After the Canada Day event in the park, we went to watch the fireworks. As the sun was going down, I ran into another subway musician who told me he'd had one of his best busking days ever today at Union Station.
His success had less to do with the national holiday than with the International Convention, the gathering of Alcoholics Anonymous members (and Al-Anon and Alateen family group members) from around the world. Conference events were taking place at the Convention Centre as well as in several downtown hotels, so many of the 40,000 delegates in attendance were streaming through Union Station.
On Saturday morning, that's where I was headed.
It wasn't because of the money, though.
Several people close to me were attending the convention this weekend, and to be honest, I felt a little bit left out. Even though I wasn't wearing a lanyard with the "I Am Responsible" slogan, I wanted to connect with the people who were. As always, the best way I could imagine doing that was by singing.
I arrived at Union Station just after 10:00 a.m. An accordion player and violinist were playing an unceasing medley of "O Canada" followed by "Pachelbel's Canon". I was getting bored just standing there for five minutes waiting to ask when they were planning to take a break, and I wondered how long they could keep this up.
(Later, a friend who'd walked through the station at around 4:30 p.m. looking for me said, "yeah, there was this accordion player there, playing "O Canada" followed by "Pachelbel's Canon" over and over.")
When I finally interrupted them (why not?) the accordion player allowed that I could come back at about 2:30 p.m. I thanked him and tried to figure out what to do next.
I couldn't really hang around waiting for four hours. I could probably find some A.A. members to sing for, somewhere else
So I headed up to Dundas Station, where an unlicensed busker told me he'd spent the last ten years hitch-hiking across Canada, working sporadically and playing music in bars. He's planning to try out for the TTC this year. (And he's pretty good too, singing songs by Neil Young and The Band with a certain authentic weariness.)
I bought coffees for both of us at the nearby Second Cup, wished him well, and started playing.
Dundas Station on a Saturday is usually well-travelled (today I ran into my son's friend and his Dad as they shopped for a last-minute birthday present) but today the busking corridor between the northbound and southbound trains was busier than usual. Many conference delegates were staying at hotels nearby, and were either hopping on the train to get down to Union Station or taking a break to go shopping at the Eaton Center.
It wasn't long before I noticed a pattern.
Pedestrians wearing conference ID badges were much more likely to donate--or at least to give me a big smile. Pretty soon I started eyeing the escalator to my left, waiting for the distinctive lanyards to descend. If the people wearing them did stop to donate something, sometimes I mentioned that I was a friend of the Program (often forfeiting a lyric or two to do so). One man kindly stopped for a longer time and we had a more personal conversation, which meant a lot to me.
Although some non-lanyard-wearing people did make donations on this particular Saturday, most did not. On the other hand, virtually all of the conference delegates were clearly in a positive and generous mood, the kind that makes giving (and receiving) easy.
Later, I wondered what in particular about A.A. and its related programs might influence its members to make a donation to a subway musician.
Several things occurred to me (other than the fact that they were on holiday). First, it struck me that A.A. members have an ear for honesty and an appreciation of personal courage and of generosity. Second, I realized that each of their donations was, in some way, an expression of gratitude: gratitude for simply being alive and able to appreciate a song on this particular Saturday.
Finally, I believe there is a form of recognition, among people who share particular stories. It's hard to put your finger on, but there's a sense of connection which I believe is facilitated by the human voice and by human songs.
Songs are, so often, about struggle and about frailty, and--hopefully--also about rebirth.
Performances themselves can convey the essence of those struggles, even if the lyrics remain symbolic or are not autobiographical. As a group, recovering alcoholics and their families are likely to be particularly attuned to the value of songs and stories, and to the importance of honesty and self-disclosure.
Today I remembered one of the first people to buy my CD on the subway, back in the winter. When I suggested that we trade business cards, he graciously gave me his, which bore only his first name, the A.A. insignia and hs phone number.
I still have it.
Saturday, July 02, 2005
Friday, July 01, 2005
This Land
On Canada Day, I served as emcee and entertainer at a nearby community festival. The "Neighbours Together" festival took place near Toronto's East Chinatown, where we live. It was mostly a Chinese event, but a few non-Chinese performers had been invited as well, including me and, as it turned out, Elvis. (Full name, "George Elvis".)
I offered to sing "O Canada" live, but a tape was already cued up for that purpose. If I was going to sing anything to specifically honour my country, I'd have to do it in my set. I thought about my original repertoire. A few of the songs have specifically Canadian references, but "Yes It's Cold In Winnipeg" didn't seem to suit the 32 degree heat.
I settled on "This Land is Your Land", the Canadian version ("from Bonavista to Vancouver Island") and was pleased that many people in the audience seemed to know it, no matter what their country of origin.
As I introduced the song, I said that the song was written in the United States by a songwriter named Woody Guthrie, but that a second set of lyrics had been written for Canadian audiences. Later, my husband told me he heard a teenage boy mutter to his friend: "Listen to her, singing an American song on Canada Day". Apparently they shut up when they heard the Canadian place names, but it was an interesting point.
It hadn't even occurred to me not to sing the song because it had been written in another country. It occurred to me to sing the song because it's a beautiful song everybody knows, one which underlines the importance of taking care of the land itself and which emphasizes the idea of community.
I was glad I could sing such a song.
I offered to sing "O Canada" live, but a tape was already cued up for that purpose. If I was going to sing anything to specifically honour my country, I'd have to do it in my set. I thought about my original repertoire. A few of the songs have specifically Canadian references, but "Yes It's Cold In Winnipeg" didn't seem to suit the 32 degree heat.
I settled on "This Land is Your Land", the Canadian version ("from Bonavista to Vancouver Island") and was pleased that many people in the audience seemed to know it, no matter what their country of origin.
As I introduced the song, I said that the song was written in the United States by a songwriter named Woody Guthrie, but that a second set of lyrics had been written for Canadian audiences. Later, my husband told me he heard a teenage boy mutter to his friend: "Listen to her, singing an American song on Canada Day". Apparently they shut up when they heard the Canadian place names, but it was an interesting point.
It hadn't even occurred to me not to sing the song because it had been written in another country. It occurred to me to sing the song because it's a beautiful song everybody knows, one which underlines the importance of taking care of the land itself and which emphasizes the idea of community.
I was glad I could sing such a song.
Reasons to Smile
A few years ago, I realized that the ratio of good gigs to disappointing ones is probably something like one in four.
By "good", though, I meant that it went as well as I wanted. Admittedly, my expectations for lots of gigs has been very high.
Instead of insisting that a "good" gig be a peak life experience, one that confirms the rightness of the path I've chosen and leaves me feeling at the top of my game, perhaps I should re-define it. After all, there are all kinds of useful and worthwhile experiences to be had in the arts and in work in general. I've heard of "good enough" parenting, the "good enough" marriage....how about the "good enough" gig?
"Good enough" would mean I feel generally satisfied about it: feel that I've done my best, done justice to the material and served the audience well...and that the audience was happy about it too. That is, there was an audience, and they got what they paid for, and they paid something reasonable, and everybody went away happy.
As I've performed publicly over the past ten years, I've noticed that I've tried to provide as much allowance as possible for the gigs that are more challenging: gigs like the subway. I've become accustomed to looking for the silver lining instead of focusing on what went "wrong". Here are some of the possible "upsides" of a difficult gig:
- I didn't get sunburned,
- That man in the front row was smiling,
- I kept my guitar in tune,
- I didn't feel nervous or embarrassed,
- I got paid,
- It's good practice.
In so many performance situations--really the majority of them--the unexpected is the norm. The best performers, whom I admire and try to emulate, are the ones who respond gently and positively to the changing winds of the situation.
Someone said to me that I should avoid performance settings that are difficult to control. Other performers insist on detailed contracts well in advance of the show, and if they don't receive them, they don't do the gig.
In an effort to be generous and responsive, I have often let these things go. Every time, I've regretted it.
I've found good things about the shows for sure--I've played my song "In Spite of It All" (I still find reasons to smile) with good cheer--and yet I've often come home feeling that I've lost something.
I haven't figured out whether it's more satisfying to play for myself in my living room (which I did before I started performing publicly) or to continue playing these dues (ahah...that was a Freudian slip, but I'm keeping it in).
Perhaps there's no way to completely control a performing career, or any career at all. (I wonder if the really big names have the same sorts of challenges, but in bigger stadiums.)
As I'm aiming high, it's essential that I see the beauty in the stones as well as the stars, because I'm likely to come face to face with them more often than I'd like.
By "good", though, I meant that it went as well as I wanted. Admittedly, my expectations for lots of gigs has been very high.
Instead of insisting that a "good" gig be a peak life experience, one that confirms the rightness of the path I've chosen and leaves me feeling at the top of my game, perhaps I should re-define it. After all, there are all kinds of useful and worthwhile experiences to be had in the arts and in work in general. I've heard of "good enough" parenting, the "good enough" marriage....how about the "good enough" gig?
"Good enough" would mean I feel generally satisfied about it: feel that I've done my best, done justice to the material and served the audience well...and that the audience was happy about it too. That is, there was an audience, and they got what they paid for, and they paid something reasonable, and everybody went away happy.
As I've performed publicly over the past ten years, I've noticed that I've tried to provide as much allowance as possible for the gigs that are more challenging: gigs like the subway. I've become accustomed to looking for the silver lining instead of focusing on what went "wrong". Here are some of the possible "upsides" of a difficult gig:
- I didn't get sunburned,
- That man in the front row was smiling,
- I kept my guitar in tune,
- I didn't feel nervous or embarrassed,
- I got paid,
- It's good practice.
In so many performance situations--really the majority of them--the unexpected is the norm. The best performers, whom I admire and try to emulate, are the ones who respond gently and positively to the changing winds of the situation.
Someone said to me that I should avoid performance settings that are difficult to control. Other performers insist on detailed contracts well in advance of the show, and if they don't receive them, they don't do the gig.
In an effort to be generous and responsive, I have often let these things go. Every time, I've regretted it.
I've found good things about the shows for sure--I've played my song "In Spite of It All" (I still find reasons to smile) with good cheer--and yet I've often come home feeling that I've lost something.
I haven't figured out whether it's more satisfying to play for myself in my living room (which I did before I started performing publicly) or to continue playing these dues (ahah...that was a Freudian slip, but I'm keeping it in).
Perhaps there's no way to completely control a performing career, or any career at all. (I wonder if the really big names have the same sorts of challenges, but in bigger stadiums.)
As I'm aiming high, it's essential that I see the beauty in the stones as well as the stars, because I'm likely to come face to face with them more often than I'd like.
+++
Speaking of stars...
The big musical event this weekend of course the Live8 Concert in Barrie. I believe that Adam Solomon, the marvellous guitar player I've mentioned who's also a TTC busker, is playing the concert as part of the African Guitar Summit.
+++
This weekend, an international conference is taking place in Toronto, whose delegates are wearing name tags and lanyards embossed with the slogan "I am responsible".
This is a good reminder for me. I am responsible for making every performance worthwhile for both myself and the audience. It's my responsibility to resist self-pity when any situation requires me to stretch beyond my comfort zone.
And I am responsible for making my career work.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Summertime
"Oh, there's that nice girl with the guitar. I've been missing her."
I could hear them speaking from halfway down the corridor, two women in their sixties speaking sotto voce.
Even though I often suspect that I'm being mistaken for several other, younger, girls with guitars who've played on the Toronto subway system, I'm happy to be described this way. I smile and play energetically as they approach.
"Hello, Dear. How are you?" one asks with a warm smile.
"Fine thanks!" And I actually am.
Because I've been feeling less-than-confident about subway singing recently, today I sought a busking location that was as much like a concert hall as possible.
The only ones I could think of were Spadina and Queen's Park subway stations. Of the two, Queen's Park was more likely to be well-travelled on a Monday afternoon, so that's where I went.
Unfortunately, the escalator under the glorious vaulted skylight was under repair and the floor space reserved for buskers was occupied by dismantled escalator parts. I wondered yet again: is every subway station continually under construction, or am I simply drawn to the ones that are?
I considered riding the subway to a better location, but in 32 degree heat I couldn't be bothered.
Taking my cue from the harpist who resourcefully created an alternate space for himself at Broadview, I decided exactly where I wanted to stand and started singing in the best part of the corridor.
(There I go again, raising the bar on myself. Yup, I'll write a definitive summer song not unlike, oh, George Harrison, George Gershwin and Stevie Wonder! Well, might as well aim high.)
I have to say, it felt good to be singing in the subway today, and I was relieved to be enjoying it again.
(Queen's Park station - Almost 3 hours in the middle of the day - $36.29)
I could hear them speaking from halfway down the corridor, two women in their sixties speaking sotto voce.
Even though I often suspect that I'm being mistaken for several other, younger, girls with guitars who've played on the Toronto subway system, I'm happy to be described this way. I smile and play energetically as they approach.
"Hello, Dear. How are you?" one asks with a warm smile.
"Fine thanks!" And I actually am.
+++
Because I've been feeling less-than-confident about subway singing recently, today I sought a busking location that was as much like a concert hall as possible.
The only ones I could think of were Spadina and Queen's Park subway stations. Of the two, Queen's Park was more likely to be well-travelled on a Monday afternoon, so that's where I went.
Unfortunately, the escalator under the glorious vaulted skylight was under repair and the floor space reserved for buskers was occupied by dismantled escalator parts. I wondered yet again: is every subway station continually under construction, or am I simply drawn to the ones that are?
I considered riding the subway to a better location, but in 32 degree heat I couldn't be bothered.
Taking my cue from the harpist who resourcefully created an alternate space for himself at Broadview, I decided exactly where I wanted to stand and started singing in the best part of the corridor.
+++
Today I played three well-known summer tunes and repeated them often.
"Summertime" ("...and the livin is easy"), "I Can See Clearly Now" ("gonna be a bright, bright sunshiny day") and "Here Comes The Sun" were all popular with passers-by. At one point, a man walked by and pulled out a harmonica, playing along with "Summertime". I wished he could stay longer.
I think I'll add more sunny-day covers to my repertoire. "You Are The Sunshine of My Life" would be good, I think.
Also, I want to write a great summer song of my own.
(There I go again, raising the bar on myself. Yup, I'll write a definitive summer song not unlike, oh, George Harrison, George Gershwin and Stevie Wonder! Well, might as well aim high.)
I have to say, it felt good to be singing in the subway today, and I was relieved to be enjoying it again.
When my mood lifts after a down period (not just about busking, but about the "music career" in general) I wonder, what was I thinking? How could I not enjoy singing songs I love for hours at a time and having strangers thank me?
(Queen's Park station - Almost 3 hours in the middle of the day - $36.29)
Sunday, June 26, 2005
The Sound of Silence
Last Tuesday, at Bay Station, the busking wasn't going well.
I was feeling marginalized and under-appreciated. I was wondering why I wanted to do this in the first place and questioning the quality of my music. I know to expect those insecurities now. They're part of busking territory and a craggy feature of many artists' daily landscape.
I know that's just part of the deal. And I figure it's up to me to deal with it.
So, until now, when I've felt this kind of insecurity while busking, I've squared my shoulders and tried harder.
I've responded by singing louder and more clearly, by paying attention to my fingerpicking, adjusting my posture, fiddling with my amp, picking another "better" song.
I've tried to tune in more fully to the people around me: to be as emotionally and spiritually connected as possible to the song, the corridor, the people, the guitar, the universe.
But on this particular day, I was inspired to do nothing.
I found myself taking breaks of about a minute long and simply standing still.
At those times, I listened to the sound of the corridor without my singing. It wasn't exactly silent, but it was definitely quiet. I heard shoes clicking on the tile floor, soft-soled shoes shuffling along. Occasionally there'd be the sound of a stroller. Mostly though, there was a quietness. A gentle absence of music.
I noticed it. And I noticed other people not noticing it.
The sudden absence of music didn't register any more than its unexpected presence.
But the quiet acceptance became part of my song.
I was feeling marginalized and under-appreciated. I was wondering why I wanted to do this in the first place and questioning the quality of my music. I know to expect those insecurities now. They're part of busking territory and a craggy feature of many artists' daily landscape.
I know that's just part of the deal. And I figure it's up to me to deal with it.
So, until now, when I've felt this kind of insecurity while busking, I've squared my shoulders and tried harder.
I've responded by singing louder and more clearly, by paying attention to my fingerpicking, adjusting my posture, fiddling with my amp, picking another "better" song.
I've tried to tune in more fully to the people around me: to be as emotionally and spiritually connected as possible to the song, the corridor, the people, the guitar, the universe.
But on this particular day, I was inspired to do nothing.
I found myself taking breaks of about a minute long and simply standing still.
At those times, I listened to the sound of the corridor without my singing. It wasn't exactly silent, but it was definitely quiet. I heard shoes clicking on the tile floor, soft-soled shoes shuffling along. Occasionally there'd be the sound of a stroller. Mostly though, there was a quietness. A gentle absence of music.
I noticed it. And I noticed other people not noticing it.
The sudden absence of music didn't register any more than its unexpected presence.
But the quiet acceptance became part of my song.
The Barbeque Question
We spent this afternoon at a backyard barbeque party, to honour friends of ours who are moving to a larger house across town.
At one point, a friend asked me a familiar question. "How are you? How's your music career going?"
As always, The Question was asked kindly and with a certain tone of concern. My neighbours have known about my career for several years now, and it's probably clear that I'm not getting rich on it. (Few people are surprised, perhaps, that we're not the ones who are moving.)
I have fumbled this question many times--looking at times over-confident and at other times desperate--but to my surprise, this time I was fine with it.
Smiling, I thanked my neighbour for asking and said it's going very well. I mentioned a couple of gigs and the new CD coming up.
I didn't mention the subway, even though I know from experience that it would have made for entertaining barbeque conversation.
Today I felt like keeping it my little secret.
At one point, a friend asked me a familiar question. "How are you? How's your music career going?"
As always, The Question was asked kindly and with a certain tone of concern. My neighbours have known about my career for several years now, and it's probably clear that I'm not getting rich on it. (Few people are surprised, perhaps, that we're not the ones who are moving.)
I have fumbled this question many times--looking at times over-confident and at other times desperate--but to my surprise, this time I was fine with it.
Smiling, I thanked my neighbour for asking and said it's going very well. I mentioned a couple of gigs and the new CD coming up.
I didn't mention the subway, even though I know from experience that it would have made for entertaining barbeque conversation.
Today I felt like keeping it my little secret.
Friday, June 24, 2005
Expectations
I might think that I can figure everything out and decide where this is all leading. But the subway is still a surprising place.
I headed to Pape Station this morning because I had a couple of free hours. Until I decide once and for all whether or not to re-audition, I have to keep doing my research.
To my surprise, the people at Pape today seemed particularly friendly. (Well, the Gateway Newstand man wasn't, but perhaps he was missing Phil.)
Within ten minutes, two people came along and asked me for my card. (The first one approached me before I had even played a note.) They were music and media people who might like to work with me, above ground.
In an hour and a half, I earned $17.89.
Today that seemed pretty good to me, probably because I went in with low expectations.
I headed to Pape Station this morning because I had a couple of free hours. Until I decide once and for all whether or not to re-audition, I have to keep doing my research.
To my surprise, the people at Pape today seemed particularly friendly. (Well, the Gateway Newstand man wasn't, but perhaps he was missing Phil.)
Within ten minutes, two people came along and asked me for my card. (The first one approached me before I had even played a note.) They were music and media people who might like to work with me, above ground.
In an hour and a half, I earned $17.89.
Today that seemed pretty good to me, probably because I went in with low expectations.
Fire Juggling
Over the last few days, I've been re-considering my decision to audition for the subway again.
When I started this project, I said "it's only for a year". (At one point, I described it as similar to "A Year In Provence", Peter Mayle's chronicle of his unexpectedly challenging sojourn in France.) Lately, when I've been telling people I've re-applied, some friends' eyebrows have risen even further up.
For all the joys of sharing these songs I love so much, and meeting so many interesting people in the process, there has also been a steady drip, drip, drip of doubt.
I've felt a growing irritation that in our society, it's perfectly okay to walk right past someone doing something generous and life-affirming and creative (doesn't have to be singing, could be fire-juggling or reciting poetry or making chalk paintings) and pretend they're not there.
At times, I've been annoyed at myself for not being a better juggler. For not being more talented, more unconventional, more compelling in my songs and performance. (There's still a temptation to blame myself when people walk right past, despite my belief that ANY unknown artist, however gifted, would have more or less the same level of success.)
I've also been critical of myself for not being a better juggler in other ways as well: for not managing the family/business/music balancing act in such a way that I could succeed in a more conventional (respectable, impressive) way.
Throughout the experience so far--and in the course of any given hour--two states-of-mind seem to be vying for supremacy. (Flip, flip, flip go the flaming batons.)
One is pride. (Confidence, self-acceptance.)
The other is shame.
(Playing with fire, indeed.)
The interplay between these feelings (as well as the interplay between love and fear, generosity and selfishness...) fascinates me. The energy created by that tension is, I realize, part of what has kept me playing in the subway.
At the same time, the feelings are real and probably do have real consequences if not handled with caution.
I'm reminded of the warning my songwriting friend gave me at the beginning of the year: "You have to be careful. People burn out."
I think that this must have been what he was talking about. The insecurity and feelings of alienation must've gotten to his friends, like toxic fumes.
The shortest route to a healthy and self-protective outlook would have been the "up" escalator.
When I started this project, I said "it's only for a year". (At one point, I described it as similar to "A Year In Provence", Peter Mayle's chronicle of his unexpectedly challenging sojourn in France.) Lately, when I've been telling people I've re-applied, some friends' eyebrows have risen even further up.
For all the joys of sharing these songs I love so much, and meeting so many interesting people in the process, there has also been a steady drip, drip, drip of doubt.
I've felt a growing irritation that in our society, it's perfectly okay to walk right past someone doing something generous and life-affirming and creative (doesn't have to be singing, could be fire-juggling or reciting poetry or making chalk paintings) and pretend they're not there.
At times, I've been annoyed at myself for not being a better juggler. For not being more talented, more unconventional, more compelling in my songs and performance. (There's still a temptation to blame myself when people walk right past, despite my belief that ANY unknown artist, however gifted, would have more or less the same level of success.)
I've also been critical of myself for not being a better juggler in other ways as well: for not managing the family/business/music balancing act in such a way that I could succeed in a more conventional (respectable, impressive) way.
Throughout the experience so far--and in the course of any given hour--two states-of-mind seem to be vying for supremacy. (Flip, flip, flip go the flaming batons.)
One is pride. (Confidence, self-acceptance.)
The other is shame.
(Playing with fire, indeed.)
+++
The interplay between these feelings (as well as the interplay between love and fear, generosity and selfishness...) fascinates me. The energy created by that tension is, I realize, part of what has kept me playing in the subway.
At the same time, the feelings are real and probably do have real consequences if not handled with caution.
I'm reminded of the warning my songwriting friend gave me at the beginning of the year: "You have to be careful. People burn out."
I think that this must have been what he was talking about. The insecurity and feelings of alienation must've gotten to his friends, like toxic fumes.
The shortest route to a healthy and self-protective outlook would have been the "up" escalator.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
An Audience of One - Part 2
Having handed over Pape Station to Phil, I headed westbound to Bay Station.
A plastic sign that read "Caution: Wet Floor" was set up beside the busking rectangle. Sure enough, a long trail of salty residue extended along the corridor. Looking overhead to see if anything was still dripping, and deciding that it wasn't, I opened my guitar case.
Before long I had settled into my usual routine of excellence and invisibility.
The Bay corridor, as always, with its bright white ceramic tile, had the pleasing acoustics of a giant shower. In today's hot weather (28 degrees and sunny) it started to feel pleasantly steamy, and I was reminded of the expensive health club I once belonged to back in the days when I made lots of money.
A kind woman in her sixties wearing a cheerful yellow jacket came over and said "Thank you for your music."
A one year-old in his stroller played "peek-a-boo" with me as his mother pushed him along, eyes straight ahead.
And a man wearing a fedora caught my eye from a distance. Something about him made me know for certain that he would like my songs. Perhaps all independent musicians engage in 'audience-profiling', that is, quickly analyzing the age range and personal style of a potential listener to see if they're likely to appreciate what we play. I'm pleased that often I get it right...I can tell who I'm trying to reach and I'm happy when I do.
Earlier in the year, I thought that perhaps I shouldn't be identifying potential supporters from a distance...that it's somehow opportunistic. I've changed my mind on that. Now I think it's just another legitimate form of marketing. And it gives me what I need, which is an actual audience.
This particular man made a donation and then listened from around the corner (which is exactly what I would have done). I knew he was there, and that knowledge gave my performance of one song a new energy and focus that hadn't been there before. Afterwards, he complemented me wholeheartedly and went on his way.
After he left, I stayed for a few more hours, even though donations were slim and personal interactions were infrequent. It's interesting that I do stick around longer in those situations. I'm more likely to stick around long enough to eventually see a return, instead of quitting early and cutting my losses.
When two women arrived with violin and cello to play in the space, I was finally prompted to call it a day.
I picked up my jean jacket from the floor and noticed it was damp. Something must have still been dripping.
(Bay Station - 11:00 approx to about 1:45 p.m. - $24.93)
A plastic sign that read "Caution: Wet Floor" was set up beside the busking rectangle. Sure enough, a long trail of salty residue extended along the corridor. Looking overhead to see if anything was still dripping, and deciding that it wasn't, I opened my guitar case.
Before long I had settled into my usual routine of excellence and invisibility.
The Bay corridor, as always, with its bright white ceramic tile, had the pleasing acoustics of a giant shower. In today's hot weather (28 degrees and sunny) it started to feel pleasantly steamy, and I was reminded of the expensive health club I once belonged to back in the days when I made lots of money.
A kind woman in her sixties wearing a cheerful yellow jacket came over and said "Thank you for your music."
A one year-old in his stroller played "peek-a-boo" with me as his mother pushed him along, eyes straight ahead.
And a man wearing a fedora caught my eye from a distance. Something about him made me know for certain that he would like my songs. Perhaps all independent musicians engage in 'audience-profiling', that is, quickly analyzing the age range and personal style of a potential listener to see if they're likely to appreciate what we play. I'm pleased that often I get it right...I can tell who I'm trying to reach and I'm happy when I do.
Earlier in the year, I thought that perhaps I shouldn't be identifying potential supporters from a distance...that it's somehow opportunistic. I've changed my mind on that. Now I think it's just another legitimate form of marketing. And it gives me what I need, which is an actual audience.
This particular man made a donation and then listened from around the corner (which is exactly what I would have done). I knew he was there, and that knowledge gave my performance of one song a new energy and focus that hadn't been there before. Afterwards, he complemented me wholeheartedly and went on his way.
After he left, I stayed for a few more hours, even though donations were slim and personal interactions were infrequent. It's interesting that I do stick around longer in those situations. I'm more likely to stick around long enough to eventually see a return, instead of quitting early and cutting my losses.
When two women arrived with violin and cello to play in the space, I was finally prompted to call it a day.
I picked up my jean jacket from the floor and noticed it was damp. Something must have still been dripping.
(Bay Station - 11:00 approx to about 1:45 p.m. - $24.93)
An Audience of One - Part 1
"Wow! You rock!"
That's what Phil said to me today, hearing me for the first time as he bounded up the stairs at Pape Station. Phil is a beaming, athletic black man who has been playing in the subways for many years. I heard him here just the other day, playing an enthusiastic version of "Daydream Believer". (Or was it "Last Train to Clarksville"?)
He had hoped to play at Pape today but I got there first.
"Keep playing!" he encouraged me, saying he wanted to listen for awhile before moving on to another station.
The man at the Gateway Newstand didn't hear this conversation. He was pleased to see Phil and asked him when he was going to start.
Phil discreetly shook his head and nodded in my direction. The Gateway man looked disappointed.
Now, we all have our audiences. Phil, it seems, is part of mine. But the Gateway man is part of Phil's.
Not wanting to stand in between a performer and his fan, I decided to go somewhere else.
There's enough room in the underground for everybody.
(4 songs, $3.50)
That's what Phil said to me today, hearing me for the first time as he bounded up the stairs at Pape Station. Phil is a beaming, athletic black man who has been playing in the subways for many years. I heard him here just the other day, playing an enthusiastic version of "Daydream Believer". (Or was it "Last Train to Clarksville"?)
He had hoped to play at Pape today but I got there first.
"Keep playing!" he encouraged me, saying he wanted to listen for awhile before moving on to another station.
The man at the Gateway Newstand didn't hear this conversation. He was pleased to see Phil and asked him when he was going to start.
Phil discreetly shook his head and nodded in my direction. The Gateway man looked disappointed.
Now, we all have our audiences. Phil, it seems, is part of mine. But the Gateway man is part of Phil's.
Not wanting to stand in between a performer and his fan, I decided to go somewhere else.
There's enough room in the underground for everybody.
(4 songs, $3.50)
Friday, June 17, 2005
The Walk Home
As I walked down Broadview hill, heading south from the subway station that I decided to avoid tonight, I thought about the one thing I did today that seemed to happen quickly and easily.
Early this morning, I filled out and mailed in my application to audition for next year's Subway Musicians' program. It was a pretty automatic decision. These days, whenever I run into another TTC musician, he or she asks "did you get your application in?" and we nod knowingly at each other.
Tonight the sky was a beautiful combination of violet and gold, with delicate pink clouds framing the skyline. The view from Broadview is exquisite: there's something about the angle of the view that puts the office towers in graceful perspective, their hard angles balanced by the gentle sweep of the long, curving hill.
The houses that look onto this view are very expensive, perhaps a million dollars or more apiece. There are a few apartment buildings too, which offer the same prime views for presumably more affordable rents. Of course, the view is free for all who decide to walk this hill or sit on a bench to appreciate it for awhile.
As I reflected on my decision to apply again, I wondered at my response to the musicians I've seen recently. Frankly, they did look down-and-out--not only when I was feeling tired and disconnected but also when I was in a good mood. Yesterday, as my son and I came back from a doctor's appointment, I made an effort to speak to a man playing a harp at Broadview station. (Because the performance area is now completely piled up with construction materials, he had boldly taken up residence right in front of the main staircase where he couldn't be avoided.) I approached him, change in hand, but he looked up at me with such weariness and caution, I quickly dropped my attempt at conversation along with my quarters.
I don't want to look that down-and-out.
So why risk it?
Why not stay above ground, choosing only to play the "good" gigs at the "right" places? Why not stay comfortable, setting my sights on the glittering city skyline instead of the dusty subway wall?
I think it's the crack in the wall that intrigues me, all those broken places at Broadview station that are taking the entire year to be repaired. As Leonard Cohen wrote, "there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in"... The light that gets in during dark moments is more appreciated, more necessary. It's then that songs do their best work.
It's a lot to ask of a song...to expect it to stop the train of fears and disappointments that threaten to overtake us all. It's truly miraculous that it occasionally does. Adam's music finds me at the bottom of a stairwell and lifts me up...a song idea overtakes me and the whole world is brilliantly new.
It's those little miracles we hope for that keep us coming back, I guess, like prospectors panning for gold.
Early this morning, I filled out and mailed in my application to audition for next year's Subway Musicians' program. It was a pretty automatic decision. These days, whenever I run into another TTC musician, he or she asks "did you get your application in?" and we nod knowingly at each other.
Tonight the sky was a beautiful combination of violet and gold, with delicate pink clouds framing the skyline. The view from Broadview is exquisite: there's something about the angle of the view that puts the office towers in graceful perspective, their hard angles balanced by the gentle sweep of the long, curving hill.
The houses that look onto this view are very expensive, perhaps a million dollars or more apiece. There are a few apartment buildings too, which offer the same prime views for presumably more affordable rents. Of course, the view is free for all who decide to walk this hill or sit on a bench to appreciate it for awhile.
As I reflected on my decision to apply again, I wondered at my response to the musicians I've seen recently. Frankly, they did look down-and-out--not only when I was feeling tired and disconnected but also when I was in a good mood. Yesterday, as my son and I came back from a doctor's appointment, I made an effort to speak to a man playing a harp at Broadview station. (Because the performance area is now completely piled up with construction materials, he had boldly taken up residence right in front of the main staircase where he couldn't be avoided.) I approached him, change in hand, but he looked up at me with such weariness and caution, I quickly dropped my attempt at conversation along with my quarters.
I don't want to look that down-and-out.
So why risk it?
Why not stay above ground, choosing only to play the "good" gigs at the "right" places? Why not stay comfortable, setting my sights on the glittering city skyline instead of the dusty subway wall?
I think it's the crack in the wall that intrigues me, all those broken places at Broadview station that are taking the entire year to be repaired. As Leonard Cohen wrote, "there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in"... The light that gets in during dark moments is more appreciated, more necessary. It's then that songs do their best work.
It's a lot to ask of a song...to expect it to stop the train of fears and disappointments that threaten to overtake us all. It's truly miraculous that it occasionally does. Adam's music finds me at the bottom of a stairwell and lifts me up...a song idea overtakes me and the whole world is brilliantly new.
It's those little miracles we hope for that keep us coming back, I guess, like prospectors panning for gold.
Empty Pockets
It's the end of the week, and I'm tired. I've been out late for several nights in a row. I'm behind on a long list of projects at home and for work. I'm impatient to get my latest CD finished, but I don't want to spend any more money on it.
And I'm missing our car.
When we finally retired our little Honda Civic a few weeks ago, I tried to put a positive spin on it. I've been walking more--a LOT more--and I've been riding the subway much more frequently. We joined AutoShare, Toronto's innovative and economical car sharing network.
Although we've been managing as well as can be expected, I'm feeling a lot less efficient. It's taking me longer to get things done. I'm tapping my feet in impatience as I wait on trains. Public transit doesn't feel like a positive choice at the moment, it feels like an uncomfortable chore.
Meanwhile, I'm passing subway buskers.
Routinely, I listen for them as I get off the train at a station where I know there is a designated performance area. By chance, the musicians I've been encountering lately have not been my personal "favourites". The music they play isn't to my taste or isn't something I appreciate. I find myself evaluating them negatively and comparing myself to them, especially if their licence number (and therefore their status on the subway musicians' ladder...yes, there's a ladder even here) is inexplicably higher than mine.
Not feeling at all generous, I'm withholding my coin.
I'm darting past them as quickly as possible, not meeting their eyes or being encouraging. I do glance at their guitar case (accordion box) to see how well they're doing (ie. how well I'm not, because they're in the spot and not me). My thoughts lean toward comparisons and complaints. I don't feel connected to the other musicians...in fact, I want to distance myself from them.
At sundown tonight, after my last errand of the day, I decide to walk home.
And I'm missing our car.
When we finally retired our little Honda Civic a few weeks ago, I tried to put a positive spin on it. I've been walking more--a LOT more--and I've been riding the subway much more frequently. We joined AutoShare, Toronto's innovative and economical car sharing network.
Although we've been managing as well as can be expected, I'm feeling a lot less efficient. It's taking me longer to get things done. I'm tapping my feet in impatience as I wait on trains. Public transit doesn't feel like a positive choice at the moment, it feels like an uncomfortable chore.
Meanwhile, I'm passing subway buskers.
Routinely, I listen for them as I get off the train at a station where I know there is a designated performance area. By chance, the musicians I've been encountering lately have not been my personal "favourites". The music they play isn't to my taste or isn't something I appreciate. I find myself evaluating them negatively and comparing myself to them, especially if their licence number (and therefore their status on the subway musicians' ladder...yes, there's a ladder even here) is inexplicably higher than mine.
Not feeling at all generous, I'm withholding my coin.
I'm darting past them as quickly as possible, not meeting their eyes or being encouraging. I do glance at their guitar case (accordion box) to see how well they're doing (ie. how well I'm not, because they're in the spot and not me). My thoughts lean toward comparisons and complaints. I don't feel connected to the other musicians...in fact, I want to distance myself from them.
At sundown tonight, after my last errand of the day, I decide to walk home.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Passed Over
A few days ago I mentioned that folk festival season is coming up. Over the last few weeks, they've been announcing their lineups.
This year, because I deliberately wanted to concentrate on the subway as my primary performance venue, I didn't officially apply to very many events. By not applying to very many, I insulated myself somewhat from the disappointment of being turned down by all of them.
But I did apply to a few specific events which I would have been personally well-suited for. I sent out customized, personal packages to the artistic directors, feeling hopeful but not overly optimistic.
In Canada, there are probably enough excellent acoustic performers to grace a thousand folk festivals.
As always, I got the disappointing news by reading the festivals' lineup announcements. It seems nobody's sending out responses to applications anymore.
But I thought of an exception. For a period of time, I worked with a woman who had to turn down dozens of filmmakers applying for grants. She graciously and courageously phoned unsuccessful applicants, saying something along the lines of "I'm so sorry. We wanted to fit you in but just couldn't this time." In doing so, she earned the applicants' continued respect and ensured that they'd apply again. She understood the importance of acknowledging the people who reached out to her, even if she couldn't provide everything they wanted.
In the subway, when someone says "keep it up" or "good job" or simply nods in my direction instead of reaching in their pocket, I still appreciate it. It's worse to be simply ignored, as if one doesn't exist. Funny how the phrase "passed on" (they "took a pass" on me) is similar to what we say when someone dies. "He passed away". (The person turning away is the one doing the dying.)
Since I've been busking, I've noticed a definite change in my response to rejection. The thousands of mini-rejections are good practice for the bigger ones. So I didn't get booked to play EverybodyFest? That's okay, there'll be others. There's a toughness in my response now that wasn't there before--both a new toughness and a new flexibility. The calluses on my fingers are harder now too, allowing me to play longer and with more strength and assurance. In order to keep those calluses, I have to keep playing, to keep rubbing up against opposition.
So often, the losses aren't real anyway. They're "paper losses"--only wished-for expectations that don't exist in the here and now. When I see them for the mirages they really are, they evaporate into the air. I become more receptive to my actual experience, continually surprised by what's just around the corner and by the sources of support that reveal themselves.
This year, because I deliberately wanted to concentrate on the subway as my primary performance venue, I didn't officially apply to very many events. By not applying to very many, I insulated myself somewhat from the disappointment of being turned down by all of them.
But I did apply to a few specific events which I would have been personally well-suited for. I sent out customized, personal packages to the artistic directors, feeling hopeful but not overly optimistic.
In Canada, there are probably enough excellent acoustic performers to grace a thousand folk festivals.
As always, I got the disappointing news by reading the festivals' lineup announcements. It seems nobody's sending out responses to applications anymore.
But I thought of an exception. For a period of time, I worked with a woman who had to turn down dozens of filmmakers applying for grants. She graciously and courageously phoned unsuccessful applicants, saying something along the lines of "I'm so sorry. We wanted to fit you in but just couldn't this time." In doing so, she earned the applicants' continued respect and ensured that they'd apply again. She understood the importance of acknowledging the people who reached out to her, even if she couldn't provide everything they wanted.
In the subway, when someone says "keep it up" or "good job" or simply nods in my direction instead of reaching in their pocket, I still appreciate it. It's worse to be simply ignored, as if one doesn't exist. Funny how the phrase "passed on" (they "took a pass" on me) is similar to what we say when someone dies. "He passed away". (The person turning away is the one doing the dying.)
Since I've been busking, I've noticed a definite change in my response to rejection. The thousands of mini-rejections are good practice for the bigger ones. So I didn't get booked to play EverybodyFest? That's okay, there'll be others. There's a toughness in my response now that wasn't there before--both a new toughness and a new flexibility. The calluses on my fingers are harder now too, allowing me to play longer and with more strength and assurance. In order to keep those calluses, I have to keep playing, to keep rubbing up against opposition.
So often, the losses aren't real anyway. They're "paper losses"--only wished-for expectations that don't exist in the here and now. When I see them for the mirages they really are, they evaporate into the air. I become more receptive to my actual experience, continually surprised by what's just around the corner and by the sources of support that reveal themselves.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
The Amp On My Back
Early in the subway year, I was told by a passing stranger that my guitar couldn't be heard.
So I went out and bought a small battery-powered amp, which weighs about fifteen pounds. It fits neatly into a backpack, which I carry with me, along with my guitar in its hardshell case.
At one point, I tried to load everything onto a nifty little pull-cart, but I couldn't get the hang of it, so I went back to shouldering the load myself.
Lately, as I've been moving from station to station looking for a place to sing, it's occurred to me that the amp on my back is making the journey more difficult.
I use the amp because I want to be heard. I want more people to hear me. I want my songs to carry. The amp magnifies and enhances my sound. I feel it makes me sound more "professional".
The amp works as it's supposed to. Now I can be heard from a greater distance. You don't have to be right up close to appreciate my songs.
At the same time, this amp on my back slows me down. It's a burden, but one I'm happy to take on as I try to launch my songs into the world, to make them go further and faster.
Sometimes I wonder what people are thinking. Whatever is she carrying in that big pack? And while she's already got a guitar!
Well, I'll tell you what's in that pack. Expensive CDs, a few press releases, nice-looking business cards, side musicians that get paid, song contest entries, photographs, bios...a whole bunch of little amps.
Meanwhile, yeah, I'm carrying the guitar no matter what.
I'll be carrying it for the rest of my life. And it will be carrying me.
I wonder how long I'll be hauling that amp.
So I went out and bought a small battery-powered amp, which weighs about fifteen pounds. It fits neatly into a backpack, which I carry with me, along with my guitar in its hardshell case.
At one point, I tried to load everything onto a nifty little pull-cart, but I couldn't get the hang of it, so I went back to shouldering the load myself.
Lately, as I've been moving from station to station looking for a place to sing, it's occurred to me that the amp on my back is making the journey more difficult.
I use the amp because I want to be heard. I want more people to hear me. I want my songs to carry. The amp magnifies and enhances my sound. I feel it makes me sound more "professional".
The amp works as it's supposed to. Now I can be heard from a greater distance. You don't have to be right up close to appreciate my songs.
At the same time, this amp on my back slows me down. It's a burden, but one I'm happy to take on as I try to launch my songs into the world, to make them go further and faster.
Sometimes I wonder what people are thinking. Whatever is she carrying in that big pack? And while she's already got a guitar!
Well, I'll tell you what's in that pack. Expensive CDs, a few press releases, nice-looking business cards, side musicians that get paid, song contest entries, photographs, bios...a whole bunch of little amps.
Meanwhile, yeah, I'm carrying the guitar no matter what.
I'll be carrying it for the rest of my life. And it will be carrying me.
I wonder how long I'll be hauling that amp.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Spadina
Last time I was on the subway, I was told I was going to Spadina.
Maybe I should have just gone there first.
But instead, I started at Pape station. It was around ten o'clock on a sweltering Saturday morning. The Pape performance spot was occupied by a large electric keyboard, waiting for its owner to return from a break.
Next I tried Yonge, the busiest station and one that I often feel too shy to play. Adam Solomon, the Juno-winning guitar player, was there. Always warm, bemused and soft-spoken, he talked with me about the challenges of the subway gig. Coming from the Caribbean, he feels everyone is moving "too fast". Like me, he wishes more people would take a moment to enjoy the music. He planned to stick around for awhile and suggested I try Eglinton.
A longhaired guitar player was there, playing very jangly material. His songs don't exactly blend in in a soothing way. (As I continually remind myself, there's no accounting for taste.) He starts selling me on Spadina. "There's this really long corridor leading up to the spot, so people have a long time to make up their minds. And the acoustics are great."
It's true, the corridor is really really long. It seemed even longer in 32 degree heat with an amp on my back. Until about a year ago, the corridor featured a moving sidewalk, but it had been removed. Trudging along, I remembered a conversation I'd had with a musical friend who pointed out that twenty years ago, it was easier for music artists to get on a career track, with radio play and record label support. Those vehicles don't exist any more for the vast majority, who have to get wherever they end up on their own power. (Trudge, trudge.)
The musician was right, also, about the acoustics in the performance space. The reverb was just as warm as it had been at Christmas, last time I was here. Once again, I thought the spacious and attractive foyer would work well as a concert auditorium.
The sound was so pleasing here, it made up for the slow donations which lately have been typical. (I figured, you could come up with lots of reasons not to donate while walking the length of that corridor.) After four songs without any contributions, I realized that I was genuinely enjoying the experience simply as a rehearsal. Over the course of the next two and a half hours, I played several of my songs much better than usual, playing off the acoustics of the room, trying new guitar fills and unexpected rhythms. For ten minutes, I also played an instrumental improvisation around "This Little Light of Mine".
It's unlike me to be so laid-back and jazzy. (Must be Adam's influence...or maybe the heat.)
Today I had several memorable donations: from parents and children, from a disabled teenage girl, and from a brave man who declared loud enough for everyone to hear, "It's lovely! Lovely! Keep singing!"
The most unusual donation, one of the most unusual of the year so far, came from two teenage boys.
As they arrived at the top of the stairs and started striding across the vestibule, one of them gestured at me and said clearly "For instance, I wouldn't pay anything for that..."
Startled, I forgot my lyrics but kept playing, looking away from them and figuring they were having some discussion about what kind of music they liked. I wasn't offended, just momentarily off-balance.
Meanwhile, the boy's friend, having noticed what had happened, reached into his pocket and threw a few coins into my case.
By doing so, he obliged the first young man to stop, get out his wallet, and give me a dollar.
(Spadina Station - 11:15 to 1:39 - $31.77)
Maybe I should have just gone there first.
But instead, I started at Pape station. It was around ten o'clock on a sweltering Saturday morning. The Pape performance spot was occupied by a large electric keyboard, waiting for its owner to return from a break.
Next I tried Yonge, the busiest station and one that I often feel too shy to play. Adam Solomon, the Juno-winning guitar player, was there. Always warm, bemused and soft-spoken, he talked with me about the challenges of the subway gig. Coming from the Caribbean, he feels everyone is moving "too fast". Like me, he wishes more people would take a moment to enjoy the music. He planned to stick around for awhile and suggested I try Eglinton.
A longhaired guitar player was there, playing very jangly material. His songs don't exactly blend in in a soothing way. (As I continually remind myself, there's no accounting for taste.) He starts selling me on Spadina. "There's this really long corridor leading up to the spot, so people have a long time to make up their minds. And the acoustics are great."
It's true, the corridor is really really long. It seemed even longer in 32 degree heat with an amp on my back. Until about a year ago, the corridor featured a moving sidewalk, but it had been removed. Trudging along, I remembered a conversation I'd had with a musical friend who pointed out that twenty years ago, it was easier for music artists to get on a career track, with radio play and record label support. Those vehicles don't exist any more for the vast majority, who have to get wherever they end up on their own power. (Trudge, trudge.)
The musician was right, also, about the acoustics in the performance space. The reverb was just as warm as it had been at Christmas, last time I was here. Once again, I thought the spacious and attractive foyer would work well as a concert auditorium.
The sound was so pleasing here, it made up for the slow donations which lately have been typical. (I figured, you could come up with lots of reasons not to donate while walking the length of that corridor.) After four songs without any contributions, I realized that I was genuinely enjoying the experience simply as a rehearsal. Over the course of the next two and a half hours, I played several of my songs much better than usual, playing off the acoustics of the room, trying new guitar fills and unexpected rhythms. For ten minutes, I also played an instrumental improvisation around "This Little Light of Mine".
It's unlike me to be so laid-back and jazzy. (Must be Adam's influence...or maybe the heat.)
+++
Today I had several memorable donations: from parents and children, from a disabled teenage girl, and from a brave man who declared loud enough for everyone to hear, "It's lovely! Lovely! Keep singing!"
The most unusual donation, one of the most unusual of the year so far, came from two teenage boys.
As they arrived at the top of the stairs and started striding across the vestibule, one of them gestured at me and said clearly "For instance, I wouldn't pay anything for that..."
Startled, I forgot my lyrics but kept playing, looking away from them and figuring they were having some discussion about what kind of music they liked. I wasn't offended, just momentarily off-balance.
Meanwhile, the boy's friend, having noticed what had happened, reached into his pocket and threw a few coins into my case.
By doing so, he obliged the first young man to stop, get out his wallet, and give me a dollar.
(Spadina Station - 11:15 to 1:39 - $31.77)
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Next Stop: This Stop
As I was riding on the westbound train, the conductor brightly announced the next station along the line.
"Next stop, Spadina Station! Spadina!"
I glanced up from my book, enjoying the ride and happy to have someone else tell me where I was going.
The train rolled on and I continued to read. As predicted, we pulled into Spadina station. The happy voice came on the loudspeaker again.
"Next stop, Spadina Station. Spadina!"
I looked up and almost said to the car in general, "No it's not! The next stop is Bathurst!"
Then I caught myself, laughing at how important it was for me to point out that we are headed someplace, we are!
It was funny, how outraged I was, when a happy voice overhead told me that I could look forward to arriving at the place I'm in right now.
"Next stop, Spadina Station! Spadina!"
I glanced up from my book, enjoying the ride and happy to have someone else tell me where I was going.
The train rolled on and I continued to read. As predicted, we pulled into Spadina station. The happy voice came on the loudspeaker again.
"Next stop, Spadina Station. Spadina!"
I looked up and almost said to the car in general, "No it's not! The next stop is Bathurst!"
Then I caught myself, laughing at how important it was for me to point out that we are headed someplace, we are!
It was funny, how outraged I was, when a happy voice overhead told me that I could look forward to arriving at the place I'm in right now.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Still Standing
For several days now, I've been riding the subway more frequently as a passenger, and it's been interesting to see things from that side of the tracks.
I've been disappointed that I haven't been running into many other subway musicians. I'm surprised that they've been scarce (maybe it's just my timing). The weather is beautiful outside, which I expect would make for good busking. On the other hand, on a beautiful +29 degree day, why would you want to spend any more time than you have to in a dark and dreary subway corridor?
The most obvious difference between my passenger experience and my busking experience is that when I'm a passenger, I'm moving, and when I'm a busker, I'm stopped.
I wonder, actually, whether this makes people uneasy.
In the city, we're all trying to get somewhere. The faster, the better. We're trying to move past the station we're in to a better place. A destination.
Meanwhile, the subway musician (and the panhandler, the Outreach salesman, the artist selling little paintings or bead necklaces) is stopped. Standing still. Staying put, right here and now.
And she's singing.
That's just weird.
Now, do you reward that kind of behaviour with a coin or a smile? If you do, what are you saying? That it's a good idea to jump off the track of forward-motion even for the time it takes to hear a song...or to pause long enough from a conventional career path (to spend time as a parent or as an artist) that you might consider never getting on again?
My impression from talking to people over the past year (friends, family and strangers) is that they're happy to support this activity as long as it appears to be headed somewhere. Indeed, many people who donate to me on the subway tell me openly that they hope I move ahead quickly and find myself on a more prestigious stage soon.
My own inclination is the same...to keep moving.
When I do find myself standing still, by choice or by circumstance, sometimes I'm slow to appreciate the beauty of stillness...and to celebrate, simply, still standing in the place that I am. I'm reminded of that old R.E.M. song: "Stand in the place that you live, then face north...think about direction, wonder why you haven't before."
It's coming up to festival season again. Folk festivals are prestigious landmarks for singer-songwriters. I like to play them. And, like many other highly-accomplished songwriters I know, I don't get booked to them as often as I'd like. There is more than enough music to go around. When well-meaning friends ask "So, are you playing lots of festivals this summer?" assuming that I am, it's with a pang of ambitious regret that I tell them, no, not this year.
Like the passengers moving through the station this morning, I often wish I was moving further, faster.
Instead, I am standing.
Still.
Singing.
I've been disappointed that I haven't been running into many other subway musicians. I'm surprised that they've been scarce (maybe it's just my timing). The weather is beautiful outside, which I expect would make for good busking. On the other hand, on a beautiful +29 degree day, why would you want to spend any more time than you have to in a dark and dreary subway corridor?
The most obvious difference between my passenger experience and my busking experience is that when I'm a passenger, I'm moving, and when I'm a busker, I'm stopped.
I wonder, actually, whether this makes people uneasy.
In the city, we're all trying to get somewhere. The faster, the better. We're trying to move past the station we're in to a better place. A destination.
Meanwhile, the subway musician (and the panhandler, the Outreach salesman, the artist selling little paintings or bead necklaces) is stopped. Standing still. Staying put, right here and now.
And she's singing.
That's just weird.
Now, do you reward that kind of behaviour with a coin or a smile? If you do, what are you saying? That it's a good idea to jump off the track of forward-motion even for the time it takes to hear a song...or to pause long enough from a conventional career path (to spend time as a parent or as an artist) that you might consider never getting on again?
My impression from talking to people over the past year (friends, family and strangers) is that they're happy to support this activity as long as it appears to be headed somewhere. Indeed, many people who donate to me on the subway tell me openly that they hope I move ahead quickly and find myself on a more prestigious stage soon.
My own inclination is the same...to keep moving.
When I do find myself standing still, by choice or by circumstance, sometimes I'm slow to appreciate the beauty of stillness...and to celebrate, simply, still standing in the place that I am. I'm reminded of that old R.E.M. song: "Stand in the place that you live, then face north...think about direction, wonder why you haven't before."
It's coming up to festival season again. Folk festivals are prestigious landmarks for singer-songwriters. I like to play them. And, like many other highly-accomplished songwriters I know, I don't get booked to them as often as I'd like. There is more than enough music to go around. When well-meaning friends ask "So, are you playing lots of festivals this summer?" assuming that I am, it's with a pang of ambitious regret that I tell them, no, not this year.
Like the passengers moving through the station this morning, I often wish I was moving further, faster.
Instead, I am standing.
Still.
Singing.
Enough Music To Go Around
This morning I went to my favourite stomping ground to catch the morning rush hour. I was in very good spirits and my guitar and voice sounded bright and cheerful.
The crowds were much thicker than at other times of day. But nobody was stopping.
Not that I blame them. We're all trying to get somewhere.
It was striking, what a small fraction of people made a point of reaching into their pockets today. It reminded me of some comments other subway musicians had made to me recently, that they feel people are giving less than they used to. It's not scientifically provable...but we all share the same feeling. Fewer people are donating than you might expect.
Many people are walking by wearing iPods these days. We've devised a way to create isolating bubbles of sound for ourselves even when we're not driving cars. We can listen to our own personal playlist that plays all the time and blocks out everything else, even when we're in "public space". Probably we're always doing this with the continual soundtracks in our heads, but the iPod makes it sexy. (Here's a fantastic compliment that I get from time to time. As someone is walking by, he removes his headphones to check out what I'm singing.)
I do believe that "crowd-think" is a big part of donation patterns. It's not as if I hold each person personally responsible...and in fact, I make a point of smiling and looking content so that people won't feel guilty if they're too pressed at that moment to reach into their pockets. Of course, the individuals who do donate something (this morning a young woman in a headscarf donated a nickel and another donated five dollars!) shine like gold.
They seem to know they're doing something unusual...something even vaguely rebellious or subversive, giving to someone when they don't have to, when it's purely up to them, when there's more than enough music to go around anyway.
(8:02 to 10:45 - $30.62 - which seems pretty average, until you consider the number of people. Conservatively, I'm estimating that 250 people passed through Pape Station this morning.)
The crowds were much thicker than at other times of day. But nobody was stopping.
Not that I blame them. We're all trying to get somewhere.
It was striking, what a small fraction of people made a point of reaching into their pockets today. It reminded me of some comments other subway musicians had made to me recently, that they feel people are giving less than they used to. It's not scientifically provable...but we all share the same feeling. Fewer people are donating than you might expect.
Many people are walking by wearing iPods these days. We've devised a way to create isolating bubbles of sound for ourselves even when we're not driving cars. We can listen to our own personal playlist that plays all the time and blocks out everything else, even when we're in "public space". Probably we're always doing this with the continual soundtracks in our heads, but the iPod makes it sexy. (Here's a fantastic compliment that I get from time to time. As someone is walking by, he removes his headphones to check out what I'm singing.)
I do believe that "crowd-think" is a big part of donation patterns. It's not as if I hold each person personally responsible...and in fact, I make a point of smiling and looking content so that people won't feel guilty if they're too pressed at that moment to reach into their pockets. Of course, the individuals who do donate something (this morning a young woman in a headscarf donated a nickel and another donated five dollars!) shine like gold.
They seem to know they're doing something unusual...something even vaguely rebellious or subversive, giving to someone when they don't have to, when it's purely up to them, when there's more than enough music to go around anyway.
(8:02 to 10:45 - $30.62 - which seems pretty average, until you consider the number of people. Conservatively, I'm estimating that 250 people passed through Pape Station this morning.)
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Walk On By
The universe is laughing at me.
Today we went out to a big yard sale in our neighborhood (or to quote a Fred Eaglesmith song, a "big ass garage sale") and I spotted a Famous Canadian Singer-Songwriter.
He was standing outside his house selling stuff.
Now, I’m terrible at these chance meetings. Even if I remind myself ahead of time not to be awkward, I always end up saying something dumb. While it may not be insincere to say something such as "I love your music and I'm a singer-songwriter myself", it certainly can seem needy.
Having learned my lesson many times, I now simply walk on past, sometimes giving the Famous Person a friendly but casual glance which reassures him or her that no, I am not another stutteringly awkward fan (or, worse yet, a stutteringly awkward fan who is also an obscure singer-songwriter).
Making matters even more complicated, F.P. was talking to my next-door neighbour, whom I know quite well. But I could handle it. Smoothly, I said hello to her, glanced pleasantly in F.P’s direction and breezed on by.
But not before I overheard him start talking to someone who came up to him with a vinyl LP in his hand, saying:
"Look at this! A record of subway musicians in Toronto!"
(That’d be the 1981 recording "Music For Subways", which featured the first eight licensed TTC musicians.)
I kept walking...choosing not to awkwardly introduce myself as a fan, an obscure singer-songwriter and a subway musician.
Today we went out to a big yard sale in our neighborhood (or to quote a Fred Eaglesmith song, a "big ass garage sale") and I spotted a Famous Canadian Singer-Songwriter.
He was standing outside his house selling stuff.
Now, I’m terrible at these chance meetings. Even if I remind myself ahead of time not to be awkward, I always end up saying something dumb. While it may not be insincere to say something such as "I love your music and I'm a singer-songwriter myself", it certainly can seem needy.
Having learned my lesson many times, I now simply walk on past, sometimes giving the Famous Person a friendly but casual glance which reassures him or her that no, I am not another stutteringly awkward fan (or, worse yet, a stutteringly awkward fan who is also an obscure singer-songwriter).
Making matters even more complicated, F.P. was talking to my next-door neighbour, whom I know quite well. But I could handle it. Smoothly, I said hello to her, glanced pleasantly in F.P’s direction and breezed on by.
But not before I overheard him start talking to someone who came up to him with a vinyl LP in his hand, saying:
"Look at this! A record of subway musicians in Toronto!"
(That’d be the 1981 recording "Music For Subways", which featured the first eight licensed TTC musicians.)
I kept walking...choosing not to awkwardly introduce myself as a fan, an obscure singer-songwriter and a subway musician.
Now...and again?
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.
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.
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.
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