (I thought of using that, but felt it went a bit too far in the enthusiasm department...)

"Take the Money and Runnymede" (Actually, that's probably the best of the bunch isn't it? Let me know if you think of any more.)

Runnymede on Empty

Today I went to Runnymede, perhaps the oddest-named subway station on the system. (Does the street refer to 'runny mead' I wonder? Is it some tribute to olde English ales? I must look that up.)

Anyway, Runnymede is in a sedate corner of the city known as Bloor West Village, a well-treed and established neighborhood where the houses are all detached and within walking distance of many quaint gift shoppes and cafes. Kitty-corner from the subway, you'll find a formerly grand historic theatre that was turned into a Chapters bookstore. A few years ago I played a (free) gig in that Chapters.

The performance area at Runnymede is peculiar. Unlike most performance areas, which are up against a wall, this set of yellow dots is smack dab in the middle of the large vestibule in front of a pillar. It's a very exposed place to be (as if any busking location isn't!) The Runnymede spot is positioned very well for pedestrian traffic, putting the performer directly in line of people heading to the turnstiles, often with their wallets open.

I've noticed, however, that if people don't plan to donate, their already-open wallet makes no difference. Indeed, if people do want to support a musician, they're often willing to stop, remove their backpacks and rummage through them to find some change. A few people did things like that this morning, which seemed nothing short of miraculous.

Generally speaking, the passers-by at Runnymede were just that. Passing by. Which is fine, of course.

I'm becoming much more comfortable with "slow" times. Subway performers talk about times and locations the way others talk about fishing: "the busking was good there today". Thinking about it that way, it doesn't seem so personal when many people choose not to donate anything. When you're fishing, you're enjoying the experience itself--the day, the water, the boat--and if you catch something, great. Even when you do catch a fish, you might let it go. The fishing metaphor helps me let go of expectations of financial return, and simply enjoy the experience.

Which is why I plan to return to Runnymede tomorrow morning, also at rush hour, to see if the fishing's any better.

First Day of School

I was driving to a school in Port Perry, Ontario, and thinking about teacher's college.

Last night, Dave and I had one of those challenging conversations that other couples probably also have when at least one of them is an artist. The conversations have to do with the money one wishes one had...the money that would allow us to make house repairs without thinking about them...the money that would allow us to replace the 1990 Honda I was driving to Port Perry, and so on.

Most times, our lifestyle seems modest but comfortable. We place a high value on simplicity and small spaces, recycled clothing and homemade fun. I really do love our car, even though I'm starting to feel embarrassed by the rust. We live in a wonderful, eclectic neighborhood steps from a playground, and probably wouldn't move even if we could afford a larger home.

Still, these conversations do come up from time to time.

When they do, I wonder what path I could jump to, as gracefully as possible, so as to find a reasonably secure, well-paying job with dental benefits and maybe even a pension? I wonder if having such a job would prevent future conversations...and set my children up for a more financially secure future.

The idea of becoming a teacher had come up before. My mother (an accomplished painter and potter) was a public school teacher for 25 years. I wondered, as I drove, if my undergraduate degree would be enough to get in to teacher's college...whether I'd have to take upgrade courses.

And I noticed for the first time, in the fog that so often follows difficult late-night conversations, that here I was again, pursuing my music career, yes, but also driving to a another school.

I've been doing a lot of songwriting workshops lately. It turns out I'm good at them. I feel comfortable in classrooms and I love working with kids.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

On the other hand, my fantasy faded a bit as I spent time in the actual classroom, reining in a group of grade seven boys who had brought their electric guitars and amps to class ("Can you play 'Stairway to Heaven', Miss?").

Keeping them on track took at least as much energy as busking does. (And yeah, I did play 'Stairway to Heaven').

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I was practically desperate to get to the subway when I left the school, even though the workshop had gone well.

Because I had to pick up my daughter at 3:45, I knew I'd only have an hour at Pape Station, if I hurried. So there I was, barrelling down the 401, hoping I wouldn't get a speeding ticket in an effort to be a subway musician.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I made it to Pape Station by 2:15, giving me exactly one hour to sing. I started setting up my amp, when I heard a familiar voice.

"Lynn!", she said, "This is amazing. I never take the subway, but I decided to today, and here you are!"

It was a friend from university, also an artist, who has spent the last twenty years combining theatre work, tutoring and parenthood. Always enthusiastic and supportive about my music, she asked about my recent show and upcoming concerts. I asked about her family and her own career.

"I just got accepted into teacher's college," she said.

She told me how she'd been worried about "selling out" and "giving up"...how she thought she might not get in because she only has an undergraduate degree (the same one as me, with the same average). She told me she's taking it a step at a time.

I said, we'll have to talk.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I didn't play First Day of School today.

Crying in the subway isn't pretty.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

We have a delay at Eglinton

As you may have guessed, I didn't return to Eglinton after my last visit.

Why is it that certain stations feel "right" and others do not? Is it the people passing through (demographics of certain areas in the city) or is the architecture itself (flow of pedestrian traffic)? Why do some musicians succeed in one environment while others don't? I don't have any proof that Adam did any better at Eglinton than I did, but he did seem more at ease.

Seeming ill-at-ease guarantees disaster in any performance situation.

So I'm sure Adam did just fine.

It's interesting that even a moving audience, watching you for only a few seconds, can smell fear.

I believe that it's important to confront that fear: to face it and own it in order to overcome it. That's part of the reason I'm busking. As a result of this choice, I'm feeling much more confident than I used to, and I believe I have a greater degree of self-acceptance.

Maybe it's that self-acceptance that helps me realize it's good to recognize an unhealthy situation for what it is and to take myself out of it. There's uncomfortable (challenging, worth sticking with) and there's unhealthy (marginalizing, victimizing). Trying to sort out which is which isn't always easy.

As it turned out, there were lots of reasons why busking at Eglinton was inconvenient for me this week. Mostly, I was just really busy. At the same time, I just didn't want to go back, and so I didn't. This week, it seemed to be the healthy and sane choice.

(I'm also perfectly happy to be busy on both Friday and Saturday night, so I'll miss my opportunity to play Yonge & Bloor station in front of thousands of late-night clubgoers.)

Egads! I'm at Eglinton!

A few months ago, I almost played at Eglinton subway but chickened out. So I was determined to play there during my scheduled time this afternoon.

Unfortunately, Adam Solomon was there when I arrived. He's an African guitar player who just returned from Winnipeg after winning a well-deserved Juno Award. I noticed that he wasn't displaying it in his guitar case--that would probably be unwise--but his intricate finger-picking sounded nothing less than stellar.

I'm not sure how to describe what Adam does. Is it jazz? World music? Some newfangled kind of ultra-cool R & B? Hmm... Whatever it is, it makes the mini-mall in the middle of Eglinton Station seem like a happening place to be.

I considered going back home and not interrupting him. But no! This is Eglinton! Stay the course, I told myself.

Meanwhile, easygoing Adam was happy to take a break. He ambled off to enjoy the sunny afternoon, leaving all of his interesting amps and instruments taking up most of the performance space between the yellow dots. I apologized for interrupting, squeezed myself into the remaining space and started to play.

Oh yeah, there was one other thing taking up a lot of space. My massive Inferiority Complex.

And it's a bigger liability than a broken string.

None of my songs sounded right at Eglinton today. My voice didn't seem to carry...my melodies seemed obvious...my lyrics seemed ridiculous. Shortly after I started, another musician from the open mic circuit came by and listened to six songs. Even though he complimented me on each of them, I still felt insecure. Then a nice elderly man came along and commented on my fingerpicking. I thanked him. And he revealed he was once a major folk festival booker. (Did I mention my timing was off?)

He picked up my CD. And put it back down.

I idiotically offered to give it to him in appreciation for his years of service (What was I thinking?!). He didn't take it then either.

Needless to say, I couldn't hear myself very well at Eglinton. I kept checking my amp to see if it was turned up to the highest allowable level. (It was past it.) My voice seemed to be swallowed up by the passing crowds. After a half-hour, I started wishing fervently that Adam Solomon would come back so I could go home.

Eventually he did come back. He listened to a few songs and made a donation.

And he paid me a lovely compliment.

Which I could barely hear.

Belonging

This past weekend was the first gloriously warm weekend of spring, and we decided to celebrate by taking a family walk along the Boardwalk in Toronto's Beach neighborhood.

This stretch of sand and sky is one of the prettiest places in Toronto. Couples walk arm in arm, toddlers wobble along adorably, dogs and joggers run in rhythm...and the big city seems miles away. With the setting sun casting a pink glow on everything, the scene couldn't be more idyllic. But then the unmistakable melody of "What A Wonderful World" wafts over everything from the strings of a sweet old Gibson, and we're truly in heaven.

Now that's a busker.

After making a contribution, Dave and I talked about why the music "worked". We agreed that in addition to being an excellent player, the guitarist seemed to fit his environment. He and his music just seemed to belong there. He didn't seem at all out-of-place or superfluous. His choice to play there made sense. Not surprisingly, he seemed happy and completely comfortable. As I passed his guitar case, I was admittedly curious about "how he was doing"--and to my surprise his case wasn't overflowing with toonies. He was doing fine enough. But more important, he was doing fine.

His music was doing something fine, indeed.

+++

When we got home from the Beach after dark, we learned that the TTC strike had been averted.

Okay then. Tomorrow afternoon I'm off to Eglinton station, the busking spot I lacked the nerve to visit a few months ago.

The Other Way

With the TTC looming, I heard that a number of other subway buskers were planning to play outside liquor stores.

One of my neighbours urged me to do the same thing. Turns out he's been playing outside the Beer Store near our street, and he's been doing quite well.

I thanked him for the suggestion.

But there's no way I'm going there.

Standstill?

Of course, I was so busy writing about how much fun I'm having in the subway, I missed the announcement that the TTC is going on strike on Monday.

The Halfway Point

Today I marked the six-month anniversary of my first busking year by playing at Pape Station.

I only had an hour to spare this morning, but I knew it would be enough. In an hour I can play up to twenty songs, which is the length of a long set in a regular paid performance. Even one song, by itself, is better than none.

I thought of the man's question at Woodbine yesterday: "Is this worth your while?" I realize that my answer has always been yes, even when donations are slow and I'm feeling discouraged. Even when the songs don't seem to be reaching anyone else, they're reaching me...keeping me connected to the world and to my spirit. And I am sure that the music (the music of all the volunteer subway players) changes the city in ways we don't completely understand.

But let's be honest. It's just plain hard. Every time I play in the subway, I experience painful moments (sometimes stretching into half-hours) of doubt and discouragement, when I feel marginalized, ridiculous, a failure. There are many times when I consider turning around and heading back home so as to avoid embarrassment.

I often find myself asking "What am I doing here?".

That seems to be the central question.

When I ask it one way, I'm expressing a deep sense of frustration. I feel as though I don't know where to turn or what purpose I'm serving. I'm tired and self-pitying. I'm afraid that I've made foolish choices with my life and have landed in the wrong place.

But when I ask it another way, as a spiritual question or prayer, it's a question of deeper purpose: What can I do to make the most of this situation, this place, this song, this life, this moment?

When I'm singing on the subway I ask that question all the time. I see it from both perspectives, like two sides of a coin.

+++

Here's a list of the most important things I've observed, in six months of subway busking.

Many people are kind and generous.

Most people are preoccupied and distracted.

Many people appear sad.

Most adults tune out their surroundings
...but children tune in to everything.

Children freely express interest and delight
...while adults rarely do.
(Children find this confusing.)

People seem happier in light places.

People enjoy giving.

People like to hear "thank you".
People like to say "thanks".

All people are fascinating.
All people are beautiful.

We look more alike than we realize.

We can rely on serendipity.

We are all connected.

Every contribution means something.

It all adds up.

Return to Earth: Woodbine

It’s possible that the creative high was hormonal and the song isn’t really good after all.

I felt doubtful about it when I played it at Fat Albert’s last night and forgot half the lyrics--the same ones I’d been blissfully replaying for more than 48 hours. The other day I sang it in the subway with no difficulty whatsoever, but when I played it for people who were listening intently, my mind went blank.

Of course, everyone was supportive anyway. (These places are like church or 12-Step programs, and thank Goodness for that.) I was disappointed that I didn't manage a more polished performance, but I also figured it was a good reminder not to take myself (or the song) too seriously.

“I’d like to hear it again,” one friend told me. (Well, yeah…it’d be good to hear all of the correct lyrics. And in the right order.)

Now that the euphoric high has dissipated and I’ve returned to earth, I’m amazed at how much time was soaked up by the song. It dominated three days, leaving me behind on several things, especially because it came on the heels of last weekend’s concert. I dug out a bit by cleaning the house for an hour today and catching up on a writing project. But I still felt behind on everything and completely exhausted.

I considered skipping the subway, but realized I’d feel better if I did. At the very least, I’d feel better about myself having made the effort. So I went to Woodbine station, a stop I hadn’t visited for a long time. There’s something about the architecture of that green corridor that makes me feel protected and comfortable. I wanted to go there today even though it’s not the most well-travelled station.

Despite feeling exhausted before I began, I found myself singing and playing well, feeling confident and enjoying the connection with people. I played “Music Town” four times (not forgetting the lyrics) which attracted a number of donations. I sold a CD. Today I noticed, as I have other times, that many people making donations were moving more slowly than others, sometimes because of age or disability. On the other hand, others were actually running past me today, but many of them smiled as they whizzed by.

One man stopped to talk, asking if it’s worth my while financially to come out and sing. I told him that it was better than sitting at home.

I didn’t tell him that this afternoon, I’d been in danger of falling prey to the low that can follow the creative high. If I'd stayed home, I would have been second-guessing the quality of my new song and kicking myself for not playing it better last night. In short, I would have been feeling sorry for myself and letting insecurity get the best of me.

Better to come out and sing.

Wednesday Morning, Music Town

My schedule said "Broadview Station, Morning". Sounded good to me.

When I got there I had second thoughts. The construction materials are really piling up in the performance space now, so I'd have to go up against a metal barrier, a stack of drywall and two pylons. Not to mention dust.

I considered sticking around and serenading the construction workers...but I chickened out and went to Pape again, where I resolved to play "Creature of Habit".

Several TTC workers were standing in the performance space when I arrived, talking to each other perhaps about the potential TTC strike which could begin next week. I walked up to them, wearing my best "I-hate-to-bother-you-but-I-was-hoping-to-busk" expression.

"Oh! You want to play here!" one exclaimed, seeming surprised and delighted by the idea. As I set up, they asked me how my amp worked and inquired about how much money I make. I told them I hope for about $20 an hour in a good location.

As it turned out, my amp didn't work very well at all today, dying out in the middle of a song after I'd been playing for 45 minutes. When I played without it, I heard myself over-singing to make up for the loss of volume. I decided to stop early. By doing so, I also made sure I wouldn't be late to pick up the kids for lunch. (Surely I'm the only mother perpetually running late because of her busking commitments.)

In this performance, I debuted the new song I've been telling you about. (!!!!...gratuitous punctuation to indicate continuing feelings of euphoria!!!)

So far, public reaction to the new work is positive.

In 45 minutes I earned $15.75 (exactly as estimated).

Approximately $7.00 of that (in five separate donations) came for "Music Town".

Creative Highs

The feeling of euphoria connected with writing a shiny new song has continued over the last few days. During that time, I've tinkered with the lyrics a bit more, settled on the groove and added hooky parts to the guitar and vocals.

All this time, I've been in a great mood. (Did the mood come first, or the song? Could this be hormonal?!) Things that normally trip me up are easy to manage.
I don't feel jealous of a friend's major movie opportunity or another friend's million dollar house. I'm more accepting of my own flaws (such as my tendency to feel jealous of stuff like that) and those of others. I'm smiling at everybody all the time. I'm dressing better and I feel great, even though I feel exhausted. Have I mentioned it's like falling in love? Maybe this is why some artists find it hard to stay in relationships...the relationship with the work can be like a romantic affair.

It's probably no accident that I wrote the song immediately after my big show last weekend, a time which often feels anti-climactic to say the least. I often feel exhausted and even depressed after big shows, wondering "what was the point of that?" and "what do I do now?" The new song moved right into that void, filling it up with positive new energy.

It's interesting to me that the feeling of creative joy seems to have nothing to do with professional expectations. I don't feel the song will "change" anything in my life. I'm not happy because I could enter it in contests or put it on my new CD or use it to open any doors, even though I believe it's one of the best I've ever written. The joy seems to lie instead in the feeling of meeting a "personal best" goal and in appreciating a beautiful new thing that wasn't there before and that I helped bring into being.

The creative high, while it lasts, overrides professional disappointment and envy and ambition. Maybe that's not so good, in a way. The song's mere existence doesn't pay any bills...and in fact the dreamlike euphoria could fool you into thinking the bills don't matter. That's why I'm grateful that I have some other commitments today (writing jobs and childcare) that keep me my feet on the ground of the real world while my head's in the creative clouds.

Submerged in a Song

Since about 1 p.m. today I have been intensely preoccupied by a new song. I think it's finished now, which means it's taken about nine hours. I've taken a few breaks, for dinner and family activities, but I know I haven't been very good company. At dinner, I apologized for seeming distant.

My best songs are always born this way: quickly (over twenty-four hours or less) and very intensely. I compare the experience to falling in love or giving birth. It feels exhilarating and exciting and also disorienting, physically demanding and somehow painful. There's no stopping it. Eveything must yield.

+++

Because I'm just finishing the process, I can sketch out that process right now. I want to do this for myself, because a few days from now I will have completely forgotten how the song was born. (If you think this is too 'me, me, me', stop reading now!)

Earlier in the day, as a diversion, I started writing a (separate) silly novelty song on a related topic. I finished it during a break from the Big Song, so I ended up with one funny and one serious song on the same general idea.

Here's how writing of the big song went. I can't remember if I had the chord pattern or the title line first, so they must have come together. Because I'd used the same pattern before, I decided to change it a little so as not to repeat myself. I did something similar with the melody: started with something simple and made small adjustments to make it more interesting, experimenting to see what sounded most original and natural to sing. I also kept adjusting the tempo and strumming pattern, and though I'm getting close to deciding, right now I'm still debating two tempos/feels.

The lyrics started with a title/hook line and really got going with a metaphor that seemed fresh and surprising to me. I took care to ensure that the verses developed logically and told some kind of story and that there was a revelatory twist at the end. As usually happens when a song goes well, two "bingo!" surprise lyrics fell into my lap like perfect puzzle pieces, without any conscious effort.

Over the past few days, three songwriters have been on my mind: Jimmy Webb , Neil Young and Ron Sexsmith and I understand how they all influenced the song (though I doubt anybody else could tell, and I hope they can't!)

Another sign of a good song: I must play it soon in public.

Spring Forward

Ten minutes to showtime and I still hadn't figured out the coffeemaker.

It was the night of our big "Feels Like Spring" concert, which proved to be an ironically amusing title. I'm not what you'd call an ironic songwriter (which is perhaps unfortunate in an age of stylish post-modernism) so holding a "Feels Like Spring" concert in the middle of a freezing slush storm seemed particularly daring.

Anyway, we were prepared. We had created see-through green bookmarks and given them away as a souvenir in the program (yes, a program!) so it could feel like spring no matter what. Also, the concert had chanced to fall on "spring forward" night, which allowed me to sing my lyric "turn your clocks forward, don't you fall back, don't get tripped up by those things you still lack" with extra enthusiasm.

More than 80 people turned out for my show last night at our nearby community centre. (It's a lovely place, a big historical building, but not well known. To direct people to it I found myself referring to Jilly's, the better-known strip club a block away.) My bandmates for the night, Noah Zacharin and David Woodhead , played brilliantly. As for me, I decided it was best to simply sing and not mention the coffee-making debacle.

I've heard it said that when you're a mother, you're also a nurse, short-order cook, teacher, coach, cleaning lady and child psychologist. It's probably equally true that independent musicians are often publicists, event coordinators, caterers, couriers, set decorators and e-mail marketers.

At one point, when people were arriving, the decorations weren't quite up yet, the CD and food tables were a work-in-progress and I still hadn't figured out the coffee, I started to panic. A kind musician friend took me aside and reminded me that no matter what, I could just get up with the band and sing the songs and everybody would have a good time. I realized she was right.

We had hoped the weather would be perfect on April 2nd, and we'd hoped to have every single detail perfectly in place hours before the show. But that doesn't really feel like spring at all. Spring is known for its slush storms. And community events are (in my experience) known for their mystifying coffeemakers.

After talking to my friend, I looked around the room again and saw that miraculously the room had been transformed. Lights glittered on the ceiling, colourful paper flowers bedecked the floor and the CD and food tables looked fantastic, all thanks to many talented and generous friends.

The show went forward. It did "Feel Like Spring". I'm told the coffee was excellent...and so was the music.


+++

Our family spent the day recovering from last night's show...but we had enough energy to watch the Juno Awards, which were held in my hometown, Winnipeg, this year. We all jumped up from the couch and cheered when Ron Sexsmith won Songwriter of the Year.

Singing Into the Wind

The last few times I’ve been in the subway, donations have been minimal. People are walking right by wearing expressions of boredom, weariness and irritation. Although I try to maintain a cheerful expression and to sing and play well, I find it challenging to go up against so much negative energy.

In fact, when the gusty wind whooshes through Pape Station, as it does at unpredictable moments, I am grateful to let loose and wail away into it, knowing that the wind will completely drown out my performance and that for a few moments my fragile voice won’t be so naked in front of the passing crowds.

When busking is going poorly, I love the wind. I love the fact that it’s unpredictable and overpowering. It whips around me and gathers me up, like Dorothy’s tornado in The Wizard of Oz, transporting me beyond the chilly corridor. That wicked wind is a brief cure for my frustration. It says, “Okay, so you’re not moving anybody in Pape Station…but you can still be moved. I will move you.”

Surrendering to that wind, which I cannot sing over, I find myself singing into it. At that moment I’m probably singing off-key and strumming chaotically but I don’t care. I feel better joining the wind in its enthusiastic, chaotic movement…joining the Spirit that rushes in and sweeps me off my feet if I but let it.

It is that Wind that catches me by surprise and takes me away from ordinary days, into the storm of songwriting, the storm that is perfect for me. When I am caught up in it, I am moving purposefully toward a mysterious and marvellous destination. The experience is disorienting and scary and exhilarating, and it illuminates my world.

When I am swept up into the arms of the Great Creative Energy, I find the reason for singing and I find that it is in me. It’s not in the people passing by.

+++

After singing five songs, I decide to go home to rehearse for my show on Saturday night.

I Can See Osgoode Clearly

It's a brilliant spring day today and the temperature is about ten degrees above zero. The sky is blue. Underground, though, it's still chilly. Also, Osgoode Station is damp, and after a song or two I notice that my guitar strings actually feel sticky.

Donations are slow, perhaps because everyone lived it up on the long weekend, or perhaps because it's the end of the month. Perhaps it's because I'm wearing my new coat and I don't look as if I need the money. Perhaps I'm not singing with the right amount of energy, or without energy of the right sort. Perhaps the construction at the station (a new elevator going in) has adversely affected the feng shui. Perhaps...well, perhaps nothing. Perhaps it's just coincidence that some days everybody's donating and other days nobody is.

When I'm in the subway, I'm always looking for connections. I'm always trying to discern some sort of pattern, some sort of unifying principle that governs the behavour of people passing by.

Perhaps there's no such principle.

But I'm always looking for it.

+++

I tried something new today. I sang an bona fide Familiar Cover Song: Johnny Nash's "I Can See Clearly Now" (1972). I figured it would suit the weather.

I do a pretty good job of it too. My version is somewhat like Holly Cole's: sort of jazzy-bluesy. Before going out to the subway today, I made sure I knew the tricky chord combination in the bridge.

So far, since I've been busking, I haven't been playing familiar popular songs. I have enough songs of my own to sing, and many musicians perform the old songs better than I do. On the other hand, I wondered if passers-by would appreciate hearing songs they know...and if that would lead to higher donations. Today seemed a good day to take that trusty old Nash out for a test drive.

"I Could See Clearly Now" sounded great in Osgoode Station. Better than I thought it would, in fact.

I played it twice.

It attracted no donations.

A friendly maintenance worker, who had listened to about seven songs while eating his lunch, told me he liked my songs just as much.

"The songs you write, they come from the heart," he told me.

Easter Subway, postscript

On our way to Easter dinner, we stopped to buy ice cream for my mother-in-law. While we were parked, I spotted Roger walking with his guitar, heading toward Pape Station.

Easter Subway

This morning I was having coffee with a friend when we met another local roots musician.

“How’s the subway going?” he asked.

“Fine,” I replied, “But lately I haven't been out as much as I'd like."

His tone grew serious.

“I could never busk,” he declared.

“Really? Why not?”

“In Canada, the environment is just not friendly toward buskers. You have to be in Europe or a place like San Francisco. Here, everybody just thinks you’re begging.”


+++


I was still thinking about what he said when I started to sing at Pape Station on Saturday of the Easter weekend.

Sure enough, the vast majority of people were walking straight past me this afternoon, without donating or interacting in any way.

On the other hand, I didn't get the feeling that they were looking down on me. It was almost as if they were just shy. I noticed, for instance, that several people were deliberately waiting for their train at the bottom of the stairwell in front of me—listening, but not wanting to be seen to be listening.

I realize that when you’re giving to a busker, you're giving in a very public way. The response is as public, in a way, as is the call. It’s not like making a phone call to a charity at home or making an online donation. When you’re in the subway, you’re making a public statement that you support “that kind of music” or “that kind of person”…and many people might be uncomfortable doing so. (On the other hand, some people might to be publicly seen being generous.)

I heard on CBC Radio yesterday that when you act altruistically, your brain produces dopamine, a chemical that creates a feeling of calm and well-being. (The narrator of the documentary added that when he behaves selfishly, his brain creates another substance called “guiltamine”.)


+++


Despite my empathetic view of people’s motivations, I did find myself getting irritated when streams of people kept ignoring my pretty and optimistic springtime songs. I mean, could they just not be bothered? How hard is it to nod in my direction? Could you not give your five year-old a quarter when he tugs on your sleeve and points to the nice busker lady?

Deciding to use that anger to good effect, I launched into a louder, strummier song that allowed me to belt it out a little: “It’ll Grow On You”. “That flavour’s an acquired taste, a bitter taste it’s true, today you let it go to waste, but it’ll grow on you…”

Bam! Three donations, five bucks.

I played Fred Eaglesmith’s “I Like Trains”. Another two bucks.

Okay then, angry songs it is, this Easter weekend.

Why is that?


+++


I never did figure it out, but by the end of an hour and a half when I was (again) starting to shiver, a group of people about my age made a point of stopping and saying how much they enjoyed my music. I was just finishing my last song, which made me think that perhaps by then, when I’m too cold to continue, I’m finally really warmed up as a performer. Could this be true of the whole artistic enterprise: when you've had enough and are about to quit, is there something truly compelling in your performance that connects with others?

Today I felt particularly compelled to sing in the subway, as an answer to my skeptical musician friend in the coffee shop. I wanted to confirm that I'm not crazy, that there really is something worthwhile about this and that I’m not deluding myself about the value of the experience.

There were certainly some moments today when I thought, maybe he’s right, maybe we should skip this “stage” entirely and go directly to higher-paying “real” gigs in comfortable venues. If those Massey Hall gigs don’t materialize, maybe we could deftly switch occupations and nobody would notice us in these awkward, not-quite-there-yet stations.

He sees the subway as a dead-end or unnecessary detour. I see it as a journey, maybe even a destination.

"1973!"

In the middle of my first song, “Feels Like Spring”, a woman came up to me and shouted “1973”!

I don’t think she meant to be unfriendly.

Perhaps she thought that the song was from 1973? (I wrote it in 2004, but perhaps it’s sort of retro?)

Or maybe she was requesting a song from 1973?

In 1973, I was nine-going-on-ten years old. My parents had given me a clock radio for Christmas, thus exposing me for the first time to popular music. I spent the next several months glued to the radio, and late at night I painstakingly tweaked the dial to tune in exotic faraway stations such as Chicago and Detroit.

Even without checking the CHUM chart for the third week of March, 1973 (which probably reflects what was also being played in Winnipeg at the time), I thought of songs such as “Killing Me Softly” by Roberta Flack (#1), “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” by Vicki Lawrence (#10) and “Last Song” by Edward Bear (#26). (Roger Ellis, the busker I've been mentioning, was in the band Edward Bear.)

Other songs on the chart come as an interesting surprise, making me think that perhaps I was more influenced by that clock radio than I realized. The Carpenters “Sing”, for instance, could be practically my songwriting and busking anthem: “Sing out loud, sing out strong/sing it simple to last your whole life long…” etc. And then there’s Anne Murray’s “Danny’s Song” (written by Kenny Loggins, who recently guested as a judge on American Idol): “Even though we ain't got money/ I'm so in love with ya, honey/ everything will bring a chain of love…”

Maybe the part of the brain that defines musical taste is programmed when you’re ten. It’s reasonable to assume that I was influenced by the other songs on the list too, such “Dead Skunk” (Loudon Wainwright III), “Cover of the Rolling Stone” (Dr. Hook) and “Do It Again” (Steely Dan).

Anyway, I didn’t have time to ask the woman what she meant, because she immediately turned and headed down the stairs.

Julia, Nigel and the Guy on the List

I've stopped and started this entry two or three times today, and I've finally figured out why.

It has to do with an intense discussion I've been reading on a folk music e-list. The topic (in a nutshell) is self-absorption in songwriting. Specifically, one contributor (a concert presenter and independent radio host) wrote, smugly, that in order to decide if a songwriter is any good or not, he simply scans the lyrics to see if they include "I", "me" or "mine" too often. His view is that too many singer-songwriters have nothing of interest to say to anyone other than themselves and that they should shut up.

The same could be said of bloggers. Or watercolourists or haiku poets or photographers or stand-up comics.

Not surprisingly, many artists took this guy to task, citing examples of many fine songs that are written in the first person (and noting that many awful songs have been written in the third).

Other people clarified his argument, pointing out that in order to succeed, any song (in whatever voice), needs to make a universal statement in addition to a personal one; that is, it will start with the individual artist's perspective but it must transcend it. The artist's level of skill or craftsmanship plays a huge role in this; the lyrics (both what is said and how it's written), the melody (both memorable and original) and presentation all have to be at a sufficiently high level to move an audience.

And how do we know when we've succeeded?

Well, that's where the audience comes in, including (unfortunately) the smugly critical concert presenter on the list, who is so inundated with mediocre CDs and promo packages that he's become contemptuous of the whole singer-songwriter genre. Today I found myself thinking about him, somehow imagining him reading this, and I wanted to write something particularly noteworthy.

And I stopped writing.

(On the other hand, I am writing a handful of new songs. Perhaps it's no coincidence that for now they won't be public songs...as the set list for my upcoming concert is already in place and the new CD is already 13 songs long.)

Knowing that the critics are out there, that somebody somewhere might say "ahah, she's going on about herself again", how do we continue our artistic work? How do we risk sharing it with others to find a supportive audience (one which, in my experience, far outnumbers the critics)?

Even high-profile, celebrated artists struggle with this one. I'm currently reading Julia Cameron, who has a very good new book out called "The Sound of Paper". Best known for The Artist's Way , Cameron writes beautifully about artistic challenge, fear and insecurity. I figured she'd have something to say about the guy on the list (who is, though sporting a different identity, essentially the same person who malignantly contributed to this blog several weeks ago and caused me to question my work in similar ways.)

Julia calls her imaginary, inner critic "Nigel".

"Nigel is the one who snorts in derision when I think about starting a new play. Nigel is the one who is afraid to send finished work out--and is afraid, for that matter, to finish work because then it can be judged and people like him to the judging... Nigel. I would like to lock you out... No Nigel sinks his pointed fangs into the jugular of my work in a next lifetime."

+++

Back to the subway briefly.

Last night I saw experienced subway busker Roger Ellis at an open mic performance, and explained somewhat apologetically that I hadn't been busking this week because of March Break.

He was very kind and reassuring, telling me that it's been a slow time anyway for donations, that his wife is also looking after children this week, and that next week the weather will be great.

Banana Bread with Brian Eno & Mary Pratt

It's March Break and the kids are home from school, so I'm not out busking today.

Instead, I've been obsessing about my upcoming concert on April 2nd.

This is a show we're putting together ourselves at a nearby community centre. It's family-friendly and comfortable, much like a large house concert but in a larger space.

In order to put on the show, I've needed to book the two-person band, rehearse with them, arrange the sound system and person to operate it, decorate the space, publicize the event through my mailing list and local media and arrange for refreshments. In addition, we're offering some incentives for early rsvps (an exclusive promo cd), new audience members (a welcome package) and people who already own my recordings (a free dessert).

Today I found myself looking at my "to-do" list and completely panicking.

To make matters worse, it's a beautiful spring today (8 degrees above zero) and I'd like to be out singing. Instead, I find myself at home, juggling playdates for the kids and trying unsuccessfully to write copy for posters to be put on poles around the neighborhood (before the anti-postering bylaw is passed) as the computer keeps crashing.

Finally I give up and decide to make banana bread for the show.

This is, I realize, something women have been doing for generations. Like me, my mother and grandmother probably had long to-do lists of things they would have preferred to be doing, but ended up making banana bread, a simple, foolproof recipe that can be accomplished even if one is constantly interrupted.

In order to calm myself down, I put on Brian Eno's "Music For Airports" , a soothing ambient CD. And I set myself to work, measuring sugar and flour and baking powder, mashing shortening and bananas.

While I mashed, I remembered a song I wrote several years ago (which I don't think I actually had time to finish) called "Mary Paints the World". It was inspired by Mary Pratt, the painter who chose as her subject matter the "ordinary" stuff of daily life: the oranges in the bowl on the kitchen table, the laundry hanging on the line, the fish thawing in aluminum foil on the countertop. She had four children, and was married to Christopher Pratt, a (then) more-famous artist. At one point, if I remember correctly, a teacher at the art school they were both attending told her to give up painting because there could only be one famous artist in a couple and it wasn't going to be her.

I remember some of the lyrics of my song: "and if you were Mary, you would find the beauty in the ordinary, you would take your life and hold it to the light". Although I've never written a song about foil-wrapped fish (or banana bread for that matter), it's turned out that I feel most comfortable with songs that wrap themselves around "small" or seemingly ordinary things.

Sometimes, on days like today, I feel so snowed under by the thousands of tiny details of life, I can't appreciate any one of them (much less celebrate it in a new song). So I rely on other artists who can illuminate the little things instead of tripping over them.

Brian Eno's "Music For Airports" offers another inspirational take on small and slow-moving things. In this CD, Eno takes very small musical changes and repeats and layers them to create something larger, something moving and meaningful. The compositions have a poignant, searching quality...and yet are soothing and calm. I think the music would, in fact, be terrific in an airport, a place where tiny humans are moving great distances. (I bought the album several years ago in an effort to calm down the school lunchroom. Sadly, the school administration didn't see the value of it.)

As I've been writing this, the banana bread has been baking away. Will anyone come to the show and eat it? Will the posters be allowed on the poles?

Perhaps more important, can I remember that song?

The CD Mystery Solved

No doubt it was Nathan Wiley's CD (that I found at Value Village last week) that inspired me to clean out an upstairs bookshelf a few days ago and send other CDs back to Value Village. What's that saying again, every action produces an equal and opposite reaction? Well, in this case, the reaction was a tad stronger, because I donated a grand total of 47 CDs.

That's Nathan Wiley, folks, someone you might want to check out, nominated for several East Coast Music Awards this year and quoted in this month's Performing Songwriter magazine. (He no doubt lives very far from here, too, being an East Coaster, so the likelihood that he'd spot his CD at our neighborhood Value Village is admittedly low.) His CD "High Low" is pretty good, and we're enjoying it a lot around the house, thanks to someone who decided to liberate it from his or her CD shelf.

So I decided to do the same, and it turned out to be quite a project.

Maybe because they were CDs, and not, say, books (which so far I don't write), I found the decision to give away a CD somewhat agonizing. But I got the hang of it, using a system that went pretty much like this.

I kept a CD if:

1) I like it and I'm likely to listen to again. (Unfortunately, the fact that the CDs were on this particular shelf, two floors away away from the stereo system, meant that I wasn't listening to it at all. That said, I did re-discover a few good CDs in today's organizing binge.)

2) The artist (or their friends) live close to my neighborhood Value Village.

3) I have an ongoing relationship with the artist. (A surprising number of infrequently-listened-to CDs fell into this category and I decided to keep them all.)

4) The artist autographed the CD for me. This situation made me feel more kindly toward any CD, and both this rule and #3 reminded me that music or any form of creative expression is, at heart, about the connection between one person and another. Sometimes the product is secondary.

I finished my task quickly (I had tried to do this about six months ago, become overwhelmed by the task and chickened out) packaged up all the CDs and walked them over to the store. (For the record--ha!--I got rid of 47 CDs on that shelf of unlistened-to's, and I kept 68.)

+++

Today I was shopping at Value Village (again...) when a woman approached a man behind me in the checkout line, noticing the stuff he was about to buy.

"Oh! Do they sell CDs here?" she asked.

"Yep," he responded, "there's two whole racks of 'em over there."

She eagerly rushed over to the CD racks, and immediately picked up a couple of CDs that I had donated a few days ago.

+++

I'm hoping to get out to the subway this week because the weather is turning fabulous. However, the kids are off school for March Break and it would be unthinkable to bring them with me. (I suddenly realize that I saw a woman do this at Christmas. I suspect she was busking on the subway without a permit. She had her two school-age children with her, looking waif-like. I did not donate.)

Despite how rewarding I find subway singing, both spiritually and financially, it's still hard for me to affirm that it's part of my Career (capital C). If I looked at it as a necessity, like a regular office job for instance, I'd arrange childcare and probably pay for it. As things are, I'll call my mother-in-law tomorrow and see if she can look after the kids for half a day this week.

The Over-the-Shoulder Smile

Ossington Station at 11 a.m. on Tuesday is a very quiet place.

So quiet, I took one look at the forlorn performance area in the deserted vestibule and headed back eastbound. My official schedule of stations makes for interesting travel around the city, but stops such as Ossington may be worthwhile only at rush hour. Despite my best intentions, I don't seem to be turning into a rush-hour busker. (More of a meandering-hour busker, I guess.)

Where should I go, I wondered? Maybe not Pape--could be too much of a good thing. Yonge & Bloor is probably taken. How about Bay?

I like Bay station because the performance area is located in a long corridor, allowing people to listen for a longer time. Also, because so many people work nearby on Bay Street, in Yorkville and at Yonge & Bloor, I thought I might capitalize on the lunchtime crowd.

I noticed a particular reflex action of mine today, which I tried to correct but found I couldn't. Every time people passed by me, I automatically turned my head to watch them walking away. It wasn't that I was pining after them; they were just interesting to watch (more interesting than the tiled wall in front of me, anyway.) In order to avoid looking disappointed, I made an extra effort to appear cheerful.

In general, people didn't seem to be very interested today, but the people who were were wonderful. They included a man who told me he couldn't hear me very well (which was interesting because I thought I was too loud at times, and even turned down my amp), but who gave me two dollars anyway. When I said "Thanks for the donation", he said "It's not a donation...it's payment!" As he left, he said "enjoy it"--and I didn't think he meant the toonie. I think he meant the music and the day.




Sometimes, when I think I'm performing particularly well, I feel that people are rewarding me for a job well done. Other times, I feel they're lifting me up when I'm needing support. This was definitely true today when I tried a cover song I play from time to time, Ian North's "Beautiful City", and couldn't get the chord changes right. I was not doing justice to this beautiful song, and was about to end it rather gracelessly, when a woman dropped some change into my case, saying "keep playing that good music, Darlin."

So I played a little longer. During that time, I ran into two other subway musicians, John, whom I hadn't seen for several months, and Roger Ellis. All of us are feeling relieved that it's finally March and getting warmer. My favourite moment today came when an elderly man gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up during my song "Feels Like Spring". At Bay Station today, few people seemed to be noticing the content of the songs I played, and I wondered whether this particular one was registering with anyone...but it clearly did with this fellow.

He was beaming at me over his shoulder, thumb still held high in the air, with a twinkle in his eye that was positively infectious. (I might not have noticed, if I hadn't been watching him walking away.)

Who could it be?

If anyone can guess the artist mentioned in yesterday's post, you'll get free admission to my Toronto concert April 2nd.

This is a contemporary Canadian singer-songwriter, not yet a big name, who has enjoyed CBC Radio airplay (perhaps more as well that I don't know of) and has been up for some major awards. By coincidence, last night I was reading a new music magazine and this person appears in it.

Good luck! If nobody comes up with it, I'll provide more clues. And if you win, but you live outside Toronto, we'll come up with some other nifty prize.

Now I'm off to Ossington Station.

The CD at Value Village

I had no good excuse for not busking today. The weather is warmish (1 degree, but windy) and it's sunny, which is always good for business.

My daughter was staying at school for Poetry Club at lunchtime and no writing projects were pressing. Housework could be avoided as always. I could pop up to Broadview or Pape Station.

Instead, I decided to go to Value Village.

I spent a successful hour (and $24.54) at "Chez Vivi". I tried on a sleek little European jacket with raised black plastic leopard spots. I know it sounds hideous, and indeed it was when I tried it on, but while it was on the hanger it had that special quality known as "Could Work Onstage". Sometimes I buy these clothes, but the only venue they see is the inside of my closet (which, come to think of it, looks quite a bit like some of the venues I've played). When I'm choosing an outfit for a performance, I inevitably end up skipping over anything that might prompt the question "Did you get that at Value Village?". So the shiny leopard thingie is a no.

On the other hand, I did find a great looking knit top for me, shirts for Dave and the kids, and a six-foot long swath of autumn coloured chiffon (with gold trim!) that might be useful in decorating the hall for an upcoming show.

I also found a well-regarded, recent CD by another emerging Canadian singer-songwriter.

I first heard this artist's work on CBC Radio, around the time that my second CD was released and also being played on CBC Radio. I remembered liking the song, so I figured the CD was probably pretty good. It is! I bought it for $2.99 (it probably cost about $30 per unit to produce) and I'm listening to it now. It gets two thumbs up, one from me and one from my son, whose favourite CDs these days are The Police (Best Of) and Maroon 5's "Songs About Jane".

As I said, I figured it'd be good. But I wasn't really looking for any new music to listen to. No, even as I carried it up to the cashier, I realized I was buying it so the artist wouldn't accidentally discover it at Value Village.

I know this is ridiculous.

There's no shame in someone giving away your CD. Repeat this mantra after me: "You can't please everybody. You can't please everybody". In fact, a friend recently spotted "Lynoleum" in a cool used record store and told me with glee that this was proof I'd finally made it! He truly was impressed to see it there, in company with lots of other good recordings that were also looking for a second home. (The CD at Value Village today was sandwiched between Englebert Humperdinck and Shawn Mullins.)

Even though we all know this is bound to happen (like the authors who know their novel will end up on a remainder table eventually), I knew that this particular artist, and the people associated with the artist, would be disappointed to see the CD at Value Village because they have high hopes for it. And for good reason. It's a good CD...not great maybe, but very good. It has a smart, snappy, contemporary sound without being annoyingly of-the-moment. The artist comes across as perceptive, original and likeable.

A quick visit to the artist's website suggests that the career is going just fine.

And in case you're wondering, I don't believe the artist is anyone who's reading this blog.

Sunderland & Sundry

Today I drove an hour-and-a-half northeast of Toronto, to a tiny little town called Sunderland.

It's a beautiful place, where you can park for free on the main street and buy crumbly pecan tarts from the corner bakery. I went into three stores in Sunderland (in the extra time I had before arriving at the public school for the songwriting workshop). Each store had jingling bell over the door, a bell that didn't seem necessary because each merchant was waiting just inside the door to welcome me, but a lovely bell just the same.

As it turned out, the teachers weren't expecting me at the public school. They had told the workshop organizers not to send somebody today, because the whole town had been too busy with the local music festival that had just taken place. But there I was, and I had driven all that way from Toronnah, so they showed me to the music room where twenty students were assembling.

I talked with them about songwriting, telling them it was okay--in fact it was great--to just make up a little tune in their head. Anyone could do it, even if they didn't have any formal music training. A little girl about eight years old knew all about that and was eager to tell everyone about all the songs she was writing. She told me excitedly that when she sings her songs, people listen to what she has to say! All through our session, there she was, putting up her hand, again and again. Listen, she said.

I sang a song called "I Would Recognize You Anywhere" ("because your heart is mine").

+++

I sang that song, also, for a man in Pape Subway station yesterday, where I played for an hour and a half, before meeting a woman who was interviewing me for a thesis on subway musicians. During that short time, a friend came along who bought me a much-needed coffee from the Tim Horton's at street level, I ran into Roger Ellis (the experienced busker who had originally inspired me to consider singing in the subway) and I met Samuel (the kindly man who tells me (every time I see him) that he was on "Touched By An Angel". The man who responded to "Recognize You" was kind enough to buy a CD even though it's not on one of my current ones. (The third CD is coming soon, really it is. Have I mentioned I'm calling it "Broadview"?)

+++

And on Wednesday night, I went to Fat Albert's again and brought my friend Brenda along.

Both of us being huge Ron Sexsmith fans, we were thrilled to be there when he made a surprise appearance, previewing the new Sexsmith and Kerr project with Don Kerr (formerly of the Rheostatics, excellent musician and producer.)

Ron was one of those people I might have met twenty years ago if I'd gone to Fat Albert's, so it's remarkable that he just showed up after I wrote last week's post. He's one of the songwriters I admire most, and his songs have influenced and inspired mine.

We've come close to meeting several times (I called out 'I love your music' when I was pushing a stroller and recognized him on the street...he answered a few 'fan e-mails' from me over the years...) but this was the first time he heard me play. I expected to feel a bit nervous, seeing him in the back of the room. Instead, I noticed that I felt calm, and not starstruck.

It meant a lot to me when he shook my hand afterward and told me how much he enjoyed my songs.

+++

Pennies from Heaven

Yesterday I finally got around to rolling some of the coins that have been accumulating in my house over the past few months.

Right from the start, I was determined to view my subway tips as income, so I've kept careful track of how much I'm earning. When I finish performing on the subway, I quickly scoop up the change from my guitar case and put it in a deep pocket. (I'm always conscious of not lingering over my cash in a public place.) When I get home, I count it, record the total and put the coins in a Ziplock bag. Then I put the Ziplock bag in the top drawer of our front hall cabinet.

I intend to roll the coins promptly, but it ends up being a chore that I put off.

It takes a long time to roll coins. You have to gather the coins, find a bunch of rolling tubes (which may involve a trip to the Dollar Store), sit down and actually count. Although you might think it's possible to listen to CBC Radio or watch "Oprah" at the same time, it's not so easy. Just when you're congratulating yourself for being such a great multi-tasker, you lose count and have to start all over again.

It's actually more efficient to just count. Every. Single. Penny.

At times, it feels like wasted effort. After all, 50 pennies laboriously counted is still only 50 cents. That's why, being keen on immediate gratification, I tend to count the bigger coins first. Twenty-five toonies rolled into a tight little tube makes fifty dollars--which feels like easy money. However, if you just count the big coins, before long you end up with piles and piles of overflowing Ziplock bags full of uncounted little coins.

When the little coins pile up like that, I'm tempted to use the CoinStar machine at Loblaw's, which turns unsorted change into grocery vouchers in return for a percentage. It's a bad deal. Not only am I losing actual money, I'm missing out on the opportunity to pay attention to what's been given to me.

I now know, even from just a few months' busking experience, that even the smallest exchanges, whether they come in the form of cash or human interaction, are gifts to be treasured. And yet, in the daily act of prioritizing my activities, I remain tempted to ignore the tiny returns and focus on the big ones.

It's interesting to me how those uncounted coins, once they've been zipped into bags and allowed to accumulate, weigh me down and create a nagging sense of guilt, when only a few days before they made me feel alive. They were sparkling coins flying through the air from one human being to another, dancing to music.

The 2005 Pontiac Songwriter

Union Station had gone through some kind of makeover.

Everywhere I looked, the subway entrance was plastered with bright red Pontiac ads, which did nothing to brighten the mood on this dreary Monday afternoon.

There are two sets of yellow dots at Union. Unfortunately, neither one is ideally located for the flow of pedestrian traffic. But I had to pick one, so I chose the busking location that wasn't directly in front of a giant billboard.

Pontiac must have paid a high price (how much, I wonder?) to take over Union Station. They've succeeded: finding ad space on the subway turnstiles, on the staircase risers, on the tiled walls, even on the floors (which today are treacherously slippery from all the rain).

Directly across from where I sang, the entire wall was taken up with an ad for a car whose name I can't remember right now (ha ha, take that, Pontiac!). I think it starts with "S". Is it the Solstice? (Let me check the website... Yes, that's it. Okay, okay, I guess it did make an impression.) On another wall there was another gigantic ad for a car with a number in its name. Umm...the G6? Isn't that a computer? Maybe it's a car and a computer?

Needless to say, it seemed pretty ironic that a subway station should be used as a giant car advertisement.

Resisting the impulse to sing the songs about cars I know (such as Sam Larkin's "Love Drives a Beautiful Car" and The Beatles' "Baby You Can Drive My Car") because I thought I'd be contributing to the success of the Pontiac campaign, I decided to sing When I Walk (I Run) and Tall Trees with as much conviction as possible. They had about as much impact as the quiet earth-toned ad for the TTC itself which was bravely displayed just above my right shoulder, beside the subway map. With its Zen-inspired bamboo graphics and placid typeface, it reminded us that we could all save money and the environment by taking the subway.

You could practically hear the Pontiac ads screaming "eat my dust".

Now, I'd like to tell you that by singing twenty life-affirming, cautiously optimistic songs this afternoon, I was able to lift the mood of Union Station just a little bit. But I'm really not so sure. Most of the people who did donate did so with an air of resignation, without returning my smile. As I went home, I noticed that the headline on the Sun newspaper box was one of the most depressing I'd ever read (I won't repeat it here). The weather was miserable. And it was Monday.

On days like these, does the hopeful artist just look ridiculous?

This question causes me to realize that today, one of the few people who donated (and who did so cheerfully) was a member of the Red Hat Society. It's made up of mostly older women who wear odd-looking red and purple hats as a defiant affirmation of individuality. She made a point of donating even though I had paused to tune my guitar and had my back turned. It was clearly important for her to connect with me and show her solidarity.

Another man stopped and had a long conversation about vocal technique and Frank Sinatra. I was happy to take a break from singing and simply talk to someone.

I wished, today, that I played and sang much, much better...that I was the most expensive top-of-the-line model of 2005 subway musicians...the Segovia perhaps...or the Sinatra.

This afternoon, the 2005 Songwriter just didn't seem all that powerful.

When I Walk - Pape Station

When I arrived at Pape Station at noon today, I realized I'd left my guitar strap at home. Rather than attempt to play cross-legged on the floor, I opted to go back home and get it. Even though it was a beautiful day and I wasn't in a big rush, I was disappointed by the delay.

I'd been missing the subway.

Going home to get the guitar strap meant a 45 minute trip: riding south on the Pape bus, walking 10 minutes back to the house, getting the strap, walking back to the bus stop and taking the bus back up to the station again.

I found myself feeling anxious as I usually do when I'm running late. However, knowing how many chance meetings and coincidences happen on the subway, I wondered whether my delay would lead to something important.

It did.

I arrived back at Pape, grateful to see that the performance space was still unoccupied, unpacked my gear and started to play. I started out with "Feels Like Spring", which immediately attracted a number of enthusiastic donations. (I ended up playing that song several times today and singing it with much greater conviction than I had in previous weeks, perhaps because it was finally two degrees above zero and sunny.)

Improvising my subway set as I always do, I decided to stick with upbeat songs, and started in on
When I Walk (I Run)""When I walk, I run into people I haven't seen for some time..."

Sure enough, as if on cue, around the corner came a friend I hadn't seen for over a year. She walked up to me with a radiant smile.

She walked up to me!

When I last saw her, and for the several years I'd known her, she'd been in a wheelchair.

She was with a friend, and after introducing us to each other, asked if I'd keep singing the song. I managed to do it, but had to avoid her eyes so that I could sing without choking up. (..."used to spin my wheels...") It was an honour to sing for her, and I felt so lucky that I was there to meet her at just that moment.

From now on, I'm sure I'll always think of her when I sing that song.

+++

Today I noticed many people carrying musical instruments, pushing strollers, and reading books. Maybe because it's warmer, people are feeling freer to do more things in the open air, instead of simply trying to get from Point A to Point B as quickly as possible.

I almost laughed out loud when I caught the eye of one woman, who was reading as she walked through the subway corridor.

She glanced up from a book called "Live On Less Money", noticed what I was doing with obvious delight, smiled and went back to her reading.

Viva la Vestibule - Fat Albert's Part II

When I walked into the Steelworkers Union Hall, all the musicians were standing around in the lobby.

Someone explained that there'd been a mix-up and the space usually reserved for Fat Albert's Coffeehouse had been double-booked. This was the first time it'd happened since Fat's had found a new home in the Union Hall after being forced out of the church basement.

Undeterred, several musicians entered into talks with the Union and successfully negotiated a settlement. We'd head down the hall to a different room than usual which could be sub-divided, allowing music and committee meetings to co-exist on either side of the wall. The room thereby divided, we all got to work re-organizing the moveable risers and unstacking the stackable chairs.

Of course, I hadn't seen the room that Fat Albert's usually used, so it was all the same to me.

The show started efficiently, making up for the delay. A few performers took the stage, including one who did an abridged version of Bruce Cockburn's "Mama Just Wants to Barrelhouse All Night Long". Then water started dripping, then pouring, from the ceiling.

A couple of big plastic garbage cans were strategically placed, saving the sound equipment, but it was no use. The room was a mess...a result, we learned later, of someone leaving a faucet on in the kitchen upstairs.

At this point I put on my coat.

Sure, I wanted to see the wise and wonderful Sam Larkin and his new band The Boxcutters (Don Kerr, Eric Newby and Doug Friesen) who were featuring that night. But I'd avoided Fat Albert's on much thinner excuses before.

"It's okay, everybody. We'll play in the lobby!"

It was Mary, an energetic and motherly-looking woman who appeared to be organizing things. Sure enough, everyone grabbed a chair and we headed down the hall: a diverse-looking group of musicians and music-appreciators, ranging in age from about three years old (the granddaughter of one of the performers) to seventy-something.

Hmm. Did somebody mention a vestibule? Maybe I'll stick around.

The stage was established on a landing three steps down from the audience. We'd play without amplification (some people were worried, but I knew that the tiled walls would work fine). We looked up, not down, at the audience made of each other--and it felt respectful and completely appropriate.

Musicians played original songs in styles ranging from (and mixing together) blues to country to contemporary folk. (I played my new song "Pennies" and another new song called "Everything and Everyone I Have Ever Loved" which I realize is probably too long a title now that I type it out.) Other performers gave us heartfelt renditions of "You Fill Up My Senses" and "Landslide" and "What a Wonderful World". One performer (who goes by the name "Madame X") played another performer's song on unaccompanied pennywhistle. Sam Larkin and his new band were captivating and impressive--especially so when Sam revealed it was their first performance together.

I was happy to be drinking coffee at an open stage, instead of wine.

I stayed to the end.

And I'll be back.

Fat Albert's Pt. 1 - Avoiding The Church Basement Door

Maybe it was the fact that it was in a vestibule.

Or maybe it was the fact that I'd finally made it there, after 23 years.

Anyway, it was worth the wait to get to Fat Albert's.

+++

Fat Albert's is Toronto's longest running open stage. It started in 1967, when draft dodgers were arriving in Toronto and students were turning the Rochdale university residence across the street into a counter-cultural civic embarassment. I was born in 1963, so I was too young to appreciate all that, and I arrived in Toronto in the fall of 1981.

My plan, back then, was to stuff my pages upon pages of introspective song lyrics (along with my guitar of course) into a psychic bottom drawer, to go to college and pursue a respectable career in broadcasting. Songs being what they are however, they didn't conform so easily to that plan, and they kept on being written, jamming the psychic drawer but good. Mostly, I didn't tell anybody about those songs. (My writer friend Warren, who is reading, was an exception. He will remember "Rainfall on Runnymede", a song that has particular resonance in light of my recent subway experience.)

Around that time, I started hearing about Fat Albert's, the open mic in the church basement on Bloor Street West.

I didn't go.

But I remember a time that I almost went. I found the church (Bloor Street United, at Spadina and Bloor) and walked casually past the door a couple of times, the way you might casually walk past the house of somebody you have a crush on. I didn't summon the nerve to go in.

Why not? I was terrified. I thought, simultaneously, that I was both too good for it and not nearly good enough. At that time, I was, literally, embarrassed to be seen in public carrying my guitar. For me it carried a feeling of shame, not unlike the shame I felt as a young teenager afraid to be seen with my parents. I produced demo cassettes of my songs at home, but couldn't play them for anyone. I wanted to meet other singers, yet felt I wouldn't fit in with them, that I'd be considered too straight, too nerdy, too...terrified.

So...best to avoid that church basement door.

Eventually I stepped through other such doors, at the Cafe at the Centre in Cabbagetown, at The Free Times Cafe, at Groovy Mondays, at The Renaissance Cafe. And even though I celebrated the inclusiveness and generosity and encouragement that could be found on such stages (and inspired my song Stage) I couldn't bring myself to go to the particular place I'd so steadfastly avoided at the time in my life when I might have benefitted from it most, as a shy 18 year-old singer-songwriter, thousands of miles away from home.

In 2003, when I heard the event was about to lose its location (after an apparently myopic church committee decided to bludgeon it with a rent hike), I wrote a strong letter in support of Fat Albert's. Still, I didn't go.

By this time, I was out of the closet as a performer and I had built up a bit of confidence. So why didn't I go now? Well, now that I had my eye on an actual "music career" (lights! CDs! reviews!) I told myself I was somehow "past" that basement door. I reasoned that open mics were a merely stop along the way, not a destination...a career stage to move past, and the more quickly the better. (Needless to say, I viewed subway busking in pretty much the same light, which was to say, a dim one.)

It took my friend Sam Larkin, a songwriting friend whom I might have met twenty years ago if I'd had the courage to walk in the doors, to finally get me to Fat Albert's. He was doing a feature performance with his new band, The Boxcutters. Sam has been a big inspiration to me, both as a songwriter and a thinker (which will make his website all the more fascinating to you) so I wasn't about to miss his feature set. (To read more about Sam, and other performers who frequented the early days at Fat's, check out this blog.)

Driving along Cecil Street just after 7 o'clock last night, I missed the Steelworkers Union Hall at first and drove past it, turning left along a side street. There was one parking spot available, directly behind a white 1990 Honda Civic wagon which looked exactly the same as mine right down to the rust.

It was my first sign that I was in the right place.