I was surprised at how quickly my mood changed after I started singing--even though, as always, most of the people at Dundas were non-reactive yesterday.
One kind man who stopped and chatted with me reflected on how reserved people are in Toronto. He pointed out that in European cities--and in Montreal and parts of the Maritimes--singers like me would attract a crowd. We laughed when we noticed that when he stopped, thus creating a crowd, the people walking by were suddenly more interested. (When he left, they ignored me again. That's okay...I'm used to it.)
Even so, making positive and genuine connections with even a few people was enough to change my mood.
In any crowd, the number of people who connect with me is always a small fraction of the whole. Because the show must go on, no matter how little money is coming in, subway performance is essentially a form of public service. In my experience, there's no better way to get out of a self-centred and self-defeating thought pattern than by giving something away.
Singing in the subway forces me to focus on giving instead of receiving. (It's not that I don't want to receive...it's just that I always give at least as much as I get.) It also forces me to live in the present.
When I'm singing on any stage, no matter how humble, I'm not worrying about success or status. I'm not comparing myself to others. I'm not worrying about the future or negatively evaluating the choices I've made in the past. In the immediacy of the song, I am never dissatisfied.
I am fully in the Now, and it is enough.
+++
When I am not out singing, I observe that a new worry has just been added to my "fret list":
Auditioning for next year.
In just a few weeks, the TTC will be accepting applications for the 2005-2006 Subway Musicians program.
I find myself, simultaneously, worrying that I might not get in again and wondering if it's something I want to continue.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Queen's Park? Osgoode? Union? King? Queen? Dundas!
I tried Queen's Park station first. A man was playing the accordion in the performance space, with no TTC Musician's License in sight.
I asked him if he had a license, but he didn't speak English. I gave up and kept going.
Next, I tried Osgoode. The construction of the new elevator was noisily underway, with a constant high-pitched whining sound that would be impossible to rise above.
Now I was making my way steadily south along the horseshoe-shaped loop of the downtown subway line, hopping on and off trains. The next performance location was Union.
I hauled my guitar and amp up the stairs, listening intently.
I could hear a violin. So back down I went.
King Station?
A free busking space, but virtually no people. Having gone to all this trouble, I might as well go to a spot that's populated.
Queen?
I had heard that this performance spot was always free. And I could see why.
It was directly behind a pillar.
And in front of the pillar stood a panhandler, coffee cup outstretched. (Okay, this is really bad feng shui.)
I returned to the street, looking at my watch and realizing I'd spent forty-five minutes looking for a place to play. I bought a paper from the Outreach saleman at the streetcar stop, intending to go home.
And I thought: you can't give up now.
So I walked through the mall to Dundas subway station.
I hesitated, listening, outside the corridor that links the northbound and southbound platforms. Sure enough, I heard an acoustic guitar and a man singing "Suzanne".
I could tell it wasn't Billy James, the fabled original TTC musician whom I suspected had played in this corridor when I was young. But it was definitely a busker.
I had already spent a fair bit of change on other buskers today, and on TTC fares.
But I needed to connect with the singer. Before entering the corridor, I fished out another dollar.
He was busking without a license and was happy to give me the spot. We talked for a few minutes about music and songs and this life. He held a TTC Musician's License for many years, decided it wasn't for him and quit, but has recently returned to busking. He wished me well and continued on down the line.
When I finally started to sing, I was so grateful I found myself positively beaming at the people passing by.
($21.52)
I asked him if he had a license, but he didn't speak English. I gave up and kept going.
Next, I tried Osgoode. The construction of the new elevator was noisily underway, with a constant high-pitched whining sound that would be impossible to rise above.
Now I was making my way steadily south along the horseshoe-shaped loop of the downtown subway line, hopping on and off trains. The next performance location was Union.
I hauled my guitar and amp up the stairs, listening intently.
I could hear a violin. So back down I went.
King Station?
A free busking space, but virtually no people. Having gone to all this trouble, I might as well go to a spot that's populated.
Queen?
I had heard that this performance spot was always free. And I could see why.
It was directly behind a pillar.
And in front of the pillar stood a panhandler, coffee cup outstretched. (Okay, this is really bad feng shui.)
I returned to the street, looking at my watch and realizing I'd spent forty-five minutes looking for a place to play. I bought a paper from the Outreach saleman at the streetcar stop, intending to go home.
And I thought: you can't give up now.
So I walked through the mall to Dundas subway station.
I hesitated, listening, outside the corridor that links the northbound and southbound platforms. Sure enough, I heard an acoustic guitar and a man singing "Suzanne".
I could tell it wasn't Billy James, the fabled original TTC musician whom I suspected had played in this corridor when I was young. But it was definitely a busker.
I had already spent a fair bit of change on other buskers today, and on TTC fares.
But I needed to connect with the singer. Before entering the corridor, I fished out another dollar.
He was busking without a license and was happy to give me the spot. We talked for a few minutes about music and songs and this life. He held a TTC Musician's License for many years, decided it wasn't for him and quit, but has recently returned to busking. He wished me well and continued on down the line.
When I finally started to sing, I was so grateful I found myself positively beaming at the people passing by.
($21.52)
I Heart Fred
Last night, I went to a Fred Eaglesmith concert hosted by friends of ours who were celebrating their 20th wedding anniversary in fine style.
I admire Fred, not only for his fine songwriting and compelling performances, but the fact that he took control of his life and built his music career from the ground up. He's done it the old-fashioned way: going on the road and playing hundreds of shows a year.
There's a part of me that envies him.
He has a song called "I Want To Buy Your Truck". It goes "I wanna buy your truck/I don't like what I'm doing/I wanna give it up/I wanna do something else... I like the way that it shines/hey I'm really stuck/in this life of mine/I wanna buy your truck."
Seems strange, doesn't it, that I'd even think of comparing my life to his. He's a man, I'm a woman...he's rural, I'm urban... His children are mostly grown, mine are not (and he's the dad). And yet at the heart of things, we're songwriters. That's what makes us tick. As songwriters, we want to reach people with our songs.
There's a part of me that's definitely a homebody...a milk-and-cookies kind of mother like my mother before me. I stick close to home.
And sometimes I feel stuck...like the cookies stuck to the pan because I never pay enough attention to them.
I wanna do something else...
Last night, as Fred signed a CD and a t-shirt for me, I mentioned my subway busking...and later I wondered if he thought it was a good idea or a bad one. Deliberately playing in a place where hundreds of people are ignoring me every day, playing for small change? Why not get on the phone and book some gigs?
I wanna buy your truck...
Well, I don't have a truck.
Right now I don't even have a car.
I don't have the ability to tour constantly right now. I don't have the energy, the wherewithal, the heart, the guts or, truly, the desire.
What I do have is the hunger to write songs and sing them for people. Any people. Anywhere.
That's the heart of this songwriting calling, no matter in which direction you take it.
So I put on my new autographed "I Heart Fred" t-shirt and headed downtown.
I admire Fred, not only for his fine songwriting and compelling performances, but the fact that he took control of his life and built his music career from the ground up. He's done it the old-fashioned way: going on the road and playing hundreds of shows a year.
There's a part of me that envies him.
He has a song called "I Want To Buy Your Truck". It goes "I wanna buy your truck/I don't like what I'm doing/I wanna give it up/I wanna do something else... I like the way that it shines/hey I'm really stuck/in this life of mine/I wanna buy your truck."
Seems strange, doesn't it, that I'd even think of comparing my life to his. He's a man, I'm a woman...he's rural, I'm urban... His children are mostly grown, mine are not (and he's the dad). And yet at the heart of things, we're songwriters. That's what makes us tick. As songwriters, we want to reach people with our songs.
There's a part of me that's definitely a homebody...a milk-and-cookies kind of mother like my mother before me. I stick close to home.
And sometimes I feel stuck...like the cookies stuck to the pan because I never pay enough attention to them.
I wanna do something else...
Last night, as Fred signed a CD and a t-shirt for me, I mentioned my subway busking...and later I wondered if he thought it was a good idea or a bad one. Deliberately playing in a place where hundreds of people are ignoring me every day, playing for small change? Why not get on the phone and book some gigs?
I wanna buy your truck...
Well, I don't have a truck.
Right now I don't even have a car.
I don't have the ability to tour constantly right now. I don't have the energy, the wherewithal, the heart, the guts or, truly, the desire.
What I do have is the hunger to write songs and sing them for people. Any people. Anywhere.
That's the heart of this songwriting calling, no matter in which direction you take it.
So I put on my new autographed "I Heart Fred" t-shirt and headed downtown.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
4:00-ish: Tin Can Alley
Pape Station - 4:00 to 5:10 p.m. approx.
Okay, so I don't really know when I arrived at Pape, or Woodbine for that matter. Also, I'm unsure of my exact earnings on those shifts, because by the third busking appearance of the day, I was losing track of time and how much seed money I put in my case.
I was starting to fade.
Maintaining a pleasant expression and positive performance energy isn't easy after playing for hours. How do the full-time buskers do it? When do they quit? Do they head home when they start to feel tired and bitter, or when the magic number of toonies finally lands in their case?
The answer is probably both. If it's important to make enough money to pay the rent, you probably keep going no matter what. I feel grateful that so far I'm not in that situation...although the money I earn in the subway is very important to our family. Right now, I have the luxury of choosing when to sing and why: I can turn it into a "job" if I choose to...or keep singing only for joy. That choice is a difficult one for me...but I recognize that I'm fortunate to have the choice at all.
As rush hour started at Pape Station, the wind was picking up. (It would be interesting to know why, from an engineering perspective, the wind tunnel effect is so strong at this particular subway station. I suspect it has something to do with the trains coming through at the same time as the buses above ground, but I'm being completely unscientific.)
The garbage can to my right was overflowing and a couple of tin cans had gotten loose. The first one clanged across the tile floor to the stairway in front of me and bounced halfway down. The second one remained still for some time (a subway rider tried to secure it to the rest of the garbage but failed) until it, too, was picked up by the wind and went skittering across the floor. Both times, the cans were too far away for me to reach without putting down my guitar, so I let them dance with the wind. It was entertaining.
The cans were empty, of course, which is why they were so vulnerable to the random airstream. By this time in the long day, I was feeling hollow too, despite the encouraging smiles of people passing by, steady donations and another CD sale. I had given too much and I knew it. With each new song, I stood as firm as I could and tried to sing with conviction, but it sounded false.
If I kept at it, viewing this experience as a job primarily to make money, I might have earned another ten bucks or so.
(Whoosh! The tin can bumps up against my open guitar case.)
But if I went home now, I might reserve enough energy to come back tomorrow...or to plan a series of songwriting workshops or book a few paying gigs.
(Clangety-clang! The can bounces its way toward the exit.)
($36.47)
Okay, so I don't really know when I arrived at Pape, or Woodbine for that matter. Also, I'm unsure of my exact earnings on those shifts, because by the third busking appearance of the day, I was losing track of time and how much seed money I put in my case.
I was starting to fade.
Maintaining a pleasant expression and positive performance energy isn't easy after playing for hours. How do the full-time buskers do it? When do they quit? Do they head home when they start to feel tired and bitter, or when the magic number of toonies finally lands in their case?
The answer is probably both. If it's important to make enough money to pay the rent, you probably keep going no matter what. I feel grateful that so far I'm not in that situation...although the money I earn in the subway is very important to our family. Right now, I have the luxury of choosing when to sing and why: I can turn it into a "job" if I choose to...or keep singing only for joy. That choice is a difficult one for me...but I recognize that I'm fortunate to have the choice at all.
As rush hour started at Pape Station, the wind was picking up. (It would be interesting to know why, from an engineering perspective, the wind tunnel effect is so strong at this particular subway station. I suspect it has something to do with the trains coming through at the same time as the buses above ground, but I'm being completely unscientific.)
The garbage can to my right was overflowing and a couple of tin cans had gotten loose. The first one clanged across the tile floor to the stairway in front of me and bounced halfway down. The second one remained still for some time (a subway rider tried to secure it to the rest of the garbage but failed) until it, too, was picked up by the wind and went skittering across the floor. Both times, the cans were too far away for me to reach without putting down my guitar, so I let them dance with the wind. It was entertaining.
The cans were empty, of course, which is why they were so vulnerable to the random airstream. By this time in the long day, I was feeling hollow too, despite the encouraging smiles of people passing by, steady donations and another CD sale. I had given too much and I knew it. With each new song, I stood as firm as I could and tried to sing with conviction, but it sounded false.
If I kept at it, viewing this experience as a job primarily to make money, I might have earned another ten bucks or so.
(Whoosh! The tin can bumps up against my open guitar case.)
But if I went home now, I might reserve enough energy to come back tomorrow...or to plan a series of songwriting workshops or book a few paying gigs.
(Clangety-clang! The can bounces its way toward the exit.)
($36.47)
3:15 p.m. - Afternoon Lull
After leaving Queen's Park station just after 10:00 a.m., I spent the middle of the day working at my producer's (recording facilitator's) studio, steadily completing tracks for my latest CD. (Recently he pointed out that the term "producer" sounds a bit highfalutin'...as does "my latest CD", which I can't help but feel is becoming something of a cliche. How about "latest collection of recorded songs"? )
We finished early and as I had no car I returned to the subway to get home. Both children had after-school plans and I still had enough energy to sing (or so I hoped), so I decided to busk some more.
At Bay Station, I could hear the strong voice of a young male singer-songwriter confidently carrying down the stairs to subway level. Hearing it, even several flights down, I realized that my own voice must carry just as far. Somehow I don't feel comfortable thinking about this. I seem to feel more comfortable singing directly to individuals that I can connect with as they pass by...rather than a large group of people beyond my range of vision. (I notice, too, that I'm still somewhat uncomfortable with publicizing my work beyond my immediate circle.)
I carry on to Woodbine station. It's so quiet, I'm deciding to pack up after only five songs when a man comes over, wondering if I'm the same singer he heard--and liked--when he'd been rushing through the station on another day. He's a secondary school teacher who put himself through university working as a musician. Hoping I'm indeed the right songwriter, I sell him the "Learning Curve" CD while nervously running through my list of known subway musicians and wondering if there's another female singer-songwriter I could possibly be mistaken for. Then I play "Where Do You Call Home" for him, but it's practically drowned out by suddenly-deafening subway noise.
Suddenly my income for a half-hour at Woodbine had jumped from $2.50 to $22.50.
And I have to catch the bus at Pape Station to get home.
We finished early and as I had no car I returned to the subway to get home. Both children had after-school plans and I still had enough energy to sing (or so I hoped), so I decided to busk some more.
At Bay Station, I could hear the strong voice of a young male singer-songwriter confidently carrying down the stairs to subway level. Hearing it, even several flights down, I realized that my own voice must carry just as far. Somehow I don't feel comfortable thinking about this. I seem to feel more comfortable singing directly to individuals that I can connect with as they pass by...rather than a large group of people beyond my range of vision. (I notice, too, that I'm still somewhat uncomfortable with publicizing my work beyond my immediate circle.)
I carry on to Woodbine station. It's so quiet, I'm deciding to pack up after only five songs when a man comes over, wondering if I'm the same singer he heard--and liked--when he'd been rushing through the station on another day. He's a secondary school teacher who put himself through university working as a musician. Hoping I'm indeed the right songwriter, I sell him the "Learning Curve" CD while nervously running through my list of known subway musicians and wondering if there's another female singer-songwriter I could possibly be mistaken for. Then I play "Where Do You Call Home" for him, but it's practically drowned out by suddenly-deafening subway noise.
Suddenly my income for a half-hour at Woodbine had jumped from $2.50 to $22.50.
And I have to catch the bus at Pape Station to get home.
8:05 a.m. - Morning Songs
The busking spot at Queen's Park was flooded with sunlight.
People streamed through the corridor past me and then rode up the elevator on their way to work. If I turned my head to watch them ascend to street level, I looked up to the skylight and stared into early morning brightness.
In less than a month's time, the kids will be home for summer vacation, so I will need to sing in the early morning before Dave goes to work (or at night after he comes home) if I am to sing at all. That kind of schedule would have seemed challenging in the dark of winter. But on warm and clear mornings like this one, I'm happy to be up early.
I have a new song to try out today. It's called "Lived-In Look" and is about long-term love and commitment. It's a sunny, optimistic and grateful song, and it works beautifully in the subway, eliciting many cheerful smiles of understanding from people passing by. It's a morning song.
Other recent songs of mine, "New Guitar" for instance, are night-time songs: songs inspired by darker emotions such as restlessness and disappointment. (This isn't to say that I don't sing them at other times of day. Now that I'm busking regularly I'm playing ALL of my songs, including some I thought I'd forgotten, and I want to learn as many good songs written by others as possible. But some songs do seem to match certain settings and times better than others.)
This experience has taught me that I need all of my songs. In the larger context of my life, the daytime songs are the ones I've been most comfortable in for awhile; they have suited my social role of wife and mother. At the same time, the darker nighttime songs (which are now coming into the open) are providing some rich new shadows.
+++
Looking around at the sunlit cathedral-like vestibule this morning, it seemed a completely different place than the dark and isolated place that I'd needed to escape last fall.
When the large man in stained clothes shuffled through the station around 9:30 a.m., I knew him immediately. He was the unstable and potentially dangerous man I met while busking alone at Queen's Park station after dark.
In the bright daylight today, with hundreds of people passing by, he didn't seem so large or imposing. But because of my previous experience and my increased subway savvy, I automatically avoided his eyes.
I realized later the sadness in that decision. After all, last time we met, we had had a conversation. Yes, it was short and highly-controlled, because I was doing my best to get away from him. But still, it was a conversation in which he told me about his home and the music he enjoys.
Today, even though it would have been safe for me to interact with him, I chose not to. I deliberately didn't catch his eye or acknowledge him in any way, even though in the daylight with so many other people nearby, he posed no threat.
It struck me that I'd gained some street smarts.
And possibly lost some compassion.
($27.18)
People streamed through the corridor past me and then rode up the elevator on their way to work. If I turned my head to watch them ascend to street level, I looked up to the skylight and stared into early morning brightness.
In less than a month's time, the kids will be home for summer vacation, so I will need to sing in the early morning before Dave goes to work (or at night after he comes home) if I am to sing at all. That kind of schedule would have seemed challenging in the dark of winter. But on warm and clear mornings like this one, I'm happy to be up early.
I have a new song to try out today. It's called "Lived-In Look" and is about long-term love and commitment. It's a sunny, optimistic and grateful song, and it works beautifully in the subway, eliciting many cheerful smiles of understanding from people passing by. It's a morning song.
Other recent songs of mine, "New Guitar" for instance, are night-time songs: songs inspired by darker emotions such as restlessness and disappointment. (This isn't to say that I don't sing them at other times of day. Now that I'm busking regularly I'm playing ALL of my songs, including some I thought I'd forgotten, and I want to learn as many good songs written by others as possible. But some songs do seem to match certain settings and times better than others.)
This experience has taught me that I need all of my songs. In the larger context of my life, the daytime songs are the ones I've been most comfortable in for awhile; they have suited my social role of wife and mother. At the same time, the darker nighttime songs (which are now coming into the open) are providing some rich new shadows.
+++
Looking around at the sunlit cathedral-like vestibule this morning, it seemed a completely different place than the dark and isolated place that I'd needed to escape last fall.
When the large man in stained clothes shuffled through the station around 9:30 a.m., I knew him immediately. He was the unstable and potentially dangerous man I met while busking alone at Queen's Park station after dark.
In the bright daylight today, with hundreds of people passing by, he didn't seem so large or imposing. But because of my previous experience and my increased subway savvy, I automatically avoided his eyes.
I realized later the sadness in that decision. After all, last time we met, we had had a conversation. Yes, it was short and highly-controlled, because I was doing my best to get away from him. But still, it was a conversation in which he told me about his home and the music he enjoys.
Today, even though it would have been safe for me to interact with him, I chose not to. I deliberately didn't catch his eye or acknowledge him in any way, even though in the daylight with so many other people nearby, he posed no threat.
It struck me that I'd gained some street smarts.
And possibly lost some compassion.
($27.18)
Friday, May 27, 2005
The newspaper stand has left the building
Well, not exactly.
But it has moved back home to its proper place at Pape Station.
It moved while I was playing.
Looking ahead to a very busy weekend, I needed an infusion of subway energy. So I dashed up to Pape at 9:30, abandoning my to-do list and knowing that I'd have to be back by school lunch pick-up time.
I was greeted by a gleaming new Gateway Newstand, newly revealed and free of drywall construction barriers.
It's silver and pristine with a cheerful bright red sign. The kind and friendly family that runs the concession stand was hard at work, putting shelving back in place.
It hadn't occurred to me that they'd move the newspaper rack, the one that had been temporarily relocated to a space just beside the busking rectangle. I had become quite used to it just to my left, creating a nice little corner for my amp and knapsack. (One morning recently, it occurred to me that a potted plant would look nice on the shelves.)
When the two young men in the family came over to move the stand back into place, I was so surprised, I briefly forgot my lyrics.
Suddenly the humble little performance spot seemed positively huge.
+++
Also today, a man who works for Go Transit came up to me with a special gift.
A bag of donuts!
+++
And a footnote:
Our little white Honda (1990 Civic Wagon) has been retired. After several major repairs in a short time, and two expensive ones needed now, we realize it's reached the end of the road.
So at least until we buy another car, I'll be spending even more time on the TTC.
When I walk, I run...
($25.47)
But it has moved back home to its proper place at Pape Station.
It moved while I was playing.
Looking ahead to a very busy weekend, I needed an infusion of subway energy. So I dashed up to Pape at 9:30, abandoning my to-do list and knowing that I'd have to be back by school lunch pick-up time.
I was greeted by a gleaming new Gateway Newstand, newly revealed and free of drywall construction barriers.
It's silver and pristine with a cheerful bright red sign. The kind and friendly family that runs the concession stand was hard at work, putting shelving back in place.
It hadn't occurred to me that they'd move the newspaper rack, the one that had been temporarily relocated to a space just beside the busking rectangle. I had become quite used to it just to my left, creating a nice little corner for my amp and knapsack. (One morning recently, it occurred to me that a potted plant would look nice on the shelves.)
When the two young men in the family came over to move the stand back into place, I was so surprised, I briefly forgot my lyrics.
Suddenly the humble little performance spot seemed positively huge.
+++
Also today, a man who works for Go Transit came up to me with a special gift.
A bag of donuts!
+++
And a footnote:
Our little white Honda (1990 Civic Wagon) has been retired. After several major repairs in a short time, and two expensive ones needed now, we realize it's reached the end of the road.
So at least until we buy another car, I'll be spending even more time on the TTC.
When I walk, I run...
($25.47)
Thursday, May 26, 2005
Holes in Hearts
A man came up to me in the subway and stopped a few feet away, digging in his knapsack.
Instead of pulling out his wallet or a handful of coins, he pulled out several sheets of white paper and a pair of scissors.
"I have something for you!" he said excitedly.
I stopped playing to watch him fold the paper several times and cut them into a deliberate shape.
"These are holes-in-hearts," he told me. "I give them to people."
And sure enough, that's exactly what they were. After he had accomplished the basic heart shape, he cut a second heart away on the inside, creating heart-shaped paper donuts about three inches in diameter.
Pulling away the extra paper, he gave me a large stack of them.
"Thank you so much," I said, not sure what I was thanking him for exactly and wondering what to do next.
He had no such hesitation.
"This one is special," he said, folding up a large sheet of paper and starting to cut again, this time creating a snowflake design made of larger hearts and holes.
"Thank you," I said again. "You're doing a wonderful thing."
I wasn't just saying that to be nice. I felt sure it was true, I just wasn't sure why.
Was it simply the uniqueness of his act of generosity that was moving, or was it the symbolism of the gift?
These weren't simply hearts with random punctures in them (although those holes in hearts might have been meaningful as well).
No, these were whole hearts with parallel empty hearts in the centre. They represented a yin/yang: positive and negative space within one heart and within every heart, all parallel to each other and cut from the same cloth.
Was this what he meant?
I didn't dare ask him. I was afraid, I suppose, that he might talk to me too much about his hearts...that I might find myself connecting too long or too deeply during a chance encounter with a highly unusual stranger in a public place. (Was this the hole in my otherwise heartfelt "thank you"?)
He handed me the large, special heart-snowflake, smiled gaily and headed off to catch a train.
I stashed the cut-outs in my knapsack. The large snowflake is still there, folded up for safekeeping.
But somehow the little holes-in-hearts got loose around our house. For days afterward we were finding them everywhere, scattered on the floor and on cabinets.
Dave and the kids asked, "What are these? Where did they come from?"
I haven't known how to answer.
Instead of pulling out his wallet or a handful of coins, he pulled out several sheets of white paper and a pair of scissors.
"I have something for you!" he said excitedly.
I stopped playing to watch him fold the paper several times and cut them into a deliberate shape.
"These are holes-in-hearts," he told me. "I give them to people."
And sure enough, that's exactly what they were. After he had accomplished the basic heart shape, he cut a second heart away on the inside, creating heart-shaped paper donuts about three inches in diameter.
Pulling away the extra paper, he gave me a large stack of them.
"Thank you so much," I said, not sure what I was thanking him for exactly and wondering what to do next.
He had no such hesitation.
"This one is special," he said, folding up a large sheet of paper and starting to cut again, this time creating a snowflake design made of larger hearts and holes.
"Thank you," I said again. "You're doing a wonderful thing."
I wasn't just saying that to be nice. I felt sure it was true, I just wasn't sure why.
Was it simply the uniqueness of his act of generosity that was moving, or was it the symbolism of the gift?
These weren't simply hearts with random punctures in them (although those holes in hearts might have been meaningful as well).
No, these were whole hearts with parallel empty hearts in the centre. They represented a yin/yang: positive and negative space within one heart and within every heart, all parallel to each other and cut from the same cloth.
Was this what he meant?
I didn't dare ask him. I was afraid, I suppose, that he might talk to me too much about his hearts...that I might find myself connecting too long or too deeply during a chance encounter with a highly unusual stranger in a public place. (Was this the hole in my otherwise heartfelt "thank you"?)
He handed me the large, special heart-snowflake, smiled gaily and headed off to catch a train.
I stashed the cut-outs in my knapsack. The large snowflake is still there, folded up for safekeeping.
But somehow the little holes-in-hearts got loose around our house. For days afterward we were finding them everywhere, scattered on the floor and on cabinets.
Dave and the kids asked, "What are these? Where did they come from?"
I haven't known how to answer.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Pape Station - Post Victoria Day
Today I returned to Pape Station, hoping that the construction noise wouldn't be as bad as last time.
It turned out to be blessedly quiet there today, except for one brief burst of circular-sawing which seemed almost apologetic in the way it started up and then suddenly stopped.
The most unusual thing that happened today were things that had happened before. In less than two hours, I met six people whom I'd met at Pape on other days, and I started to have a weird feeling of deja vu, as if I were trapped in a bizarre time loop of subway travel. Some of the people passed by on their way to somewhere, and then passed by again on their way back. (When they've said hi to me once, they don't know whether or not to say hi again, and neither do I. Smiling is good, I find.)
At one point, I was getting so used to seeing familiar faces, I confidently said "hello" to a guy coming up the stairs...and then realized we hadn't met before at all. (Oops...now will he avoid this station because of the insane busker lady?)
+++++++
This afternoon I saw several parents and children. Sometimes I make a point of singing "Stroller Up The Hill" when I see family groups go by, but they usually aren't listening carefully enough to hear the lyrics, and I just end up feeling silly singing about strollers for everybody else.
Today the families I saw seemed too busy (or too loaded up with shopping bags and babies) to offer anything but a smile.
But one little girl, about five years old, noticed that a penny was lying on the floor just outside my guitar case. It had been there for most of my performance.
She stopped, very carefully picked up the penny, and dropped it into my case.
($39.41)
It turned out to be blessedly quiet there today, except for one brief burst of circular-sawing which seemed almost apologetic in the way it started up and then suddenly stopped.
The most unusual thing that happened today were things that had happened before. In less than two hours, I met six people whom I'd met at Pape on other days, and I started to have a weird feeling of deja vu, as if I were trapped in a bizarre time loop of subway travel. Some of the people passed by on their way to somewhere, and then passed by again on their way back. (When they've said hi to me once, they don't know whether or not to say hi again, and neither do I. Smiling is good, I find.)
At one point, I was getting so used to seeing familiar faces, I confidently said "hello" to a guy coming up the stairs...and then realized we hadn't met before at all. (Oops...now will he avoid this station because of the insane busker lady?)
+++++++
This afternoon I saw several parents and children. Sometimes I make a point of singing "Stroller Up The Hill" when I see family groups go by, but they usually aren't listening carefully enough to hear the lyrics, and I just end up feeling silly singing about strollers for everybody else.
Today the families I saw seemed too busy (or too loaded up with shopping bags and babies) to offer anything but a smile.
But one little girl, about five years old, noticed that a penny was lying on the floor just outside my guitar case. It had been there for most of my performance.
She stopped, very carefully picked up the penny, and dropped it into my case.
($39.41)
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Structures: Osgoode Station
Even though subway busking has an improvisational quality, I find myself creating patterns and structures which help me succeed at it.
Although I never start out with a set list, I often play songs in groups. "Sympathy Card" is played with a capo on the fourth fret and so is "Tall Trees", so I usually play them one after another, followed by "Smooth Stones" which echoes lyric content in "Tall Trees". They're individual songs created from different motivations, at different times, with different chord structures and melodies. But when I string them together they form a reassuring pattern, which I seem to need--especially in a space which is ever-changing and unpredictable.
Over a lifetime, all of the songs and notes and words and verses hook together in patterns like beads on a string, making up a body of work that has its own form and impact. Often I'm too close to the work itself--or to the particular details of a particular day--to see that the individual choices I choose to repeat are creating a larger whole.
++++
Although we have an official schedule of stations that we can follow if we choose, the route taken by most subway musicians is more individualistic. We can decide, on a whim, to go to the farthest station westward (Islington) or stay close to home (Broadview) as the mood strikes us.
Yesterday, when I found myself with a free day and therefore more time to sing, I spontaneously went to Osgoode subway station, "forgetting" (since I hadn't been there for awhile) that just like Pape and Broadview it's a station under construction.
For some reason, I've been drawn to the stations currently marked by barriers and obstacles...works-in-projects with results yet-to-be-revealed...and places where structures are being built or strengthened.
On Friday afternoon, a large part of Osgoode station was hidden so that an elevator could be installed. One of the exit corridors was fenced off for another project, but the performance area was clear.
Although this corridor was damp and drafty as always, the shower-style tiled wall acoustics sounded better than I remembered.
It sounded so good, I wondered if somehow the new walls created by the construction had improved the sound.
Although I never start out with a set list, I often play songs in groups. "Sympathy Card" is played with a capo on the fourth fret and so is "Tall Trees", so I usually play them one after another, followed by "Smooth Stones" which echoes lyric content in "Tall Trees". They're individual songs created from different motivations, at different times, with different chord structures and melodies. But when I string them together they form a reassuring pattern, which I seem to need--especially in a space which is ever-changing and unpredictable.
Over a lifetime, all of the songs and notes and words and verses hook together in patterns like beads on a string, making up a body of work that has its own form and impact. Often I'm too close to the work itself--or to the particular details of a particular day--to see that the individual choices I choose to repeat are creating a larger whole.
++++
Although we have an official schedule of stations that we can follow if we choose, the route taken by most subway musicians is more individualistic. We can decide, on a whim, to go to the farthest station westward (Islington) or stay close to home (Broadview) as the mood strikes us.
Yesterday, when I found myself with a free day and therefore more time to sing, I spontaneously went to Osgoode subway station, "forgetting" (since I hadn't been there for awhile) that just like Pape and Broadview it's a station under construction.
For some reason, I've been drawn to the stations currently marked by barriers and obstacles...works-in-projects with results yet-to-be-revealed...and places where structures are being built or strengthened.
On Friday afternoon, a large part of Osgoode station was hidden so that an elevator could be installed. One of the exit corridors was fenced off for another project, but the performance area was clear.
Although this corridor was damp and drafty as always, the shower-style tiled wall acoustics sounded better than I remembered.
It sounded so good, I wondered if somehow the new walls created by the construction had improved the sound.
Friday, May 20, 2005
On a clear day you could sing forever
(Osgoode Station - 12:10 to 1:30 p.m. - $19.05)
Today I thought I was going to spend the day in my producer's basement recording studio, but we'd gotten our dates mixed up, so I ended up with a free day.
The weather is absolutely brilliant today, and as I drove back across town (looking forward to parking the car) I listened to DJ's jokingly telling listeners what excuses they should use if they want to take the day off. I figured it'd be a great day to busk, especially because it's the Friday before the long weekend and lots of people would be in a good mood.
I wondered if other buskers would have the same idea and if the best spots would be taken? Sure enough, Queen's Park was occupied by a young man playing "Girl From Ipanema" on his guitar. I headed to Osgoode, deciding to meet Dave for lunch after an hour of singing.
I was trading one underground music space (the studio) for another (the subway)...but it was a beautiful day and I was feeling very keen.
----------------------
We interrupt this blog for an important message.
I must leave this entry unfinished right now, but I wanted to let you know that tonight on CBC's The National, several other subway buskers (including Adam Solomon, whom I've mentioned in previous posts) will be featured in a feature length documentary. (Don't worry, I've just turned down the "jealousy" dial on my emotional amp...and I had more than enough attention with that newspaper article!)
Tune in later for more on Osgoode.
--------------------
We watched the show last night and really enjoyed it.
Adam Solomon spoke in his warmly understated, slightly amused way about the overpopulatedness of the local music scene and the resulting need for every musician to find their own path and solutions. Corin Raymond (whom I described briefly in my profile of Groovy Mondays several months ago) was cast as the aspiring star, who might one day step aside to give his busking space to another performer once he achieves greater success. And the classical duo Ilga and Indulis Suna were shown to be hardworking and accomplished musicians with a strong work ethic and commitment to family.
The musicians' descriptions of the joys of subway busking are consistent with mine (Corin's glee upon counting his change, for instance, and Adam's feeling of pride as he hands his business card to a new fan). Several musicians talked about the deep feeling of satisfaction they receive when they connect with a stranger through their music.
One thing that wasn't highlighted, though, was the inconsistent nature of donations...the fact that subway musicians completely dependent on voluntary giving and thus affected by factors beyond their control. (Yesterday, for instance, I wondered why cash donations were slow, even though I was receiving a higher-than-usual number of smiles and nods. Then I went above-ground and noticed four panhandlers and one other busker at the same intersection.)
Today I thought I was going to spend the day in my producer's basement recording studio, but we'd gotten our dates mixed up, so I ended up with a free day.
The weather is absolutely brilliant today, and as I drove back across town (looking forward to parking the car) I listened to DJ's jokingly telling listeners what excuses they should use if they want to take the day off. I figured it'd be a great day to busk, especially because it's the Friday before the long weekend and lots of people would be in a good mood.
I wondered if other buskers would have the same idea and if the best spots would be taken? Sure enough, Queen's Park was occupied by a young man playing "Girl From Ipanema" on his guitar. I headed to Osgoode, deciding to meet Dave for lunch after an hour of singing.
I was trading one underground music space (the studio) for another (the subway)...but it was a beautiful day and I was feeling very keen.
----------------------
We interrupt this blog for an important message.
I must leave this entry unfinished right now, but I wanted to let you know that tonight on CBC's The National, several other subway buskers (including Adam Solomon, whom I've mentioned in previous posts) will be featured in a feature length documentary. (Don't worry, I've just turned down the "jealousy" dial on my emotional amp...and I had more than enough attention with that newspaper article!)
Tune in later for more on Osgoode.
--------------------
We watched the show last night and really enjoyed it.
Adam Solomon spoke in his warmly understated, slightly amused way about the overpopulatedness of the local music scene and the resulting need for every musician to find their own path and solutions. Corin Raymond (whom I described briefly in my profile of Groovy Mondays several months ago) was cast as the aspiring star, who might one day step aside to give his busking space to another performer once he achieves greater success. And the classical duo Ilga and Indulis Suna were shown to be hardworking and accomplished musicians with a strong work ethic and commitment to family.
The musicians' descriptions of the joys of subway busking are consistent with mine (Corin's glee upon counting his change, for instance, and Adam's feeling of pride as he hands his business card to a new fan). Several musicians talked about the deep feeling of satisfaction they receive when they connect with a stranger through their music.
One thing that wasn't highlighted, though, was the inconsistent nature of donations...the fact that subway musicians completely dependent on voluntary giving and thus affected by factors beyond their control. (Yesterday, for instance, I wondered why cash donations were slow, even though I was receiving a higher-than-usual number of smiles and nods. Then I went above-ground and noticed four panhandlers and one other busker at the same intersection.)
Thursday, May 19, 2005
To Jane or Not To Jane
(My House/Value Village - 9:00 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. - Minus $18)
Today turned out to be surprisingly unstructured, which meant I had no excuse not to go to the presumably quiet Jane Station.
I didn't make it.
Sometimes, on days like this, I find it so hard to decide what to do next, I don't end up doing anything. The indecisiveness turns into guilt, fatigue and lack of confidence. (Fortunately, I don't have self-destructive habits...but today I did go to Value Village for some cheap "retail therapy".)
This morning, because I planned to go to Jane after lunch, I decided to run through a couple of songs I hadn't played in awhile. Trying to sing, but only half-heartedly, I found my voice tightening up and getting sore...so much so that I convinced myself I must be catching a cold.
Losing my voice was a pretty good reason not to go to Jane Station.
And not going to Jane Station was probably the reason I lost my voice.
Today turned out to be surprisingly unstructured, which meant I had no excuse not to go to the presumably quiet Jane Station.
I didn't make it.
Sometimes, on days like this, I find it so hard to decide what to do next, I don't end up doing anything. The indecisiveness turns into guilt, fatigue and lack of confidence. (Fortunately, I don't have self-destructive habits...but today I did go to Value Village for some cheap "retail therapy".)
This morning, because I planned to go to Jane after lunch, I decided to run through a couple of songs I hadn't played in awhile. Trying to sing, but only half-heartedly, I found my voice tightening up and getting sore...so much so that I convinced myself I must be catching a cold.
Losing my voice was a pretty good reason not to go to Jane Station.
And not going to Jane Station was probably the reason I lost my voice.
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Still Under Construction
(Pape Station - 1:09 p.m. to 2:00 p.m. - $17.97)
When I arrived at Pape Station just after one o'clock, I saw that the newspaper display had been moved.
It was slightly off to one side of the performance space, giving me plenty of room. However, since my last visit, the overall amount of construction had increased. Drywall hoarding now extends the entire length of the exit corridors, and several workmen were climbing up and down ladders directly in front of me, working on something in the ceiling.
I wished I knew Joan Armatrading's song "Walk Under Ladders".
I said hello to the workmen and set up my little amp. One of them said he was looking forward to the concert.
Strangely, it took me several songs to realize that I was being accompanied this afternoon by a high-pitched circular saw. Why didn't I notice it sooner? Either I was admirably focused on my performance...or generally oblivious to my surroundings. Hard to say.
Anyway, I kept playing and singing because that's what I was there to do, trying as best I could to smile back at the bemused passers-by. Many of them wore an expression I recognized from my days of trying to busk in minus fifteen degree temperatures.
The expression is: "She has a very nice voice. And she's crazy."
Well, that being said, I still felt like singing. The people at Pape Station were generous today, as they always are. Plus, I'd already met an outgoing Finnish opera singer (who sang for me, the second person to do so at Pape) and as always I was curious to discover what the next few hours would bring.
I decided to sit back, relax, and wait for the background noise to go away.
I leaned up against the tiled wall and played an instrumental interlude.
A long instrumental interlude.
The saw kept sawing. (Or maybe it was a drill? I was suddenly reminded that I'm overdue for a dentist appointment.)
I decided to start singing again:
"We live in a music town, where songs survive deep underground, they weep through walls, they beat down doors..."
Yeah, right.
Somebody's beating down a door alright (maybe with a jackhammer?) but it ain't me, Babe.
Needless to say, if I'd had more time this afternoon, I'd have found a construction-free zone somewhere else on the subway system. No doubt that's where the experienced subway musicians are.
Tomorrow afternoon my scheduled spot is Jane.
That sounds quiet.
Before packing up, I decided to sing just one more song: "Room to Love".
"Give me empty space, don't want no noisy overcrowded place."
The workman ducked his head out from under the ceiling, looked at me, and smiled.
When I arrived at Pape Station just after one o'clock, I saw that the newspaper display had been moved.
It was slightly off to one side of the performance space, giving me plenty of room. However, since my last visit, the overall amount of construction had increased. Drywall hoarding now extends the entire length of the exit corridors, and several workmen were climbing up and down ladders directly in front of me, working on something in the ceiling.
I wished I knew Joan Armatrading's song "Walk Under Ladders".
I said hello to the workmen and set up my little amp. One of them said he was looking forward to the concert.
Strangely, it took me several songs to realize that I was being accompanied this afternoon by a high-pitched circular saw. Why didn't I notice it sooner? Either I was admirably focused on my performance...or generally oblivious to my surroundings. Hard to say.
Anyway, I kept playing and singing because that's what I was there to do, trying as best I could to smile back at the bemused passers-by. Many of them wore an expression I recognized from my days of trying to busk in minus fifteen degree temperatures.
The expression is: "She has a very nice voice. And she's crazy."
Well, that being said, I still felt like singing. The people at Pape Station were generous today, as they always are. Plus, I'd already met an outgoing Finnish opera singer (who sang for me, the second person to do so at Pape) and as always I was curious to discover what the next few hours would bring.
I decided to sit back, relax, and wait for the background noise to go away.
I leaned up against the tiled wall and played an instrumental interlude.
A long instrumental interlude.
The saw kept sawing. (Or maybe it was a drill? I was suddenly reminded that I'm overdue for a dentist appointment.)
I decided to start singing again:
"We live in a music town, where songs survive deep underground, they weep through walls, they beat down doors..."
Yeah, right.
Somebody's beating down a door alright (maybe with a jackhammer?) but it ain't me, Babe.
Needless to say, if I'd had more time this afternoon, I'd have found a construction-free zone somewhere else on the subway system. No doubt that's where the experienced subway musicians are.
Tomorrow afternoon my scheduled spot is Jane.
That sounds quiet.
Before packing up, I decided to sing just one more song: "Room to Love".
"Give me empty space, don't want no noisy overcrowded place."
The workman ducked his head out from under the ceiling, looked at me, and smiled.
Monday, May 16, 2005
The Kitchen: Works In Progress
On Saturday night, I played a house concert in a new space called "The Kitchen".
It's a personal and unique performance environment created by the highly accomplished singer-songwriter Rosalee Peppard. She and her husband Allan have built a personal concert hall as an addition on their home. By doing this, she has created an ideal space for her own performances and opened up an opportunity to showcase other artists.
The Kitchen is all about self-sufficiency and do-it-yourself spirit. It reflects Rosalee's willingness to forge her own path in music...and her ability to see that much of what she needs can be found in her own backyard.
The addition is just freshly built and many of the finishing details are yet to be completed. But the most important things are up and running: a small and elegant stage just right for one or two people, stage lighting that's flattering and not blinding, room enough for a sizeable audience and excellent acoustics. A voice and guitar sound completely at home here and can be heard without amplification right to the back of the room.
Over time, finishing touches will be added. Walls will be painted...flooring will be laid. The Kitchen will acquire "seasoning" over the many seasons ahead.
As my hosts tell me, proudly and cheerfully, "It's a work in progress".
The concert went well, with just the right number of people in attendance (I'm always amazed that this seems to work out almost magically). I abandoned my set list after three songs, allowing myself to respond to inspiration and the energy of the audience. I sang many songs well...made some mistakes too...encountered new challenges and discovered that they, too, could be overcome with self-acceptance and laughter.
Every performance is a work-in-progress.
As I look at my life, I see other works-in-progress too: my music, my writing, my career path, my marriage, my family...this blog/book ("blook?"). Try as I always do, I'll never get them all exactly right. There's always something important that's unfinished or imperfect or not executed according to whatever master plan I thought I had.
So, do I keep the doors closed until I get everything finished? Or do I welcome people in to the "work-in-progress" and open myself up to the unexpected miracles it may hold?
Like my friends at The Kitchen, I'm more and more inclined to fling open the doors and to know that if the most important things are in place--truth, love, light--the details (the ones God is in) will be taken care of in good time. So, bring on the "mistakes", the unanswered questions, the meandering life paths...when we share them, we help eah other make sense of them.
When I write songs, I know (after years of learning) that in order to finish something, I have to give all of my enthusiasm to the unfinishedness: the beginnings and middles, fragments, unresolved rhymes. I need to maintain faith that the creative process is always at work, even though I cannot yet see the outcome.
Thanks to Rosalee and Allan at The Kitchen for inviting me into the work-in-progress.
It's a personal and unique performance environment created by the highly accomplished singer-songwriter Rosalee Peppard. She and her husband Allan have built a personal concert hall as an addition on their home. By doing this, she has created an ideal space for her own performances and opened up an opportunity to showcase other artists.
The Kitchen is all about self-sufficiency and do-it-yourself spirit. It reflects Rosalee's willingness to forge her own path in music...and her ability to see that much of what she needs can be found in her own backyard.
The addition is just freshly built and many of the finishing details are yet to be completed. But the most important things are up and running: a small and elegant stage just right for one or two people, stage lighting that's flattering and not blinding, room enough for a sizeable audience and excellent acoustics. A voice and guitar sound completely at home here and can be heard without amplification right to the back of the room.
Over time, finishing touches will be added. Walls will be painted...flooring will be laid. The Kitchen will acquire "seasoning" over the many seasons ahead.
As my hosts tell me, proudly and cheerfully, "It's a work in progress".
The concert went well, with just the right number of people in attendance (I'm always amazed that this seems to work out almost magically). I abandoned my set list after three songs, allowing myself to respond to inspiration and the energy of the audience. I sang many songs well...made some mistakes too...encountered new challenges and discovered that they, too, could be overcome with self-acceptance and laughter.
Every performance is a work-in-progress.
As I look at my life, I see other works-in-progress too: my music, my writing, my career path, my marriage, my family...this blog/book ("blook?"). Try as I always do, I'll never get them all exactly right. There's always something important that's unfinished or imperfect or not executed according to whatever master plan I thought I had.
So, do I keep the doors closed until I get everything finished? Or do I welcome people in to the "work-in-progress" and open myself up to the unexpected miracles it may hold?
Like my friends at The Kitchen, I'm more and more inclined to fling open the doors and to know that if the most important things are in place--truth, love, light--the details (the ones God is in) will be taken care of in good time. So, bring on the "mistakes", the unanswered questions, the meandering life paths...when we share them, we help eah other make sense of them.
When I write songs, I know (after years of learning) that in order to finish something, I have to give all of my enthusiasm to the unfinishedness: the beginnings and middles, fragments, unresolved rhymes. I need to maintain faith that the creative process is always at work, even though I cannot yet see the outcome.
Thanks to Rosalee and Allan at The Kitchen for inviting me into the work-in-progress.
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Where's My Space?!
(Broadview Station - 10:35 to 11:12 a.m. - $1)
When I arrived at Pape Station, I heard music, so I assumed another musician was already playing there.
But on closer listen, I realized it was the Dixie Chicks.
Landslide was playing on a radio somewhere, loud enough to be heard as I descended the subway stairs. In fact, The Dixie Chicks sound quite a bit like me, and that particular song, written by Stevie Nicks, is similar to songs I write: "...time makes you bolder, even children get older, I'm getting older too".
When I realized the music was coming from a radio, I assumed the live performance space would be open for business.
Instead, it was occupied by a large newspaper and magazine rack.
The dimensions of the Gateway Newstand newspaper display happen to be the same dimensions of the Pape Station busking rectangle: that is, about 7' by 2'. The newspaper rack is about as tall as I am and looks very hard to move. The Gateway Newstand (I feel compelled to point out, again, that it's misspelled and should be "newsstand") is being renovated. The papers had to go somewhere, and I'm sure the correctly-sized rectangle of yellow dots looked just perfect.
I interrupted the contractors who were looking over blueprints for the new-and-improved 'Stand.
"Excuse me, how long will the newspaper rack be there?"
"I dunno...about a week?"
The man couldn't figure out why I was interested. When I explained that many subway musicians use that space, he seemed surprised and said he'd move it right away. In the meantime, I decided to go to Broadview station.
There was no space there, either.
As it has been since last October, the Broadview performance space was taken up by a large metal barrier, several pylons and assorted debris.
Short on time, and determined to play even for a short while, I moved the barrier out of the way. Again.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I have come to view subway performance as a form of meditation.
Although my mind wants to wander into concerns about how much money I'm making or what people are thinking, over and over again I must gently return to the present moment and simply sing and play as well as I can.
The focus and calm that I must create, in myself, in order to keep singing, creates a peaceful space in my life. There is a deep security in knowing that I can be in touch with the here and now, even when my external circumstances are not at all favourable.
At Broadview, the crowd today was at best apathetic and at worst quizzical and disdainful. I am more and more convinced that there is such a thing as "group think"--that crowds take on collective moods--and that people are affected by feng shui, the design of physical spaces which, according to Chinese wisdom, affects the flow of positive and negative energy.
Broadview is known, among subway musicians, as a very difficult spot. In 45 minutes, I received one loonie. The young woman made a point of catching my eye and smiling, and of course, I will now always remember her. (Thank you.)
I didn't feel like singing in the subway today, but I went anyway. I was not rewarded in any material way, and yet I found the space I needed. Afterward, I felt revived. Calmer. Saner.
On the way home, I passed through Pape Station again. The newspaper stand hadn't budged.
The radio wasn't playing anymore, but I still heard a song playing in my head.
"I took my love and I took it down. Climbed a mountain and I turned around..."
("Landslide", by Stevie Nicks, 1975. On Fleetwood Mac's "White Album" and The Dixie Chicks' "Home".)
When I arrived at Pape Station, I heard music, so I assumed another musician was already playing there.
But on closer listen, I realized it was the Dixie Chicks.
Landslide was playing on a radio somewhere, loud enough to be heard as I descended the subway stairs. In fact, The Dixie Chicks sound quite a bit like me, and that particular song, written by Stevie Nicks, is similar to songs I write: "...time makes you bolder, even children get older, I'm getting older too".
When I realized the music was coming from a radio, I assumed the live performance space would be open for business.
Instead, it was occupied by a large newspaper and magazine rack.
The dimensions of the Gateway Newstand newspaper display happen to be the same dimensions of the Pape Station busking rectangle: that is, about 7' by 2'. The newspaper rack is about as tall as I am and looks very hard to move. The Gateway Newstand (I feel compelled to point out, again, that it's misspelled and should be "newsstand") is being renovated. The papers had to go somewhere, and I'm sure the correctly-sized rectangle of yellow dots looked just perfect.
I interrupted the contractors who were looking over blueprints for the new-and-improved 'Stand.
"Excuse me, how long will the newspaper rack be there?"
"I dunno...about a week?"
The man couldn't figure out why I was interested. When I explained that many subway musicians use that space, he seemed surprised and said he'd move it right away. In the meantime, I decided to go to Broadview station.
There was no space there, either.
As it has been since last October, the Broadview performance space was taken up by a large metal barrier, several pylons and assorted debris.
Short on time, and determined to play even for a short while, I moved the barrier out of the way. Again.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
I have come to view subway performance as a form of meditation.
Although my mind wants to wander into concerns about how much money I'm making or what people are thinking, over and over again I must gently return to the present moment and simply sing and play as well as I can.
The focus and calm that I must create, in myself, in order to keep singing, creates a peaceful space in my life. There is a deep security in knowing that I can be in touch with the here and now, even when my external circumstances are not at all favourable.
At Broadview, the crowd today was at best apathetic and at worst quizzical and disdainful. I am more and more convinced that there is such a thing as "group think"--that crowds take on collective moods--and that people are affected by feng shui, the design of physical spaces which, according to Chinese wisdom, affects the flow of positive and negative energy.
Broadview is known, among subway musicians, as a very difficult spot. In 45 minutes, I received one loonie. The young woman made a point of catching my eye and smiling, and of course, I will now always remember her. (Thank you.)
I didn't feel like singing in the subway today, but I went anyway. I was not rewarded in any material way, and yet I found the space I needed. Afterward, I felt revived. Calmer. Saner.
On the way home, I passed through Pape Station again. The newspaper stand hadn't budged.
The radio wasn't playing anymore, but I still heard a song playing in my head.
"I took my love and I took it down. Climbed a mountain and I turned around..."
("Landslide", by Stevie Nicks, 1975. On Fleetwood Mac's "White Album" and The Dixie Chicks' "Home".)
Seeking Space
I was thinking of going out to sing at Pape Station this morning, but I'm feeling too tired, and plus it's a chilly +2 degrees outside.
My week has been jammed with responsibilities: freelance work, songwriting workshops, recording, rehearsing and family activities.
I have that "stop the world, I want to get off" feeling, which isn't unusual (and probably isn't unusual at all for others at this stage of life).
Last night, an acquaintance emailed me to request that she be taken off my email list--something I invite people to do when necessary--saying that she's stretched too thin to get out to anything much these days.
I understand. I took her off the list. And I felt a little sad about it, too, while reminding myself not to take it personally.
There's only so much space in a life. There are only so many artists you can actively follow...only so many groceries you need to buy at the market. Our hunger for new songs (and books and films) is already satisfied in large part by the commercial entertainment industry.
Like other songwriters, I hope that my songs can make a difference in the world, but realistically, I know that they're only going to be heard by a limited number of people. Of those, a smaller sub-set will find them truly useful: inspiring, empowering, entertaining or reassuring. I myself am one of those people, of course, and I tell my songwriting students that even if their songs are useful just to them, the songs are valuable and necessary.
And yet, we strive for connection.
As I write this, I realize that staying in the house today, cluttered as it is, with my long to-do list and the constant chatter in my mind, may not be the way to find the space I'm seeking.
So I'm off to Pape Station.
My week has been jammed with responsibilities: freelance work, songwriting workshops, recording, rehearsing and family activities.
I have that "stop the world, I want to get off" feeling, which isn't unusual (and probably isn't unusual at all for others at this stage of life).
Last night, an acquaintance emailed me to request that she be taken off my email list--something I invite people to do when necessary--saying that she's stretched too thin to get out to anything much these days.
I understand. I took her off the list. And I felt a little sad about it, too, while reminding myself not to take it personally.
There's only so much space in a life. There are only so many artists you can actively follow...only so many groceries you need to buy at the market. Our hunger for new songs (and books and films) is already satisfied in large part by the commercial entertainment industry.
Like other songwriters, I hope that my songs can make a difference in the world, but realistically, I know that they're only going to be heard by a limited number of people. Of those, a smaller sub-set will find them truly useful: inspiring, empowering, entertaining or reassuring. I myself am one of those people, of course, and I tell my songwriting students that even if their songs are useful just to them, the songs are valuable and necessary.
And yet, we strive for connection.
As I write this, I realize that staying in the house today, cluttered as it is, with my long to-do list and the constant chatter in my mind, may not be the way to find the space I'm seeking.
So I'm off to Pape Station.
Monday, May 09, 2005
And Anywhere
This morning I volunteered in Calla's classroom for the morning, something I'm planning to do for the rest of the school year on Mondays.
At 9:30, the class was invited down to the gymnasium to watch a musical performance. The play was called "The Chinese Violin". It featured a man named John who spoke Mandarin and played the two-stringed traditional instrument called the erhu. His dignified presence, along with the ease and grace with which he played, transfixed the two hundred elementary school students in the gym.
The story was about a child who learns to play the erhu from her father and who finds that it can bring her comfort throughout her life, even after she's moved thousands of miles from home.
At one point in the story, the father plays for coins in the street...and I suddenly realized something.
At the end the performance, another cast member introduced him and confirmed what I suspected.
Min Jun (John) Gao, father of internationally-known erhu master George Gao, plays frequently on the Toronto subway system.
At 9:30, the class was invited down to the gymnasium to watch a musical performance. The play was called "The Chinese Violin". It featured a man named John who spoke Mandarin and played the two-stringed traditional instrument called the erhu. His dignified presence, along with the ease and grace with which he played, transfixed the two hundred elementary school students in the gym.
The story was about a child who learns to play the erhu from her father and who finds that it can bring her comfort throughout her life, even after she's moved thousands of miles from home.
At one point in the story, the father plays for coins in the street...and I suddenly realized something.
At the end the performance, another cast member introduced him and confirmed what I suspected.
Min Jun (John) Gao, father of internationally-known erhu master George Gao, plays frequently on the Toronto subway system.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Happy Mother's Day
In a quiet in-between time today, I spent some time trying to organize our family's CD collection.
I pulled out a Connie Kaldor CD that I bought several years ago, when she played a concert at Trinity St. Paul's church on Bloor Street.
I haven't listened to the CD in ages...and I'd forgotten that I'd asked her to sign it.
The inscription on the front read:
"For Lynn: Keep singing, and never forget that being a mother is the most important job in the world."
I pulled out a Connie Kaldor CD that I bought several years ago, when she played a concert at Trinity St. Paul's church on Bloor Street.
I haven't listened to the CD in ages...and I'd forgotten that I'd asked her to sign it.
The inscription on the front read:
"For Lynn: Keep singing, and never forget that being a mother is the most important job in the world."
Friday, May 06, 2005
I Would Recognize You Anywhere
(Pape Station - Saturday, May 6th - Immediately after St. Lawrence Market - 10:45 to 1 p.m. - $44.38)
Now that I've been playing on the subway for awhile, I'm getting the feeling that I've seen certain people before.
Occasionally people stop and introduce themselves, but more often, they walk by and throw in some change without stopping. Although everyone is distinctive when seen individually, the constant flow of faces eventually blends into one, and so it's hard to objectively judge whether I've "met" someone more than once.
It feels sad, in a way, to realize this...that I can't distinguish one person from another when they're moving so fast.
I see people in different seasons...different stations...different times of day. In December, she was bundled up in a winter coat but now she wears a sundress.
But sometimes I get a little flutter of recognition in my chest when someone walks by...a little zap of familiarity.
I get the feeling that certain people have donated to me more than once, but they're gone before I can confirm it.
I remember the feeling I had, years ago when I used to ride the subways going to work, when I hoped--and feared a little bit too--that a familiar busker might be playing in the corridor just up ahead.
There was a moment of anticipation, and either pleasure or disappointment when the musician was, or wasn't, there. The fingered coin in the pocket is tossed into the air, or placed back in the pocket.
I understand now that people are likely crossing my path more than once. When they say hello as if they know me, I find myself pretending that I also do. And now I find myself meeting people who I've met in the subway, in other social situations.
We meet as if we're old friends.
+++++++++++
For some reason, "I Would Recognize You Anywhere" is proving to be tricky to get "right" when I'm recording it.
But it's easy to sing in the subway.
Now that I've been playing on the subway for awhile, I'm getting the feeling that I've seen certain people before.
Occasionally people stop and introduce themselves, but more often, they walk by and throw in some change without stopping. Although everyone is distinctive when seen individually, the constant flow of faces eventually blends into one, and so it's hard to objectively judge whether I've "met" someone more than once.
It feels sad, in a way, to realize this...that I can't distinguish one person from another when they're moving so fast.
I see people in different seasons...different stations...different times of day. In December, she was bundled up in a winter coat but now she wears a sundress.
But sometimes I get a little flutter of recognition in my chest when someone walks by...a little zap of familiarity.
I get the feeling that certain people have donated to me more than once, but they're gone before I can confirm it.
I remember the feeling I had, years ago when I used to ride the subways going to work, when I hoped--and feared a little bit too--that a familiar busker might be playing in the corridor just up ahead.
There was a moment of anticipation, and either pleasure or disappointment when the musician was, or wasn't, there. The fingered coin in the pocket is tossed into the air, or placed back in the pocket.
I understand now that people are likely crossing my path more than once. When they say hello as if they know me, I find myself pretending that I also do. And now I find myself meeting people who I've met in the subway, in other social situations.
We meet as if we're old friends.
+++++++++++
For some reason, "I Would Recognize You Anywhere" is proving to be tricky to get "right" when I'm recording it.
But it's easy to sing in the subway.
The Market
It's early Saturday morning and I'm shopping at St. Lawrence Market, the sprawling indoor farmer's market right in the centre of town. Everyone has been up with the sun and is seizing the crisp May morning...along with the lettuce, and apples, and...
I haven't shopped at The Market for quite some time. I had forgotten there were so many musicians. Buskers seem completely in their element at St. Lawrence Market, alongside merchants selling local produce and breads and sausages and salsa.
As I walk into the vestibule of the North Market, I happily toss $2 to a boy who looks about fifteen. He's playing guitar and singing something that sounds original. Then, after I've navigated my way halfway across the crowded building, I spot another busker, a teenage girl this time. (Uh-oh...do I still have any change in my pocket?) She reminds me of me at that age (her sweet voice boosted helpfully by a microphone) except that I didn't have anything near her confidence at that time in my life.
I stop to talk to her about busking...she recognizes me from the newspaper article that appeared in December. I want to connect with her, but realize I'm old enough to be her mother.
She tells me she'd rather do this than any other kind of job.
When I arrived at the Market this morning, I saw a man selling the Outreach paper. I recognized him from a few days ago when I bought the paper outside our nearby Shoppers Drug Mart. He apparently remembered me, too, because he smiled and waved me on, wishing me good morning.
An hour later, I had finished my shopping and had donated to four out of the five buskers I encountered. I know I was being silly about it, but once I'd established a pattern, I figured I had to be consistent.
As I left, I saw the same Outreach salesman again. (I'd said 'sorry' to two other Outreach sellers.)
"There are so many here," I said. "You want to give to everyone."
"You can't," he agreed.
I haven't shopped at The Market for quite some time. I had forgotten there were so many musicians. Buskers seem completely in their element at St. Lawrence Market, alongside merchants selling local produce and breads and sausages and salsa.
As I walk into the vestibule of the North Market, I happily toss $2 to a boy who looks about fifteen. He's playing guitar and singing something that sounds original. Then, after I've navigated my way halfway across the crowded building, I spot another busker, a teenage girl this time. (Uh-oh...do I still have any change in my pocket?) She reminds me of me at that age (her sweet voice boosted helpfully by a microphone) except that I didn't have anything near her confidence at that time in my life.
I stop to talk to her about busking...she recognizes me from the newspaper article that appeared in December. I want to connect with her, but realize I'm old enough to be her mother.
She tells me she'd rather do this than any other kind of job.
When I arrived at the Market this morning, I saw a man selling the Outreach paper. I recognized him from a few days ago when I bought the paper outside our nearby Shoppers Drug Mart. He apparently remembered me, too, because he smiled and waved me on, wishing me good morning.
An hour later, I had finished my shopping and had donated to four out of the five buskers I encountered. I know I was being silly about it, but once I'd established a pattern, I figured I had to be consistent.
As I left, I saw the same Outreach salesman again. (I'd said 'sorry' to two other Outreach sellers.)
"There are so many here," I said. "You want to give to everyone."
"You can't," he agreed.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
Staying Afloat
When I returned to Queen's Park subway the next day, I found it harder to swim.
I was tired, to begin with. Also, the seas themselves seemed to be rougher.
I find myself continually asking the question: Are there collective moods that take over public spaces or are the people passing by simply reflecting my state-of-mind? Am I simply projecting? That seems quite possible (although it's maddening when I think I'm in an excellent frame of mind but the public response suggests otherwise).
I know that these projections must be real, and yet, I can't shake the impression that there's also a mysterious and broad collective consciousness at work, a consciousness in which I myself am immersed.
Whatever. This afternoon I played four whole songs before anybody donated.
But maybe it was worth the wait, because the first donation came about in a spectacular way.
A group of grade school students (around grade six) came through the station on a field trip. A number of them tried to stop and gather round ("Hey, listen to the great singer!") , digging in their pockets for change while their teacher tried to corral them and keep them on track. It took me several seconds too long to realize I should be supporting their teacher and encouraging them to keep moving, instead of revelling in the spontaneous gathering of the crowd that I'd been craving. (I did finally shoo them off...after several of them gave me change.)
After they left, as donations continued to be slow, I felt the now-familiar trickling away of my confidence. I questioned the quality of my material and played cover versions of other people's songs to see if they fared better, which they did not.
For the first hour, a woman was panhandling at the top of the stairs nearby, maybe thirty paces away. Many of the people passing me would have passed her first...and had to make a decision about whether or not to give to her. I wonder if that decision, and the resulting negative feelings that might result, might have affected people's response to me? It's a theory. After she left, business picked up, but not dramatically.
One of the side benefits of a slow donation period is that once I've accepted the reality of the situation, I usually just play whatever I feel like. Today, I pulled out a winter song, which I wouldn't ordinarily play if I thought people were really listening. It's called Skates & Wings.
The song is not so much about skating as it is about one woman's balancing act, and about falling down and getting up again.
As I played, a woman stopped and told me how much she appreciated it, because it had been a hard day. I felt that I had been singing the song for a reason, and that once again I could pick myself up, take a deep breath and keep singing.
I was tired, to begin with. Also, the seas themselves seemed to be rougher.
I find myself continually asking the question: Are there collective moods that take over public spaces or are the people passing by simply reflecting my state-of-mind? Am I simply projecting? That seems quite possible (although it's maddening when I think I'm in an excellent frame of mind but the public response suggests otherwise).
I know that these projections must be real, and yet, I can't shake the impression that there's also a mysterious and broad collective consciousness at work, a consciousness in which I myself am immersed.
Whatever. This afternoon I played four whole songs before anybody donated.
But maybe it was worth the wait, because the first donation came about in a spectacular way.
A group of grade school students (around grade six) came through the station on a field trip. A number of them tried to stop and gather round ("Hey, listen to the great singer!") , digging in their pockets for change while their teacher tried to corral them and keep them on track. It took me several seconds too long to realize I should be supporting their teacher and encouraging them to keep moving, instead of revelling in the spontaneous gathering of the crowd that I'd been craving. (I did finally shoo them off...after several of them gave me change.)
After they left, as donations continued to be slow, I felt the now-familiar trickling away of my confidence. I questioned the quality of my material and played cover versions of other people's songs to see if they fared better, which they did not.
For the first hour, a woman was panhandling at the top of the stairs nearby, maybe thirty paces away. Many of the people passing me would have passed her first...and had to make a decision about whether or not to give to her. I wonder if that decision, and the resulting negative feelings that might result, might have affected people's response to me? It's a theory. After she left, business picked up, but not dramatically.
One of the side benefits of a slow donation period is that once I've accepted the reality of the situation, I usually just play whatever I feel like. Today, I pulled out a winter song, which I wouldn't ordinarily play if I thought people were really listening. It's called Skates & Wings.
The song is not so much about skating as it is about one woman's balancing act, and about falling down and getting up again.
As I played, a woman stopped and told me how much she appreciated it, because it had been a hard day. I felt that I had been singing the song for a reason, and that once again I could pick myself up, take a deep breath and keep singing.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
In The Stream: Queen's Park
In the language of recording technicians, the sound of Queen's Park would be "wet".
The busking area is located at the bottom of an escalator well, at a junction-point of two tiled corridors. The twenty-five foot vaulted ceiling, combined with the tiled walls, causes sound to reverberate unlike it does anywhere else on the subway system. It's the opposite of a "dry" sound, which doesn't echo at all.
It's simply wonderful. It makes you feel as if you're singing in your own private cathedral.
I'm writing this entry while sitting on the bleachers at an after-school swimming class. I'm breathing in moist, chlorinated air while watching children splash happily in the water. At the far end of the pool, a teenage girl practices synchronized swimming--alone--to the song "One" from "A Chorus Line" ("One!! Singular sensation! Every little step she takes...etc.")
After a few days spent agonizing, mostly unproductively, over career paths and finances, splashing back down into the stream of life at Queen's Park station felt cleansing and energizing, much like a good swim.
Recently I wrote that busking is like fishing...today I'm reminded how much the fisher is also in the stream.
When I'm singing for people, I am immersed in moment-by-moment experience, responding to the ripples of smiles on people's faces, riding the occasional waves of self-confidence that arise and then recede, as regularly as the tides.
At a brief time in my life, I swam every day, and I remember the feeling of relief and exhilaration each time I slipped back into the pool.
That same feeling supports me now. As I swim in these sound waves, I am carried along and I become stronger and more alive.
The busking area is located at the bottom of an escalator well, at a junction-point of two tiled corridors. The twenty-five foot vaulted ceiling, combined with the tiled walls, causes sound to reverberate unlike it does anywhere else on the subway system. It's the opposite of a "dry" sound, which doesn't echo at all.
It's simply wonderful. It makes you feel as if you're singing in your own private cathedral.
I'm writing this entry while sitting on the bleachers at an after-school swimming class. I'm breathing in moist, chlorinated air while watching children splash happily in the water. At the far end of the pool, a teenage girl practices synchronized swimming--alone--to the song "One" from "A Chorus Line" ("One!! Singular sensation! Every little step she takes...etc.")
After a few days spent agonizing, mostly unproductively, over career paths and finances, splashing back down into the stream of life at Queen's Park station felt cleansing and energizing, much like a good swim.
Recently I wrote that busking is like fishing...today I'm reminded how much the fisher is also in the stream.
When I'm singing for people, I am immersed in moment-by-moment experience, responding to the ripples of smiles on people's faces, riding the occasional waves of self-confidence that arise and then recede, as regularly as the tides.
At a brief time in my life, I swam every day, and I remember the feeling of relief and exhilaration each time I slipped back into the pool.
That same feeling supports me now. As I swim in these sound waves, I am carried along and I become stronger and more alive.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Lotteries and Dreams
In one of my early fantasies about becoming a subway busker, I imagined that I might attract a crowd. (Attracting a crowd is, in fact, discouraged by TTC management for safety reasons.) I imagined that everyone passing by might stop and listen.
"In your dreams!", you're thinking.
Well, exactly. I'm good, but I'm not THAT good!
Even Adam, the virtuosic Juno-award-winning guitar player, doesn't bring pedestrian traffic to a halt when he plays in the subway.
It's pretty hard for one artist to attract the attention of mass audiences without mass promotion. This should be obvious. But somehow, it's not.
Music has such powerful emotional resonance, both for the creator and for the listener, it can transform our emotions and our everyday experience. As a result of its beauty and its meaning for us, it can fool us into thinking that it has the power to change our economic circumstances. Its seductive quality makes us believe we'll win big. It keeps us playing the music business lottery.
Just one more gig, one more demo, one more CD, one more song, one more expensive session player, one more tour, one more whatever the next task is, and Something Big Will Happen. The music endeavor will click into focus, the path will make sense. There will be a big redemption, a payoff. That's how the story is supposed to end, isn't it?
C'mon, aren't you half-expecting THIS story to pay-off big time? Aren't you waiting for someone powerful to discover me in the subway and offer to become my agent, producer, promoter and benefactor? (Or perhaps you'd prefer the tragi-comic ending: the disillusioned indie musician throws herself onto the subway tracks in a fit of despair?)
It’s not going to happen.
But it's worth noticing that we expect those endings. We don't feel satisfied when big shiny dreams just putter along in a way that may be self-sustaining but un-dramatic. We're conditioned to expect the big finish.
The Cinderella story of the entertainment business is deeply ingrained in us. That myth supports many people in the business, from producers to graphic designers to side musicians, all of whom are hired by artists aspiring to the music dream of mass audiences. The music dream is energizing and sustaining, and the hope and possibility that a song might be heard by others is often just the ticket to get it written in the first place. Dreams make life exciting: think of those lottery commercials where people's lives are enhanced simply by the possibility that they might win.
I’ve always been a big believer in dreams. Popular songs have served as my official dream soundtrack, with inspirational melodies and lyrics such as “Hold On To Your Dreams” (Triumph? ELO? Both?) The first song I recorded, with my high-school friend Danny, was called “Dare to Dream”. True to form as a dream-believing singer-songwriter, I’ve spent thousands (and thousands) of dollars on CDs, many of which are in my basement. I’m very proud of those CDs. Yet I know that to continue to create a product that attempts to compete with industry-funded recordings for large audiences is a financially unsustainable and ultimately foolish proposition.
At Broadview subway station, the lottery ticket kiosk is located right beside the performance area. However, I’m never tempted to use my busking dollars to buy lottery tickets.
I don’t need to.
In the subway, and in humble 'non-industry' performance spaces, I see that songs have value even when they do not reach mass audiences. They have value--currency, meaning--when they reach individuals.
I see that while the odds against mass popularity are astronomically high, opportunities to serve others through music are everywhere--and odds of success at it are strongly in the artist's favour.
I see a new kind of game, where everyone's a winner.
"In your dreams!", you're thinking.
Well, exactly. I'm good, but I'm not THAT good!
Even Adam, the virtuosic Juno-award-winning guitar player, doesn't bring pedestrian traffic to a halt when he plays in the subway.
It's pretty hard for one artist to attract the attention of mass audiences without mass promotion. This should be obvious. But somehow, it's not.
Music has such powerful emotional resonance, both for the creator and for the listener, it can transform our emotions and our everyday experience. As a result of its beauty and its meaning for us, it can fool us into thinking that it has the power to change our economic circumstances. Its seductive quality makes us believe we'll win big. It keeps us playing the music business lottery.
Just one more gig, one more demo, one more CD, one more song, one more expensive session player, one more tour, one more whatever the next task is, and Something Big Will Happen. The music endeavor will click into focus, the path will make sense. There will be a big redemption, a payoff. That's how the story is supposed to end, isn't it?
C'mon, aren't you half-expecting THIS story to pay-off big time? Aren't you waiting for someone powerful to discover me in the subway and offer to become my agent, producer, promoter and benefactor? (Or perhaps you'd prefer the tragi-comic ending: the disillusioned indie musician throws herself onto the subway tracks in a fit of despair?)
It’s not going to happen.
But it's worth noticing that we expect those endings. We don't feel satisfied when big shiny dreams just putter along in a way that may be self-sustaining but un-dramatic. We're conditioned to expect the big finish.
The Cinderella story of the entertainment business is deeply ingrained in us. That myth supports many people in the business, from producers to graphic designers to side musicians, all of whom are hired by artists aspiring to the music dream of mass audiences. The music dream is energizing and sustaining, and the hope and possibility that a song might be heard by others is often just the ticket to get it written in the first place. Dreams make life exciting: think of those lottery commercials where people's lives are enhanced simply by the possibility that they might win.
I’ve always been a big believer in dreams. Popular songs have served as my official dream soundtrack, with inspirational melodies and lyrics such as “Hold On To Your Dreams” (Triumph? ELO? Both?) The first song I recorded, with my high-school friend Danny, was called “Dare to Dream”. True to form as a dream-believing singer-songwriter, I’ve spent thousands (and thousands) of dollars on CDs, many of which are in my basement. I’m very proud of those CDs. Yet I know that to continue to create a product that attempts to compete with industry-funded recordings for large audiences is a financially unsustainable and ultimately foolish proposition.
At Broadview subway station, the lottery ticket kiosk is located right beside the performance area. However, I’m never tempted to use my busking dollars to buy lottery tickets.
I don’t need to.
In the subway, and in humble 'non-industry' performance spaces, I see that songs have value even when they do not reach mass audiences. They have value--currency, meaning--when they reach individuals.
I see that while the odds against mass popularity are astronomically high, opportunities to serve others through music are everywhere--and odds of success at it are strongly in the artist's favour.
I see a new kind of game, where everyone's a winner.
Monday, May 02, 2005
Turnarounds
When I'm travelling on the subway, I often get turned around.
It's not unusual for me to mistakenly jump on the eastbound train instead of the westbound, only realizing several stops later that I'm heading in the wrong direction.
Whenever this happens, I hop off the train and (trying to look nonchalant) walk over to the opposite platform at whatever station I happen to find myself.
As an underground artist--not simply a subway musician, but an artist who finds herself outside (I'd rather not say 'beneath') the mainstream entertainment industry--it's not surprising that I frequently lose my sense of direction.
On the underground artist's journey, there are few landmarks, such as pay raises or job promotions in other fields. The signposts that do appear don't necessarily point to clear destinations. The show might go well, but not earn money. The songs might get better, but never be widely heard. (Other types of artists face the same kinds of challenges. A novelist friend of mine just received a wonderful write-up in a major publication. But he's not sure how that will help him eventually make any money writing books.)
After striving for years as an artist, the career landscape may look pretty much the same as it did at the beginning, just as underground subway stations look identical in all parts of the city. On my own indie artist track, I often find it hard to tell if I've ended up in the right place, and whether or not I should keep going.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
In Jill Sobule's excellent new CD, "Underdog Victorious", the first song is called "Freshman". It poignantly describes how she still needs a roommate to afford her rent, even years into her successful music career, while others who didn't follow their dream now own the building she lives in. I'm assuming the song is autobiographical. Jill is a wonderful artist who is much closer to the Centre of the Music Industry Universe than I am. Still, she's virtually unknown to the general public. I think you'd enjoy both her music and her blog, Jill's Journal.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It's ironic, isn't it, that when I'm singing in the subway, I'm often called upon to provide directions.
So that I don't send someone else down the wrong track, I try to pause and carefully think through their trip and destination. I guess that's what I'm trying to do for myself as well.
It's not unusual for me to mistakenly jump on the eastbound train instead of the westbound, only realizing several stops later that I'm heading in the wrong direction.
Whenever this happens, I hop off the train and (trying to look nonchalant) walk over to the opposite platform at whatever station I happen to find myself.
As an underground artist--not simply a subway musician, but an artist who finds herself outside (I'd rather not say 'beneath') the mainstream entertainment industry--it's not surprising that I frequently lose my sense of direction.
On the underground artist's journey, there are few landmarks, such as pay raises or job promotions in other fields. The signposts that do appear don't necessarily point to clear destinations. The show might go well, but not earn money. The songs might get better, but never be widely heard. (Other types of artists face the same kinds of challenges. A novelist friend of mine just received a wonderful write-up in a major publication. But he's not sure how that will help him eventually make any money writing books.)
After striving for years as an artist, the career landscape may look pretty much the same as it did at the beginning, just as underground subway stations look identical in all parts of the city. On my own indie artist track, I often find it hard to tell if I've ended up in the right place, and whether or not I should keep going.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
In Jill Sobule's excellent new CD, "Underdog Victorious", the first song is called "Freshman". It poignantly describes how she still needs a roommate to afford her rent, even years into her successful music career, while others who didn't follow their dream now own the building she lives in. I'm assuming the song is autobiographical. Jill is a wonderful artist who is much closer to the Centre of the Music Industry Universe than I am. Still, she's virtually unknown to the general public. I think you'd enjoy both her music and her blog, Jill's Journal.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
It's ironic, isn't it, that when I'm singing in the subway, I'm often called upon to provide directions.
So that I don't send someone else down the wrong track, I try to pause and carefully think through their trip and destination. I guess that's what I'm trying to do for myself as well.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Leaving So Soon?
This week, I've received lots of support for my thought of getting a degree in education and becoming a teacher.
My producer and his wife were very encouraging, telling me about several other musicians I respect who are also teachers. My parents and my friends think it's a good idea. My daughter's teacher is happy to have me volunteer a few hours a week to gain experience.
I've been feeling increasingly confident about this possible path: a well-paved road which would provide a liveable income, stability, benefits and an eventual pension. Although it would be demanding work, it would provide one job, and would not require me to continually re-generate new work as a performer or freelance writer.
I'd been feeling good about this new road.
Then I had a particularly good morning in the subway.
This morning at Pape Station, I felt buoyant and generous. I didn't have to remind myself to smile...I couldn't help myself.
Last night, for fun, I learned a Beatles song ("In My Life"). Today, for the first time, a man walked up to me and asked if I knew any Beatles. After I played the song, he sang for me for ten minutes, because he's a Byzantine chanter. He then taught me how the Byzantine scale works, all while we stood there with hundreds of people passing by.
A TTC bus driver stopped and listened to three songs and made a large donation. A woman in the cast of "Mamma Mia" stopped and bought a CD.
I found myself singing easily, with no fatigue in my voice. In fact, as I continued to sing I could hear my voice carrying further, becoming lighter and more playful. I tried new things today with my voice and my guitar, improvising new fills and turnarounds on old songs I'd been playing for years.
It all worked.
The donations kept flowing: from children and adults, people of all nationalities, young and old, "rich" and "poor". People put down armfuls of grocery bags to donate...turned halfway down the stairs and came back up to toss a few coins into my guitar case. (Later, when I counted up my change, I discovered that I had earned more than double what I usually hope for. I came home with almost $90.)
When I left after two and a half hours, wondering whether the man at the Gateway Newstand might be bored with me, instead he asked "Are you leaving so soon?".
Are you leaving so soon.
As I headed back home I thought: if I were a full-time teacher, I couldn't do this.
Would I be making a bigger contribution?
Would I receive a greater reward?
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
When I sat down for my now-habitual custard tart and tea at the Portuguese bakery around the corner from my daughter's Saturday drama class, I sat behind a man working on a laptop computer. When he got up to order something at the counter, he left his screen in full view in front of me.
In bold headings, I read an excerpt from what appeared to be a motivational manuscript.
One of the headings read: "Play Full Out".
Just then, Loreena McKennitt (an internationally successful artist who is known for having started out as a busker at Toronto's St. Lawrence Market) started to play over the restaurant loudspeakers.
My producer and his wife were very encouraging, telling me about several other musicians I respect who are also teachers. My parents and my friends think it's a good idea. My daughter's teacher is happy to have me volunteer a few hours a week to gain experience.
I've been feeling increasingly confident about this possible path: a well-paved road which would provide a liveable income, stability, benefits and an eventual pension. Although it would be demanding work, it would provide one job, and would not require me to continually re-generate new work as a performer or freelance writer.
I'd been feeling good about this new road.
Then I had a particularly good morning in the subway.
This morning at Pape Station, I felt buoyant and generous. I didn't have to remind myself to smile...I couldn't help myself.
Last night, for fun, I learned a Beatles song ("In My Life"). Today, for the first time, a man walked up to me and asked if I knew any Beatles. After I played the song, he sang for me for ten minutes, because he's a Byzantine chanter. He then taught me how the Byzantine scale works, all while we stood there with hundreds of people passing by.
A TTC bus driver stopped and listened to three songs and made a large donation. A woman in the cast of "Mamma Mia" stopped and bought a CD.
I found myself singing easily, with no fatigue in my voice. In fact, as I continued to sing I could hear my voice carrying further, becoming lighter and more playful. I tried new things today with my voice and my guitar, improvising new fills and turnarounds on old songs I'd been playing for years.
It all worked.
The donations kept flowing: from children and adults, people of all nationalities, young and old, "rich" and "poor". People put down armfuls of grocery bags to donate...turned halfway down the stairs and came back up to toss a few coins into my guitar case. (Later, when I counted up my change, I discovered that I had earned more than double what I usually hope for. I came home with almost $90.)
When I left after two and a half hours, wondering whether the man at the Gateway Newstand might be bored with me, instead he asked "Are you leaving so soon?".
Are you leaving so soon.
As I headed back home I thought: if I were a full-time teacher, I couldn't do this.
Would I be making a bigger contribution?
Would I receive a greater reward?
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
When I sat down for my now-habitual custard tart and tea at the Portuguese bakery around the corner from my daughter's Saturday drama class, I sat behind a man working on a laptop computer. When he got up to order something at the counter, he left his screen in full view in front of me.
In bold headings, I read an excerpt from what appeared to be a motivational manuscript.
One of the headings read: "Play Full Out".
Just then, Loreena McKennitt (an internationally successful artist who is known for having started out as a busker at Toronto's St. Lawrence Market) started to play over the restaurant loudspeakers.
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Ladders
Last night I was back at Fat Albert's, the open mic in the Steelworkers Union Hall. This longstanding--36 year old--event has only recently moved to the Union Hall, but I can't help but notice how its new location suits its practical spirit and its emphasis on support. It's fun to be part of an event where musicians jump up spontaneously to bolster each others' performances with whatever tools they have, be they harmonies or hand-drums.
Meanwhile, back at home, I've been painting a room, so I've been climbing up and down a ladder over and over again. (The paint is a rosy shade of burnt orange called "Copper Bangle".)
As always, the roster of performers at Fat's last night was eclectic. Some sang original folk-rock songs while others played Gordon Lightfoot, Peter Gabriel and Merle Haggard tunes. One woman sang in Spanish; a man, in French.
At one point, a performer joked lightly that he'd heard "you play Fat Albert's on your way up or on your way down". He meant it in a self-deprecating way. He'd been away from the music scene for awhile and felt, perhaps, that he was on a downward trajectory.
I hadn't heard that one before.
In fact, when I thought about it, I realized that I like the place partly because many people there seem not to be focused on ladders. They're moving neither "up" nor "down". They're simply singing, in the place they happen to be. And many of them seem happy.
I've noticed that in myself, all the "up the ladder/down the ladder" evaluation of where I stand in the music industry heirarchy is just plain exhausting. All that striving gets in the way of simply being in the moment and performing to the best of my abilities.
Taking the ladder away can be a scary prospect. We're oriented toward achievement, we performer-types, and we want to think that hard work and talent will "get us somewhere", that is, lead to public recognition and financial gain. Take away the ladder, take a hard look at how few artists the entertainment industry actually supports, and do we fall (become bitter, stop creating) or fly (create for love)?
The removal of metaphoric ladders can also be helpful in turning around the performer/star/celebrity model into a service model. It became clearer to me last night that the entertainer's job is to make everyone in the room feel special...instead of expecting everyone in the room to say she is special. It can be very hard to keep these roles straight, as an artist in a celebrity-oriented culture.
From my vantage point today, the "music industry ladder" looks like a complicated and expensive contraption, off of which I am likely to painfully fall.
Better, maybe, to choose a smaller ladder, one that works for me. And to use time-honoured tools...accept helping hands...do what I can to change the colour of the room.
Meanwhile, back at home, I've been painting a room, so I've been climbing up and down a ladder over and over again. (The paint is a rosy shade of burnt orange called "Copper Bangle".)
As always, the roster of performers at Fat's last night was eclectic. Some sang original folk-rock songs while others played Gordon Lightfoot, Peter Gabriel and Merle Haggard tunes. One woman sang in Spanish; a man, in French.
At one point, a performer joked lightly that he'd heard "you play Fat Albert's on your way up or on your way down". He meant it in a self-deprecating way. He'd been away from the music scene for awhile and felt, perhaps, that he was on a downward trajectory.
I hadn't heard that one before.
In fact, when I thought about it, I realized that I like the place partly because many people there seem not to be focused on ladders. They're moving neither "up" nor "down". They're simply singing, in the place they happen to be. And many of them seem happy.
I've noticed that in myself, all the "up the ladder/down the ladder" evaluation of where I stand in the music industry heirarchy is just plain exhausting. All that striving gets in the way of simply being in the moment and performing to the best of my abilities.
Taking the ladder away can be a scary prospect. We're oriented toward achievement, we performer-types, and we want to think that hard work and talent will "get us somewhere", that is, lead to public recognition and financial gain. Take away the ladder, take a hard look at how few artists the entertainment industry actually supports, and do we fall (become bitter, stop creating) or fly (create for love)?
The removal of metaphoric ladders can also be helpful in turning around the performer/star/celebrity model into a service model. It became clearer to me last night that the entertainer's job is to make everyone in the room feel special...instead of expecting everyone in the room to say she is special. It can be very hard to keep these roles straight, as an artist in a celebrity-oriented culture.
From my vantage point today, the "music industry ladder" looks like a complicated and expensive contraption, off of which I am likely to painfully fall.
Better, maybe, to choose a smaller ladder, one that works for me. And to use time-honoured tools...accept helping hands...do what I can to change the colour of the room.
Monday, April 25, 2005
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.
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.
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.
Friday, April 22, 2005
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.
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.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
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.)
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.)
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
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.
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.
Friday, April 15, 2005
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.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Thursday, April 14, 2005
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.)
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.)
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
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.
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.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
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.
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.
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.
Friday, April 08, 2005
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.
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.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
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.
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, April 06, 2005
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".
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".
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
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.
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.
Monday, April 04, 2005
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.
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.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
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.
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.
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