Friday, April 08, 2005
Standstill?
Of course, I was so busy writing about how much fun I'm having in the subway, I missed the announcement that the TTC is going on strike on Monday.
The Halfway Point
Today I marked the six-month anniversary of my first busking year by playing at Pape Station.
I only had an hour to spare this morning, but I knew it would be enough. In an hour I can play up to twenty songs, which is the length of a long set in a regular paid performance. Even one song, by itself, is better than none.
I thought of the man's question at Woodbine yesterday: "Is this worth your while?" I realize that my answer has always been yes, even when donations are slow and I'm feeling discouraged. Even when the songs don't seem to be reaching anyone else, they're reaching me...keeping me connected to the world and to my spirit. And I am sure that the music (the music of all the volunteer subway players) changes the city in ways we don't completely understand.
But let's be honest. It's just plain hard. Every time I play in the subway, I experience painful moments (sometimes stretching into half-hours) of doubt and discouragement, when I feel marginalized, ridiculous, a failure. There are many times when I consider turning around and heading back home so as to avoid embarrassment.
I often find myself asking "What am I doing here?".
That seems to be the central question.
When I ask it one way, I'm expressing a deep sense of frustration. I feel as though I don't know where to turn or what purpose I'm serving. I'm tired and self-pitying. I'm afraid that I've made foolish choices with my life and have landed in the wrong place.
But when I ask it another way, as a spiritual question or prayer, it's a question of deeper purpose: What can I do to make the most of this situation, this place, this song, this life, this moment?
When I'm singing on the subway I ask that question all the time. I see it from both perspectives, like two sides of a coin.
+++
Here's a list of the most important things I've observed, in six months of subway busking.
Many people are kind and generous.
Most people are preoccupied and distracted.
Many people appear sad.
Most adults tune out their surroundings
...but children tune in to everything.
Children freely express interest and delight
...while adults rarely do.
(Children find this confusing.)
People seem happier in light places.
People enjoy giving.
People like to hear "thank you".
People like to say "thanks".
All people are fascinating.
All people are beautiful.
We look more alike than we realize.
We can rely on serendipity.
We are all connected.
Every contribution means something.
It all adds up.
I only had an hour to spare this morning, but I knew it would be enough. In an hour I can play up to twenty songs, which is the length of a long set in a regular paid performance. Even one song, by itself, is better than none.
I thought of the man's question at Woodbine yesterday: "Is this worth your while?" I realize that my answer has always been yes, even when donations are slow and I'm feeling discouraged. Even when the songs don't seem to be reaching anyone else, they're reaching me...keeping me connected to the world and to my spirit. And I am sure that the music (the music of all the volunteer subway players) changes the city in ways we don't completely understand.
But let's be honest. It's just plain hard. Every time I play in the subway, I experience painful moments (sometimes stretching into half-hours) of doubt and discouragement, when I feel marginalized, ridiculous, a failure. There are many times when I consider turning around and heading back home so as to avoid embarrassment.
I often find myself asking "What am I doing here?".
That seems to be the central question.
When I ask it one way, I'm expressing a deep sense of frustration. I feel as though I don't know where to turn or what purpose I'm serving. I'm tired and self-pitying. I'm afraid that I've made foolish choices with my life and have landed in the wrong place.
But when I ask it another way, as a spiritual question or prayer, it's a question of deeper purpose: What can I do to make the most of this situation, this place, this song, this life, this moment?
When I'm singing on the subway I ask that question all the time. I see it from both perspectives, like two sides of a coin.
+++
Here's a list of the most important things I've observed, in six months of subway busking.
Many people are kind and generous.
Most people are preoccupied and distracted.
Many people appear sad.
Most adults tune out their surroundings
...but children tune in to everything.
Children freely express interest and delight
...while adults rarely do.
(Children find this confusing.)
People seem happier in light places.
People enjoy giving.
People like to hear "thank you".
People like to say "thanks".
All people are fascinating.
All people are beautiful.
We look more alike than we realize.
We can rely on serendipity.
We are all connected.
Every contribution means something.
It all adds up.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Return to Earth: Woodbine
It’s possible that the creative high was hormonal and the song isn’t really good after all.
I felt doubtful about it when I played it at Fat Albert’s last night and forgot half the lyrics--the same ones I’d been blissfully replaying for more than 48 hours. The other day I sang it in the subway with no difficulty whatsoever, but when I played it for people who were listening intently, my mind went blank.
Of course, everyone was supportive anyway. (These places are like church or 12-Step programs, and thank Goodness for that.) I was disappointed that I didn't manage a more polished performance, but I also figured it was a good reminder not to take myself (or the song) too seriously.
“I’d like to hear it again,” one friend told me. (Well, yeah…it’d be good to hear all of the correct lyrics. And in the right order.)
Now that the euphoric high has dissipated and I’ve returned to earth, I’m amazed at how much time was soaked up by the song. It dominated three days, leaving me behind on several things, especially because it came on the heels of last weekend’s concert. I dug out a bit by cleaning the house for an hour today and catching up on a writing project. But I still felt behind on everything and completely exhausted.
I considered skipping the subway, but realized I’d feel better if I did. At the very least, I’d feel better about myself having made the effort. So I went to Woodbine station, a stop I hadn’t visited for a long time. There’s something about the architecture of that green corridor that makes me feel protected and comfortable. I wanted to go there today even though it’s not the most well-travelled station.
Despite feeling exhausted before I began, I found myself singing and playing well, feeling confident and enjoying the connection with people. I played “Music Town” four times (not forgetting the lyrics) which attracted a number of donations. I sold a CD. Today I noticed, as I have other times, that many people making donations were moving more slowly than others, sometimes because of age or disability. On the other hand, others were actually running past me today, but many of them smiled as they whizzed by.
One man stopped to talk, asking if it’s worth my while financially to come out and sing. I told him that it was better than sitting at home.
I didn’t tell him that this afternoon, I’d been in danger of falling prey to the low that can follow the creative high. If I'd stayed home, I would have been second-guessing the quality of my new song and kicking myself for not playing it better last night. In short, I would have been feeling sorry for myself and letting insecurity get the best of me.
Better to come out and sing.
I felt doubtful about it when I played it at Fat Albert’s last night and forgot half the lyrics--the same ones I’d been blissfully replaying for more than 48 hours. The other day I sang it in the subway with no difficulty whatsoever, but when I played it for people who were listening intently, my mind went blank.
Of course, everyone was supportive anyway. (These places are like church or 12-Step programs, and thank Goodness for that.) I was disappointed that I didn't manage a more polished performance, but I also figured it was a good reminder not to take myself (or the song) too seriously.
“I’d like to hear it again,” one friend told me. (Well, yeah…it’d be good to hear all of the correct lyrics. And in the right order.)
Now that the euphoric high has dissipated and I’ve returned to earth, I’m amazed at how much time was soaked up by the song. It dominated three days, leaving me behind on several things, especially because it came on the heels of last weekend’s concert. I dug out a bit by cleaning the house for an hour today and catching up on a writing project. But I still felt behind on everything and completely exhausted.
I considered skipping the subway, but realized I’d feel better if I did. At the very least, I’d feel better about myself having made the effort. So I went to Woodbine station, a stop I hadn’t visited for a long time. There’s something about the architecture of that green corridor that makes me feel protected and comfortable. I wanted to go there today even though it’s not the most well-travelled station.
Despite feeling exhausted before I began, I found myself singing and playing well, feeling confident and enjoying the connection with people. I played “Music Town” four times (not forgetting the lyrics) which attracted a number of donations. I sold a CD. Today I noticed, as I have other times, that many people making donations were moving more slowly than others, sometimes because of age or disability. On the other hand, others were actually running past me today, but many of them smiled as they whizzed by.
One man stopped to talk, asking if it’s worth my while financially to come out and sing. I told him that it was better than sitting at home.
I didn’t tell him that this afternoon, I’d been in danger of falling prey to the low that can follow the creative high. If I'd stayed home, I would have been second-guessing the quality of my new song and kicking myself for not playing it better last night. In short, I would have been feeling sorry for myself and letting insecurity get the best of me.
Better to come out and sing.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Wednesday Morning, Music Town
My schedule said "Broadview Station, Morning". Sounded good to me.
When I got there I had second thoughts. The construction materials are really piling up in the performance space now, so I'd have to go up against a metal barrier, a stack of drywall and two pylons. Not to mention dust.
I considered sticking around and serenading the construction workers...but I chickened out and went to Pape again, where I resolved to play "Creature of Habit".
Several TTC workers were standing in the performance space when I arrived, talking to each other perhaps about the potential TTC strike which could begin next week. I walked up to them, wearing my best "I-hate-to-bother-you-but-I-was-hoping-to-busk" expression.
"Oh! You want to play here!" one exclaimed, seeming surprised and delighted by the idea. As I set up, they asked me how my amp worked and inquired about how much money I make. I told them I hope for about $20 an hour in a good location.
As it turned out, my amp didn't work very well at all today, dying out in the middle of a song after I'd been playing for 45 minutes. When I played without it, I heard myself over-singing to make up for the loss of volume. I decided to stop early. By doing so, I also made sure I wouldn't be late to pick up the kids for lunch. (Surely I'm the only mother perpetually running late because of her busking commitments.)
In this performance, I debuted the new song I've been telling you about. (!!!!...gratuitous punctuation to indicate continuing feelings of euphoria!!!)
So far, public reaction to the new work is positive.
In 45 minutes I earned $15.75 (exactly as estimated).
Approximately $7.00 of that (in five separate donations) came for "Music Town".
When I got there I had second thoughts. The construction materials are really piling up in the performance space now, so I'd have to go up against a metal barrier, a stack of drywall and two pylons. Not to mention dust.
I considered sticking around and serenading the construction workers...but I chickened out and went to Pape again, where I resolved to play "Creature of Habit".
Several TTC workers were standing in the performance space when I arrived, talking to each other perhaps about the potential TTC strike which could begin next week. I walked up to them, wearing my best "I-hate-to-bother-you-but-I-was-hoping-to-busk" expression.
"Oh! You want to play here!" one exclaimed, seeming surprised and delighted by the idea. As I set up, they asked me how my amp worked and inquired about how much money I make. I told them I hope for about $20 an hour in a good location.
As it turned out, my amp didn't work very well at all today, dying out in the middle of a song after I'd been playing for 45 minutes. When I played without it, I heard myself over-singing to make up for the loss of volume. I decided to stop early. By doing so, I also made sure I wouldn't be late to pick up the kids for lunch. (Surely I'm the only mother perpetually running late because of her busking commitments.)
In this performance, I debuted the new song I've been telling you about. (!!!!...gratuitous punctuation to indicate continuing feelings of euphoria!!!)
So far, public reaction to the new work is positive.
In 45 minutes I earned $15.75 (exactly as estimated).
Approximately $7.00 of that (in five separate donations) came for "Music Town".
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Creative Highs
The feeling of euphoria connected with writing a shiny new song has continued over the last few days. During that time, I've tinkered with the lyrics a bit more, settled on the groove and added hooky parts to the guitar and vocals.
All this time, I've been in a great mood. (Did the mood come first, or the song? Could this be hormonal?!) Things that normally trip me up are easy to manage.
I don't feel jealous of a friend's major movie opportunity or another friend's million dollar house. I'm more accepting of my own flaws (such as my tendency to feel jealous of stuff like that) and those of others. I'm smiling at everybody all the time. I'm dressing better and I feel great, even though I feel exhausted. Have I mentioned it's like falling in love? Maybe this is why some artists find it hard to stay in relationships...the relationship with the work can be like a romantic affair.
It's probably no accident that I wrote the song immediately after my big show last weekend, a time which often feels anti-climactic to say the least. I often feel exhausted and even depressed after big shows, wondering "what was the point of that?" and "what do I do now?" The new song moved right into that void, filling it up with positive new energy.
It's interesting to me that the feeling of creative joy seems to have nothing to do with professional expectations. I don't feel the song will "change" anything in my life. I'm not happy because I could enter it in contests or put it on my new CD or use it to open any doors, even though I believe it's one of the best I've ever written. The joy seems to lie instead in the feeling of meeting a "personal best" goal and in appreciating a beautiful new thing that wasn't there before and that I helped bring into being.
The creative high, while it lasts, overrides professional disappointment and envy and ambition. Maybe that's not so good, in a way. The song's mere existence doesn't pay any bills...and in fact the dreamlike euphoria could fool you into thinking the bills don't matter. That's why I'm grateful that I have some other commitments today (writing jobs and childcare) that keep me my feet on the ground of the real world while my head's in the creative clouds.
All this time, I've been in a great mood. (Did the mood come first, or the song? Could this be hormonal?!) Things that normally trip me up are easy to manage.
I don't feel jealous of a friend's major movie opportunity or another friend's million dollar house. I'm more accepting of my own flaws (such as my tendency to feel jealous of stuff like that) and those of others. I'm smiling at everybody all the time. I'm dressing better and I feel great, even though I feel exhausted. Have I mentioned it's like falling in love? Maybe this is why some artists find it hard to stay in relationships...the relationship with the work can be like a romantic affair.
It's probably no accident that I wrote the song immediately after my big show last weekend, a time which often feels anti-climactic to say the least. I often feel exhausted and even depressed after big shows, wondering "what was the point of that?" and "what do I do now?" The new song moved right into that void, filling it up with positive new energy.
It's interesting to me that the feeling of creative joy seems to have nothing to do with professional expectations. I don't feel the song will "change" anything in my life. I'm not happy because I could enter it in contests or put it on my new CD or use it to open any doors, even though I believe it's one of the best I've ever written. The joy seems to lie instead in the feeling of meeting a "personal best" goal and in appreciating a beautiful new thing that wasn't there before and that I helped bring into being.
The creative high, while it lasts, overrides professional disappointment and envy and ambition. Maybe that's not so good, in a way. The song's mere existence doesn't pay any bills...and in fact the dreamlike euphoria could fool you into thinking the bills don't matter. That's why I'm grateful that I have some other commitments today (writing jobs and childcare) that keep me my feet on the ground of the real world while my head's in the creative clouds.
Monday, April 04, 2005
Submerged in a Song
Since about 1 p.m. today I have been intensely preoccupied by a new song. I think it's finished now, which means it's taken about nine hours. I've taken a few breaks, for dinner and family activities, but I know I haven't been very good company. At dinner, I apologized for seeming distant.
My best songs are always born this way: quickly (over twenty-four hours or less) and very intensely. I compare the experience to falling in love or giving birth. It feels exhilarating and exciting and also disorienting, physically demanding and somehow painful. There's no stopping it. Eveything must yield.
+++
Because I'm just finishing the process, I can sketch out that process right now. I want to do this for myself, because a few days from now I will have completely forgotten how the song was born. (If you think this is too 'me, me, me', stop reading now!)
Earlier in the day, as a diversion, I started writing a (separate) silly novelty song on a related topic. I finished it during a break from the Big Song, so I ended up with one funny and one serious song on the same general idea.
Here's how writing of the big song went. I can't remember if I had the chord pattern or the title line first, so they must have come together. Because I'd used the same pattern before, I decided to change it a little so as not to repeat myself. I did something similar with the melody: started with something simple and made small adjustments to make it more interesting, experimenting to see what sounded most original and natural to sing. I also kept adjusting the tempo and strumming pattern, and though I'm getting close to deciding, right now I'm still debating two tempos/feels.
The lyrics started with a title/hook line and really got going with a metaphor that seemed fresh and surprising to me. I took care to ensure that the verses developed logically and told some kind of story and that there was a revelatory twist at the end. As usually happens when a song goes well, two "bingo!" surprise lyrics fell into my lap like perfect puzzle pieces, without any conscious effort.
Over the past few days, three songwriters have been on my mind: Jimmy Webb , Neil Young and Ron Sexsmith and I understand how they all influenced the song (though I doubt anybody else could tell, and I hope they can't!)
Another sign of a good song: I must play it soon in public.
My best songs are always born this way: quickly (over twenty-four hours or less) and very intensely. I compare the experience to falling in love or giving birth. It feels exhilarating and exciting and also disorienting, physically demanding and somehow painful. There's no stopping it. Eveything must yield.
+++
Because I'm just finishing the process, I can sketch out that process right now. I want to do this for myself, because a few days from now I will have completely forgotten how the song was born. (If you think this is too 'me, me, me', stop reading now!)
Earlier in the day, as a diversion, I started writing a (separate) silly novelty song on a related topic. I finished it during a break from the Big Song, so I ended up with one funny and one serious song on the same general idea.
Here's how writing of the big song went. I can't remember if I had the chord pattern or the title line first, so they must have come together. Because I'd used the same pattern before, I decided to change it a little so as not to repeat myself. I did something similar with the melody: started with something simple and made small adjustments to make it more interesting, experimenting to see what sounded most original and natural to sing. I also kept adjusting the tempo and strumming pattern, and though I'm getting close to deciding, right now I'm still debating two tempos/feels.
The lyrics started with a title/hook line and really got going with a metaphor that seemed fresh and surprising to me. I took care to ensure that the verses developed logically and told some kind of story and that there was a revelatory twist at the end. As usually happens when a song goes well, two "bingo!" surprise lyrics fell into my lap like perfect puzzle pieces, without any conscious effort.
Over the past few days, three songwriters have been on my mind: Jimmy Webb , Neil Young and Ron Sexsmith and I understand how they all influenced the song (though I doubt anybody else could tell, and I hope they can't!)
Another sign of a good song: I must play it soon in public.
Sunday, April 03, 2005
Spring Forward
Ten minutes to showtime and I still hadn't figured out the coffeemaker.
It was the night of our big "Feels Like Spring" concert, which proved to be an ironically amusing title. I'm not what you'd call an ironic songwriter (which is perhaps unfortunate in an age of stylish post-modernism) so holding a "Feels Like Spring" concert in the middle of a freezing slush storm seemed particularly daring.
Anyway, we were prepared. We had created see-through green bookmarks and given them away as a souvenir in the program (yes, a program!) so it could feel like spring no matter what. Also, the concert had chanced to fall on "spring forward" night, which allowed me to sing my lyric "turn your clocks forward, don't you fall back, don't get tripped up by those things you still lack" with extra enthusiasm.
More than 80 people turned out for my show last night at our nearby community centre. (It's a lovely place, a big historical building, but not well known. To direct people to it I found myself referring to Jilly's, the better-known strip club a block away.) My bandmates for the night, Noah Zacharin and David Woodhead , played brilliantly. As for me, I decided it was best to simply sing and not mention the coffee-making debacle.
I've heard it said that when you're a mother, you're also a nurse, short-order cook, teacher, coach, cleaning lady and child psychologist. It's probably equally true that independent musicians are often publicists, event coordinators, caterers, couriers, set decorators and e-mail marketers.
At one point, when people were arriving, the decorations weren't quite up yet, the CD and food tables were a work-in-progress and I still hadn't figured out the coffee, I started to panic. A kind musician friend took me aside and reminded me that no matter what, I could just get up with the band and sing the songs and everybody would have a good time. I realized she was right.
We had hoped the weather would be perfect on April 2nd, and we'd hoped to have every single detail perfectly in place hours before the show. But that doesn't really feel like spring at all. Spring is known for its slush storms. And community events are (in my experience) known for their mystifying coffeemakers.
After talking to my friend, I looked around the room again and saw that miraculously the room had been transformed. Lights glittered on the ceiling, colourful paper flowers bedecked the floor and the CD and food tables looked fantastic, all thanks to many talented and generous friends.
The show went forward. It did "Feel Like Spring". I'm told the coffee was excellent...and so was the music.
+++
Our family spent the day recovering from last night's show...but we had enough energy to watch the Juno Awards, which were held in my hometown, Winnipeg, this year. We all jumped up from the couch and cheered when Ron Sexsmith won Songwriter of the Year.
It was the night of our big "Feels Like Spring" concert, which proved to be an ironically amusing title. I'm not what you'd call an ironic songwriter (which is perhaps unfortunate in an age of stylish post-modernism) so holding a "Feels Like Spring" concert in the middle of a freezing slush storm seemed particularly daring.
Anyway, we were prepared. We had created see-through green bookmarks and given them away as a souvenir in the program (yes, a program!) so it could feel like spring no matter what. Also, the concert had chanced to fall on "spring forward" night, which allowed me to sing my lyric "turn your clocks forward, don't you fall back, don't get tripped up by those things you still lack" with extra enthusiasm.
More than 80 people turned out for my show last night at our nearby community centre. (It's a lovely place, a big historical building, but not well known. To direct people to it I found myself referring to Jilly's, the better-known strip club a block away.) My bandmates for the night, Noah Zacharin and David Woodhead , played brilliantly. As for me, I decided it was best to simply sing and not mention the coffee-making debacle.
I've heard it said that when you're a mother, you're also a nurse, short-order cook, teacher, coach, cleaning lady and child psychologist. It's probably equally true that independent musicians are often publicists, event coordinators, caterers, couriers, set decorators and e-mail marketers.
At one point, when people were arriving, the decorations weren't quite up yet, the CD and food tables were a work-in-progress and I still hadn't figured out the coffee, I started to panic. A kind musician friend took me aside and reminded me that no matter what, I could just get up with the band and sing the songs and everybody would have a good time. I realized she was right.
We had hoped the weather would be perfect on April 2nd, and we'd hoped to have every single detail perfectly in place hours before the show. But that doesn't really feel like spring at all. Spring is known for its slush storms. And community events are (in my experience) known for their mystifying coffeemakers.
After talking to my friend, I looked around the room again and saw that miraculously the room had been transformed. Lights glittered on the ceiling, colourful paper flowers bedecked the floor and the CD and food tables looked fantastic, all thanks to many talented and generous friends.
The show went forward. It did "Feel Like Spring". I'm told the coffee was excellent...and so was the music.
+++
Our family spent the day recovering from last night's show...but we had enough energy to watch the Juno Awards, which were held in my hometown, Winnipeg, this year. We all jumped up from the couch and cheered when Ron Sexsmith won Songwriter of the Year.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Singing Into the Wind
The last few times I’ve been in the subway, donations have been minimal. People are walking right by wearing expressions of boredom, weariness and irritation. Although I try to maintain a cheerful expression and to sing and play well, I find it challenging to go up against so much negative energy.
In fact, when the gusty wind whooshes through Pape Station, as it does at unpredictable moments, I am grateful to let loose and wail away into it, knowing that the wind will completely drown out my performance and that for a few moments my fragile voice won’t be so naked in front of the passing crowds.
When busking is going poorly, I love the wind. I love the fact that it’s unpredictable and overpowering. It whips around me and gathers me up, like Dorothy’s tornado in The Wizard of Oz, transporting me beyond the chilly corridor. That wicked wind is a brief cure for my frustration. It says, “Okay, so you’re not moving anybody in Pape Station…but you can still be moved. I will move you.”
Surrendering to that wind, which I cannot sing over, I find myself singing into it. At that moment I’m probably singing off-key and strumming chaotically but I don’t care. I feel better joining the wind in its enthusiastic, chaotic movement…joining the Spirit that rushes in and sweeps me off my feet if I but let it.
It is that Wind that catches me by surprise and takes me away from ordinary days, into the storm of songwriting, the storm that is perfect for me. When I am caught up in it, I am moving purposefully toward a mysterious and marvellous destination. The experience is disorienting and scary and exhilarating, and it illuminates my world.
When I am swept up into the arms of the Great Creative Energy, I find the reason for singing and I find that it is in me. It’s not in the people passing by.
+++
After singing five songs, I decide to go home to rehearse for my show on Saturday night.
In fact, when the gusty wind whooshes through Pape Station, as it does at unpredictable moments, I am grateful to let loose and wail away into it, knowing that the wind will completely drown out my performance and that for a few moments my fragile voice won’t be so naked in front of the passing crowds.
When busking is going poorly, I love the wind. I love the fact that it’s unpredictable and overpowering. It whips around me and gathers me up, like Dorothy’s tornado in The Wizard of Oz, transporting me beyond the chilly corridor. That wicked wind is a brief cure for my frustration. It says, “Okay, so you’re not moving anybody in Pape Station…but you can still be moved. I will move you.”
Surrendering to that wind, which I cannot sing over, I find myself singing into it. At that moment I’m probably singing off-key and strumming chaotically but I don’t care. I feel better joining the wind in its enthusiastic, chaotic movement…joining the Spirit that rushes in and sweeps me off my feet if I but let it.
It is that Wind that catches me by surprise and takes me away from ordinary days, into the storm of songwriting, the storm that is perfect for me. When I am caught up in it, I am moving purposefully toward a mysterious and marvellous destination. The experience is disorienting and scary and exhilarating, and it illuminates my world.
When I am swept up into the arms of the Great Creative Energy, I find the reason for singing and I find that it is in me. It’s not in the people passing by.
+++
After singing five songs, I decide to go home to rehearse for my show on Saturday night.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
I Can See Osgoode Clearly
It's a brilliant spring day today and the temperature is about ten degrees above zero. The sky is blue. Underground, though, it's still chilly. Also, Osgoode Station is damp, and after a song or two I notice that my guitar strings actually feel sticky.
Donations are slow, perhaps because everyone lived it up on the long weekend, or perhaps because it's the end of the month. Perhaps it's because I'm wearing my new coat and I don't look as if I need the money. Perhaps I'm not singing with the right amount of energy, or without energy of the right sort. Perhaps the construction at the station (a new elevator going in) has adversely affected the feng shui. Perhaps...well, perhaps nothing. Perhaps it's just coincidence that some days everybody's donating and other days nobody is.
When I'm in the subway, I'm always looking for connections. I'm always trying to discern some sort of pattern, some sort of unifying principle that governs the behavour of people passing by.
Perhaps there's no such principle.
But I'm always looking for it.
+++
I tried something new today. I sang an bona fide Familiar Cover Song: Johnny Nash's "I Can See Clearly Now" (1972). I figured it would suit the weather.
I do a pretty good job of it too. My version is somewhat like Holly Cole's: sort of jazzy-bluesy. Before going out to the subway today, I made sure I knew the tricky chord combination in the bridge.
So far, since I've been busking, I haven't been playing familiar popular songs. I have enough songs of my own to sing, and many musicians perform the old songs better than I do. On the other hand, I wondered if passers-by would appreciate hearing songs they know...and if that would lead to higher donations. Today seemed a good day to take that trusty old Nash out for a test drive.
"I Could See Clearly Now" sounded great in Osgoode Station. Better than I thought it would, in fact.
I played it twice.
It attracted no donations.
A friendly maintenance worker, who had listened to about seven songs while eating his lunch, told me he liked my songs just as much.
"The songs you write, they come from the heart," he told me.
Donations are slow, perhaps because everyone lived it up on the long weekend, or perhaps because it's the end of the month. Perhaps it's because I'm wearing my new coat and I don't look as if I need the money. Perhaps I'm not singing with the right amount of energy, or without energy of the right sort. Perhaps the construction at the station (a new elevator going in) has adversely affected the feng shui. Perhaps...well, perhaps nothing. Perhaps it's just coincidence that some days everybody's donating and other days nobody is.
When I'm in the subway, I'm always looking for connections. I'm always trying to discern some sort of pattern, some sort of unifying principle that governs the behavour of people passing by.
Perhaps there's no such principle.
But I'm always looking for it.
+++
I tried something new today. I sang an bona fide Familiar Cover Song: Johnny Nash's "I Can See Clearly Now" (1972). I figured it would suit the weather.
I do a pretty good job of it too. My version is somewhat like Holly Cole's: sort of jazzy-bluesy. Before going out to the subway today, I made sure I knew the tricky chord combination in the bridge.
So far, since I've been busking, I haven't been playing familiar popular songs. I have enough songs of my own to sing, and many musicians perform the old songs better than I do. On the other hand, I wondered if passers-by would appreciate hearing songs they know...and if that would lead to higher donations. Today seemed a good day to take that trusty old Nash out for a test drive.
"I Could See Clearly Now" sounded great in Osgoode Station. Better than I thought it would, in fact.
I played it twice.
It attracted no donations.
A friendly maintenance worker, who had listened to about seven songs while eating his lunch, told me he liked my songs just as much.
"The songs you write, they come from the heart," he told me.
Sunday, March 27, 2005
Easter Subway, postscript
On our way to Easter dinner, we stopped to buy ice cream for my mother-in-law. While we were parked, I spotted Roger walking with his guitar, heading toward Pape Station.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Easter Subway
This morning I was having coffee with a friend when we met another local roots musician.
“How’s the subway going?” he asked.
“Fine,” I replied, “But lately I haven't been out as much as I'd like."
His tone grew serious.
“I could never busk,” he declared.
“Really? Why not?”
“In Canada, the environment is just not friendly toward buskers. You have to be in Europe or a place like San Francisco. Here, everybody just thinks you’re begging.”
+++
I was still thinking about what he said when I started to sing at Pape Station on Saturday of the Easter weekend.
Sure enough, the vast majority of people were walking straight past me this afternoon, without donating or interacting in any way.
On the other hand, I didn't get the feeling that they were looking down on me. It was almost as if they were just shy. I noticed, for instance, that several people were deliberately waiting for their train at the bottom of the stairwell in front of me—listening, but not wanting to be seen to be listening.
I realize that when you’re giving to a busker, you're giving in a very public way. The response is as public, in a way, as is the call. It’s not like making a phone call to a charity at home or making an online donation. When you’re in the subway, you’re making a public statement that you support “that kind of music” or “that kind of person”…and many people might be uncomfortable doing so. (On the other hand, some people might to be publicly seen being generous.)
I heard on CBC Radio yesterday that when you act altruistically, your brain produces dopamine, a chemical that creates a feeling of calm and well-being. (The narrator of the documentary added that when he behaves selfishly, his brain creates another substance called “guiltamine”.)
+++
Despite my empathetic view of people’s motivations, I did find myself getting irritated when streams of people kept ignoring my pretty and optimistic springtime songs. I mean, could they just not be bothered? How hard is it to nod in my direction? Could you not give your five year-old a quarter when he tugs on your sleeve and points to the nice busker lady?
Deciding to use that anger to good effect, I launched into a louder, strummier song that allowed me to belt it out a little: “It’ll Grow On You”. “That flavour’s an acquired taste, a bitter taste it’s true, today you let it go to waste, but it’ll grow on you…”
Bam! Three donations, five bucks.
I played Fred Eaglesmith’s “I Like Trains”. Another two bucks.
Okay then, angry songs it is, this Easter weekend.
Why is that?
+++
I never did figure it out, but by the end of an hour and a half when I was (again) starting to shiver, a group of people about my age made a point of stopping and saying how much they enjoyed my music. I was just finishing my last song, which made me think that perhaps by then, when I’m too cold to continue, I’m finally really warmed up as a performer. Could this be true of the whole artistic enterprise: when you've had enough and are about to quit, is there something truly compelling in your performance that connects with others?
Today I felt particularly compelled to sing in the subway, as an answer to my skeptical musician friend in the coffee shop. I wanted to confirm that I'm not crazy, that there really is something worthwhile about this and that I’m not deluding myself about the value of the experience.
There were certainly some moments today when I thought, maybe he’s right, maybe we should skip this “stage” entirely and go directly to higher-paying “real” gigs in comfortable venues. If those Massey Hall gigs don’t materialize, maybe we could deftly switch occupations and nobody would notice us in these awkward, not-quite-there-yet stations.
He sees the subway as a dead-end or unnecessary detour. I see it as a journey, maybe even a destination.
“How’s the subway going?” he asked.
“Fine,” I replied, “But lately I haven't been out as much as I'd like."
His tone grew serious.
“I could never busk,” he declared.
“Really? Why not?”
“In Canada, the environment is just not friendly toward buskers. You have to be in Europe or a place like San Francisco. Here, everybody just thinks you’re begging.”
+++
I was still thinking about what he said when I started to sing at Pape Station on Saturday of the Easter weekend.
Sure enough, the vast majority of people were walking straight past me this afternoon, without donating or interacting in any way.
On the other hand, I didn't get the feeling that they were looking down on me. It was almost as if they were just shy. I noticed, for instance, that several people were deliberately waiting for their train at the bottom of the stairwell in front of me—listening, but not wanting to be seen to be listening.
I realize that when you’re giving to a busker, you're giving in a very public way. The response is as public, in a way, as is the call. It’s not like making a phone call to a charity at home or making an online donation. When you’re in the subway, you’re making a public statement that you support “that kind of music” or “that kind of person”…and many people might be uncomfortable doing so. (On the other hand, some people might to be publicly seen being generous.)
I heard on CBC Radio yesterday that when you act altruistically, your brain produces dopamine, a chemical that creates a feeling of calm and well-being. (The narrator of the documentary added that when he behaves selfishly, his brain creates another substance called “guiltamine”.)
+++
Despite my empathetic view of people’s motivations, I did find myself getting irritated when streams of people kept ignoring my pretty and optimistic springtime songs. I mean, could they just not be bothered? How hard is it to nod in my direction? Could you not give your five year-old a quarter when he tugs on your sleeve and points to the nice busker lady?
Deciding to use that anger to good effect, I launched into a louder, strummier song that allowed me to belt it out a little: “It’ll Grow On You”. “That flavour’s an acquired taste, a bitter taste it’s true, today you let it go to waste, but it’ll grow on you…”
Bam! Three donations, five bucks.
I played Fred Eaglesmith’s “I Like Trains”. Another two bucks.
Okay then, angry songs it is, this Easter weekend.
Why is that?
+++
I never did figure it out, but by the end of an hour and a half when I was (again) starting to shiver, a group of people about my age made a point of stopping and saying how much they enjoyed my music. I was just finishing my last song, which made me think that perhaps by then, when I’m too cold to continue, I’m finally really warmed up as a performer. Could this be true of the whole artistic enterprise: when you've had enough and are about to quit, is there something truly compelling in your performance that connects with others?
Today I felt particularly compelled to sing in the subway, as an answer to my skeptical musician friend in the coffee shop. I wanted to confirm that I'm not crazy, that there really is something worthwhile about this and that I’m not deluding myself about the value of the experience.
There were certainly some moments today when I thought, maybe he’s right, maybe we should skip this “stage” entirely and go directly to higher-paying “real” gigs in comfortable venues. If those Massey Hall gigs don’t materialize, maybe we could deftly switch occupations and nobody would notice us in these awkward, not-quite-there-yet stations.
He sees the subway as a dead-end or unnecessary detour. I see it as a journey, maybe even a destination.
"1973!"
In the middle of my first song, “Feels Like Spring”, a woman came up to me and shouted “1973”!
I don’t think she meant to be unfriendly.
Perhaps she thought that the song was from 1973? (I wrote it in 2004, but perhaps it’s sort of retro?)
Or maybe she was requesting a song from 1973?
In 1973, I was nine-going-on-ten years old. My parents had given me a clock radio for Christmas, thus exposing me for the first time to popular music. I spent the next several months glued to the radio, and late at night I painstakingly tweaked the dial to tune in exotic faraway stations such as Chicago and Detroit.
Even without checking the CHUM chart for the third week of March, 1973 (which probably reflects what was also being played in Winnipeg at the time), I thought of songs such as “Killing Me Softly” by Roberta Flack (#1), “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” by Vicki Lawrence (#10) and “Last Song” by Edward Bear (#26). (Roger Ellis, the busker I've been mentioning, was in the band Edward Bear.)
Other songs on the chart come as an interesting surprise, making me think that perhaps I was more influenced by that clock radio than I realized. The Carpenters “Sing”, for instance, could be practically my songwriting and busking anthem: “Sing out loud, sing out strong/sing it simple to last your whole life long…” etc. And then there’s Anne Murray’s “Danny’s Song” (written by Kenny Loggins, who recently guested as a judge on American Idol): “Even though we ain't got money/ I'm so in love with ya, honey/ everything will bring a chain of love…”
Maybe the part of the brain that defines musical taste is programmed when you’re ten. It’s reasonable to assume that I was influenced by the other songs on the list too, such “Dead Skunk” (Loudon Wainwright III), “Cover of the Rolling Stone” (Dr. Hook) and “Do It Again” (Steely Dan).
Anyway, I didn’t have time to ask the woman what she meant, because she immediately turned and headed down the stairs.
I don’t think she meant to be unfriendly.
Perhaps she thought that the song was from 1973? (I wrote it in 2004, but perhaps it’s sort of retro?)
Or maybe she was requesting a song from 1973?
In 1973, I was nine-going-on-ten years old. My parents had given me a clock radio for Christmas, thus exposing me for the first time to popular music. I spent the next several months glued to the radio, and late at night I painstakingly tweaked the dial to tune in exotic faraway stations such as Chicago and Detroit.
Even without checking the CHUM chart for the third week of March, 1973 (which probably reflects what was also being played in Winnipeg at the time), I thought of songs such as “Killing Me Softly” by Roberta Flack (#1), “The Night the Lights Went Out in Georgia” by Vicki Lawrence (#10) and “Last Song” by Edward Bear (#26). (Roger Ellis, the busker I've been mentioning, was in the band Edward Bear.)
Other songs on the chart come as an interesting surprise, making me think that perhaps I was more influenced by that clock radio than I realized. The Carpenters “Sing”, for instance, could be practically my songwriting and busking anthem: “Sing out loud, sing out strong/sing it simple to last your whole life long…” etc. And then there’s Anne Murray’s “Danny’s Song” (written by Kenny Loggins, who recently guested as a judge on American Idol): “Even though we ain't got money/ I'm so in love with ya, honey/ everything will bring a chain of love…”
Maybe the part of the brain that defines musical taste is programmed when you’re ten. It’s reasonable to assume that I was influenced by the other songs on the list too, such “Dead Skunk” (Loudon Wainwright III), “Cover of the Rolling Stone” (Dr. Hook) and “Do It Again” (Steely Dan).
Anyway, I didn’t have time to ask the woman what she meant, because she immediately turned and headed down the stairs.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Julia, Nigel and the Guy on the List
I've stopped and started this entry two or three times today, and I've finally figured out why.
It has to do with an intense discussion I've been reading on a folk music e-list. The topic (in a nutshell) is self-absorption in songwriting. Specifically, one contributor (a concert presenter and independent radio host) wrote, smugly, that in order to decide if a songwriter is any good or not, he simply scans the lyrics to see if they include "I", "me" or "mine" too often. His view is that too many singer-songwriters have nothing of interest to say to anyone other than themselves and that they should shut up.
The same could be said of bloggers. Or watercolourists or haiku poets or photographers or stand-up comics.
Not surprisingly, many artists took this guy to task, citing examples of many fine songs that are written in the first person (and noting that many awful songs have been written in the third).
Other people clarified his argument, pointing out that in order to succeed, any song (in whatever voice), needs to make a universal statement in addition to a personal one; that is, it will start with the individual artist's perspective but it must transcend it. The artist's level of skill or craftsmanship plays a huge role in this; the lyrics (both what is said and how it's written), the melody (both memorable and original) and presentation all have to be at a sufficiently high level to move an audience.
And how do we know when we've succeeded?
Well, that's where the audience comes in, including (unfortunately) the smugly critical concert presenter on the list, who is so inundated with mediocre CDs and promo packages that he's become contemptuous of the whole singer-songwriter genre. Today I found myself thinking about him, somehow imagining him reading this, and I wanted to write something particularly noteworthy.
And I stopped writing.
(On the other hand, I am writing a handful of new songs. Perhaps it's no coincidence that for now they won't be public songs...as the set list for my upcoming concert is already in place and the new CD is already 13 songs long.)
Knowing that the critics are out there, that somebody somewhere might say "ahah, she's going on about herself again", how do we continue our artistic work? How do we risk sharing it with others to find a supportive audience (one which, in my experience, far outnumbers the critics)?
Even high-profile, celebrated artists struggle with this one. I'm currently reading Julia Cameron, who has a very good new book out called "The Sound of Paper". Best known for The Artist's Way , Cameron writes beautifully about artistic challenge, fear and insecurity. I figured she'd have something to say about the guy on the list (who is, though sporting a different identity, essentially the same person who malignantly contributed to this blog several weeks ago and caused me to question my work in similar ways.)
Julia calls her imaginary, inner critic "Nigel".
"Nigel is the one who snorts in derision when I think about starting a new play. Nigel is the one who is afraid to send finished work out--and is afraid, for that matter, to finish work because then it can be judged and people like him to the judging... Nigel. I would like to lock you out... No Nigel sinks his pointed fangs into the jugular of my work in a next lifetime."
+++
Back to the subway briefly.
Last night I saw experienced subway busker Roger Ellis at an open mic performance, and explained somewhat apologetically that I hadn't been busking this week because of March Break.
He was very kind and reassuring, telling me that it's been a slow time anyway for donations, that his wife is also looking after children this week, and that next week the weather will be great.
It has to do with an intense discussion I've been reading on a folk music e-list. The topic (in a nutshell) is self-absorption in songwriting. Specifically, one contributor (a concert presenter and independent radio host) wrote, smugly, that in order to decide if a songwriter is any good or not, he simply scans the lyrics to see if they include "I", "me" or "mine" too often. His view is that too many singer-songwriters have nothing of interest to say to anyone other than themselves and that they should shut up.
The same could be said of bloggers. Or watercolourists or haiku poets or photographers or stand-up comics.
Not surprisingly, many artists took this guy to task, citing examples of many fine songs that are written in the first person (and noting that many awful songs have been written in the third).
Other people clarified his argument, pointing out that in order to succeed, any song (in whatever voice), needs to make a universal statement in addition to a personal one; that is, it will start with the individual artist's perspective but it must transcend it. The artist's level of skill or craftsmanship plays a huge role in this; the lyrics (both what is said and how it's written), the melody (both memorable and original) and presentation all have to be at a sufficiently high level to move an audience.
And how do we know when we've succeeded?
Well, that's where the audience comes in, including (unfortunately) the smugly critical concert presenter on the list, who is so inundated with mediocre CDs and promo packages that he's become contemptuous of the whole singer-songwriter genre. Today I found myself thinking about him, somehow imagining him reading this, and I wanted to write something particularly noteworthy.
And I stopped writing.
(On the other hand, I am writing a handful of new songs. Perhaps it's no coincidence that for now they won't be public songs...as the set list for my upcoming concert is already in place and the new CD is already 13 songs long.)
Knowing that the critics are out there, that somebody somewhere might say "ahah, she's going on about herself again", how do we continue our artistic work? How do we risk sharing it with others to find a supportive audience (one which, in my experience, far outnumbers the critics)?
Even high-profile, celebrated artists struggle with this one. I'm currently reading Julia Cameron, who has a very good new book out called "The Sound of Paper". Best known for The Artist's Way , Cameron writes beautifully about artistic challenge, fear and insecurity. I figured she'd have something to say about the guy on the list (who is, though sporting a different identity, essentially the same person who malignantly contributed to this blog several weeks ago and caused me to question my work in similar ways.)
Julia calls her imaginary, inner critic "Nigel".
"Nigel is the one who snorts in derision when I think about starting a new play. Nigel is the one who is afraid to send finished work out--and is afraid, for that matter, to finish work because then it can be judged and people like him to the judging... Nigel. I would like to lock you out... No Nigel sinks his pointed fangs into the jugular of my work in a next lifetime."
+++
Back to the subway briefly.
Last night I saw experienced subway busker Roger Ellis at an open mic performance, and explained somewhat apologetically that I hadn't been busking this week because of March Break.
He was very kind and reassuring, telling me that it's been a slow time anyway for donations, that his wife is also looking after children this week, and that next week the weather will be great.
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Banana Bread with Brian Eno & Mary Pratt
It's March Break and the kids are home from school, so I'm not out busking today.
Instead, I've been obsessing about my upcoming concert on April 2nd.
This is a show we're putting together ourselves at a nearby community centre. It's family-friendly and comfortable, much like a large house concert but in a larger space.
In order to put on the show, I've needed to book the two-person band, rehearse with them, arrange the sound system and person to operate it, decorate the space, publicize the event through my mailing list and local media and arrange for refreshments. In addition, we're offering some incentives for early rsvps (an exclusive promo cd), new audience members (a welcome package) and people who already own my recordings (a free dessert).
Today I found myself looking at my "to-do" list and completely panicking.
To make matters worse, it's a beautiful spring today (8 degrees above zero) and I'd like to be out singing. Instead, I find myself at home, juggling playdates for the kids and trying unsuccessfully to write copy for posters to be put on poles around the neighborhood (before the anti-postering bylaw is passed) as the computer keeps crashing.
Finally I give up and decide to make banana bread for the show.
This is, I realize, something women have been doing for generations. Like me, my mother and grandmother probably had long to-do lists of things they would have preferred to be doing, but ended up making banana bread, a simple, foolproof recipe that can be accomplished even if one is constantly interrupted.
In order to calm myself down, I put on Brian Eno's "Music For Airports" , a soothing ambient CD. And I set myself to work, measuring sugar and flour and baking powder, mashing shortening and bananas.
While I mashed, I remembered a song I wrote several years ago (which I don't think I actually had time to finish) called "Mary Paints the World". It was inspired by Mary Pratt, the painter who chose as her subject matter the "ordinary" stuff of daily life: the oranges in the bowl on the kitchen table, the laundry hanging on the line, the fish thawing in aluminum foil on the countertop. She had four children, and was married to Christopher Pratt, a (then) more-famous artist. At one point, if I remember correctly, a teacher at the art school they were both attending told her to give up painting because there could only be one famous artist in a couple and it wasn't going to be her.
I remember some of the lyrics of my song: "and if you were Mary, you would find the beauty in the ordinary, you would take your life and hold it to the light". Although I've never written a song about foil-wrapped fish (or banana bread for that matter), it's turned out that I feel most comfortable with songs that wrap themselves around "small" or seemingly ordinary things.
Sometimes, on days like today, I feel so snowed under by the thousands of tiny details of life, I can't appreciate any one of them (much less celebrate it in a new song). So I rely on other artists who can illuminate the little things instead of tripping over them.
Brian Eno's "Music For Airports" offers another inspirational take on small and slow-moving things. In this CD, Eno takes very small musical changes and repeats and layers them to create something larger, something moving and meaningful. The compositions have a poignant, searching quality...and yet are soothing and calm. I think the music would, in fact, be terrific in an airport, a place where tiny humans are moving great distances. (I bought the album several years ago in an effort to calm down the school lunchroom. Sadly, the school administration didn't see the value of it.)
As I've been writing this, the banana bread has been baking away. Will anyone come to the show and eat it? Will the posters be allowed on the poles?
Perhaps more important, can I remember that song?
Instead, I've been obsessing about my upcoming concert on April 2nd.
This is a show we're putting together ourselves at a nearby community centre. It's family-friendly and comfortable, much like a large house concert but in a larger space.
In order to put on the show, I've needed to book the two-person band, rehearse with them, arrange the sound system and person to operate it, decorate the space, publicize the event through my mailing list and local media and arrange for refreshments. In addition, we're offering some incentives for early rsvps (an exclusive promo cd), new audience members (a welcome package) and people who already own my recordings (a free dessert).
Today I found myself looking at my "to-do" list and completely panicking.
To make matters worse, it's a beautiful spring today (8 degrees above zero) and I'd like to be out singing. Instead, I find myself at home, juggling playdates for the kids and trying unsuccessfully to write copy for posters to be put on poles around the neighborhood (before the anti-postering bylaw is passed) as the computer keeps crashing.
Finally I give up and decide to make banana bread for the show.
This is, I realize, something women have been doing for generations. Like me, my mother and grandmother probably had long to-do lists of things they would have preferred to be doing, but ended up making banana bread, a simple, foolproof recipe that can be accomplished even if one is constantly interrupted.
In order to calm myself down, I put on Brian Eno's "Music For Airports" , a soothing ambient CD. And I set myself to work, measuring sugar and flour and baking powder, mashing shortening and bananas.
While I mashed, I remembered a song I wrote several years ago (which I don't think I actually had time to finish) called "Mary Paints the World". It was inspired by Mary Pratt, the painter who chose as her subject matter the "ordinary" stuff of daily life: the oranges in the bowl on the kitchen table, the laundry hanging on the line, the fish thawing in aluminum foil on the countertop. She had four children, and was married to Christopher Pratt, a (then) more-famous artist. At one point, if I remember correctly, a teacher at the art school they were both attending told her to give up painting because there could only be one famous artist in a couple and it wasn't going to be her.
I remember some of the lyrics of my song: "and if you were Mary, you would find the beauty in the ordinary, you would take your life and hold it to the light". Although I've never written a song about foil-wrapped fish (or banana bread for that matter), it's turned out that I feel most comfortable with songs that wrap themselves around "small" or seemingly ordinary things.
Sometimes, on days like today, I feel so snowed under by the thousands of tiny details of life, I can't appreciate any one of them (much less celebrate it in a new song). So I rely on other artists who can illuminate the little things instead of tripping over them.
Brian Eno's "Music For Airports" offers another inspirational take on small and slow-moving things. In this CD, Eno takes very small musical changes and repeats and layers them to create something larger, something moving and meaningful. The compositions have a poignant, searching quality...and yet are soothing and calm. I think the music would, in fact, be terrific in an airport, a place where tiny humans are moving great distances. (I bought the album several years ago in an effort to calm down the school lunchroom. Sadly, the school administration didn't see the value of it.)
As I've been writing this, the banana bread has been baking away. Will anyone come to the show and eat it? Will the posters be allowed on the poles?
Perhaps more important, can I remember that song?
Saturday, March 19, 2005
The CD Mystery Solved
No doubt it was Nathan Wiley's CD (that I found at Value Village last week) that inspired me to clean out an upstairs bookshelf a few days ago and send other CDs back to Value Village. What's that saying again, every action produces an equal and opposite reaction? Well, in this case, the reaction was a tad stronger, because I donated a grand total of 47 CDs.
That's Nathan Wiley, folks, someone you might want to check out, nominated for several East Coast Music Awards this year and quoted in this month's Performing Songwriter magazine. (He no doubt lives very far from here, too, being an East Coaster, so the likelihood that he'd spot his CD at our neighborhood Value Village is admittedly low.) His CD "High Low" is pretty good, and we're enjoying it a lot around the house, thanks to someone who decided to liberate it from his or her CD shelf.
So I decided to do the same, and it turned out to be quite a project.
Maybe because they were CDs, and not, say, books (which so far I don't write), I found the decision to give away a CD somewhat agonizing. But I got the hang of it, using a system that went pretty much like this.
I kept a CD if:
1) I like it and I'm likely to listen to again. (Unfortunately, the fact that the CDs were on this particular shelf, two floors away away from the stereo system, meant that I wasn't listening to it at all. That said, I did re-discover a few good CDs in today's organizing binge.)
2) The artist (or their friends) live close to my neighborhood Value Village.
3) I have an ongoing relationship with the artist. (A surprising number of infrequently-listened-to CDs fell into this category and I decided to keep them all.)
4) The artist autographed the CD for me. This situation made me feel more kindly toward any CD, and both this rule and #3 reminded me that music or any form of creative expression is, at heart, about the connection between one person and another. Sometimes the product is secondary.
I finished my task quickly (I had tried to do this about six months ago, become overwhelmed by the task and chickened out) packaged up all the CDs and walked them over to the store. (For the record--ha!--I got rid of 47 CDs on that shelf of unlistened-to's, and I kept 68.)
+++
Today I was shopping at Value Village (again...) when a woman approached a man behind me in the checkout line, noticing the stuff he was about to buy.
"Oh! Do they sell CDs here?" she asked.
"Yep," he responded, "there's two whole racks of 'em over there."
She eagerly rushed over to the CD racks, and immediately picked up a couple of CDs that I had donated a few days ago.
+++
I'm hoping to get out to the subway this week because the weather is turning fabulous. However, the kids are off school for March Break and it would be unthinkable to bring them with me. (I suddenly realize that I saw a woman do this at Christmas. I suspect she was busking on the subway without a permit. She had her two school-age children with her, looking waif-like. I did not donate.)
Despite how rewarding I find subway singing, both spiritually and financially, it's still hard for me to affirm that it's part of my Career (capital C). If I looked at it as a necessity, like a regular office job for instance, I'd arrange childcare and probably pay for it. As things are, I'll call my mother-in-law tomorrow and see if she can look after the kids for half a day this week.
That's Nathan Wiley, folks, someone you might want to check out, nominated for several East Coast Music Awards this year and quoted in this month's Performing Songwriter magazine. (He no doubt lives very far from here, too, being an East Coaster, so the likelihood that he'd spot his CD at our neighborhood Value Village is admittedly low.) His CD "High Low" is pretty good, and we're enjoying it a lot around the house, thanks to someone who decided to liberate it from his or her CD shelf.
So I decided to do the same, and it turned out to be quite a project.
Maybe because they were CDs, and not, say, books (which so far I don't write), I found the decision to give away a CD somewhat agonizing. But I got the hang of it, using a system that went pretty much like this.
I kept a CD if:
1) I like it and I'm likely to listen to again. (Unfortunately, the fact that the CDs were on this particular shelf, two floors away away from the stereo system, meant that I wasn't listening to it at all. That said, I did re-discover a few good CDs in today's organizing binge.)
2) The artist (or their friends) live close to my neighborhood Value Village.
3) I have an ongoing relationship with the artist. (A surprising number of infrequently-listened-to CDs fell into this category and I decided to keep them all.)
4) The artist autographed the CD for me. This situation made me feel more kindly toward any CD, and both this rule and #3 reminded me that music or any form of creative expression is, at heart, about the connection between one person and another. Sometimes the product is secondary.
I finished my task quickly (I had tried to do this about six months ago, become overwhelmed by the task and chickened out) packaged up all the CDs and walked them over to the store. (For the record--ha!--I got rid of 47 CDs on that shelf of unlistened-to's, and I kept 68.)
+++
Today I was shopping at Value Village (again...) when a woman approached a man behind me in the checkout line, noticing the stuff he was about to buy.
"Oh! Do they sell CDs here?" she asked.
"Yep," he responded, "there's two whole racks of 'em over there."
She eagerly rushed over to the CD racks, and immediately picked up a couple of CDs that I had donated a few days ago.
+++
I'm hoping to get out to the subway this week because the weather is turning fabulous. However, the kids are off school for March Break and it would be unthinkable to bring them with me. (I suddenly realize that I saw a woman do this at Christmas. I suspect she was busking on the subway without a permit. She had her two school-age children with her, looking waif-like. I did not donate.)
Despite how rewarding I find subway singing, both spiritually and financially, it's still hard for me to affirm that it's part of my Career (capital C). If I looked at it as a necessity, like a regular office job for instance, I'd arrange childcare and probably pay for it. As things are, I'll call my mother-in-law tomorrow and see if she can look after the kids for half a day this week.
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
The Over-the-Shoulder Smile
Ossington Station at 11 a.m. on Tuesday is a very quiet place.
So quiet, I took one look at the forlorn performance area in the deserted vestibule and headed back eastbound. My official schedule of stations makes for interesting travel around the city, but stops such as Ossington may be worthwhile only at rush hour. Despite my best intentions, I don't seem to be turning into a rush-hour busker. (More of a meandering-hour busker, I guess.)
Where should I go, I wondered? Maybe not Pape--could be too much of a good thing. Yonge & Bloor is probably taken. How about Bay?
I like Bay station because the performance area is located in a long corridor, allowing people to listen for a longer time. Also, because so many people work nearby on Bay Street, in Yorkville and at Yonge & Bloor, I thought I might capitalize on the lunchtime crowd.
I noticed a particular reflex action of mine today, which I tried to correct but found I couldn't. Every time people passed by me, I automatically turned my head to watch them walking away. It wasn't that I was pining after them; they were just interesting to watch (more interesting than the tiled wall in front of me, anyway.) In order to avoid looking disappointed, I made an extra effort to appear cheerful.
In general, people didn't seem to be very interested today, but the people who were were wonderful. They included a man who told me he couldn't hear me very well (which was interesting because I thought I was too loud at times, and even turned down my amp), but who gave me two dollars anyway. When I said "Thanks for the donation", he said "It's not a donation...it's payment!" As he left, he said "enjoy it"--and I didn't think he meant the toonie. I think he meant the music and the day.
Sometimes, when I think I'm performing particularly well, I feel that people are rewarding me for a job well done. Other times, I feel they're lifting me up when I'm needing support. This was definitely true today when I tried a cover song I play from time to time, Ian North's "Beautiful City", and couldn't get the chord changes right. I was not doing justice to this beautiful song, and was about to end it rather gracelessly, when a woman dropped some change into my case, saying "keep playing that good music, Darlin."
So I played a little longer. During that time, I ran into two other subway musicians, John, whom I hadn't seen for several months, and Roger Ellis. All of us are feeling relieved that it's finally March and getting warmer. My favourite moment today came when an elderly man gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up during my song "Feels Like Spring". At Bay Station today, few people seemed to be noticing the content of the songs I played, and I wondered whether this particular one was registering with anyone...but it clearly did with this fellow.
He was beaming at me over his shoulder, thumb still held high in the air, with a twinkle in his eye that was positively infectious. (I might not have noticed, if I hadn't been watching him walking away.)
So quiet, I took one look at the forlorn performance area in the deserted vestibule and headed back eastbound. My official schedule of stations makes for interesting travel around the city, but stops such as Ossington may be worthwhile only at rush hour. Despite my best intentions, I don't seem to be turning into a rush-hour busker. (More of a meandering-hour busker, I guess.)
Where should I go, I wondered? Maybe not Pape--could be too much of a good thing. Yonge & Bloor is probably taken. How about Bay?
I like Bay station because the performance area is located in a long corridor, allowing people to listen for a longer time. Also, because so many people work nearby on Bay Street, in Yorkville and at Yonge & Bloor, I thought I might capitalize on the lunchtime crowd.
I noticed a particular reflex action of mine today, which I tried to correct but found I couldn't. Every time people passed by me, I automatically turned my head to watch them walking away. It wasn't that I was pining after them; they were just interesting to watch (more interesting than the tiled wall in front of me, anyway.) In order to avoid looking disappointed, I made an extra effort to appear cheerful.
In general, people didn't seem to be very interested today, but the people who were were wonderful. They included a man who told me he couldn't hear me very well (which was interesting because I thought I was too loud at times, and even turned down my amp), but who gave me two dollars anyway. When I said "Thanks for the donation", he said "It's not a donation...it's payment!" As he left, he said "enjoy it"--and I didn't think he meant the toonie. I think he meant the music and the day.
Sometimes, when I think I'm performing particularly well, I feel that people are rewarding me for a job well done. Other times, I feel they're lifting me up when I'm needing support. This was definitely true today when I tried a cover song I play from time to time, Ian North's "Beautiful City", and couldn't get the chord changes right. I was not doing justice to this beautiful song, and was about to end it rather gracelessly, when a woman dropped some change into my case, saying "keep playing that good music, Darlin."
So I played a little longer. During that time, I ran into two other subway musicians, John, whom I hadn't seen for several months, and Roger Ellis. All of us are feeling relieved that it's finally March and getting warmer. My favourite moment today came when an elderly man gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up during my song "Feels Like Spring". At Bay Station today, few people seemed to be noticing the content of the songs I played, and I wondered whether this particular one was registering with anyone...but it clearly did with this fellow.
He was beaming at me over his shoulder, thumb still held high in the air, with a twinkle in his eye that was positively infectious. (I might not have noticed, if I hadn't been watching him walking away.)
Who could it be?
If anyone can guess the artist mentioned in yesterday's post, you'll get free admission to my Toronto concert April 2nd.
This is a contemporary Canadian singer-songwriter, not yet a big name, who has enjoyed CBC Radio airplay (perhaps more as well that I don't know of) and has been up for some major awards. By coincidence, last night I was reading a new music magazine and this person appears in it.
Good luck! If nobody comes up with it, I'll provide more clues. And if you win, but you live outside Toronto, we'll come up with some other nifty prize.
Now I'm off to Ossington Station.
This is a contemporary Canadian singer-songwriter, not yet a big name, who has enjoyed CBC Radio airplay (perhaps more as well that I don't know of) and has been up for some major awards. By coincidence, last night I was reading a new music magazine and this person appears in it.
Good luck! If nobody comes up with it, I'll provide more clues. And if you win, but you live outside Toronto, we'll come up with some other nifty prize.
Now I'm off to Ossington Station.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
The CD at Value Village
I had no good excuse for not busking today. The weather is warmish (1 degree, but windy) and it's sunny, which is always good for business.
My daughter was staying at school for Poetry Club at lunchtime and no writing projects were pressing. Housework could be avoided as always. I could pop up to Broadview or Pape Station.
Instead, I decided to go to Value Village.
I spent a successful hour (and $24.54) at "Chez Vivi". I tried on a sleek little European jacket with raised black plastic leopard spots. I know it sounds hideous, and indeed it was when I tried it on, but while it was on the hanger it had that special quality known as "Could Work Onstage". Sometimes I buy these clothes, but the only venue they see is the inside of my closet (which, come to think of it, looks quite a bit like some of the venues I've played). When I'm choosing an outfit for a performance, I inevitably end up skipping over anything that might prompt the question "Did you get that at Value Village?". So the shiny leopard thingie is a no.
On the other hand, I did find a great looking knit top for me, shirts for Dave and the kids, and a six-foot long swath of autumn coloured chiffon (with gold trim!) that might be useful in decorating the hall for an upcoming show.
I also found a well-regarded, recent CD by another emerging Canadian singer-songwriter.
I first heard this artist's work on CBC Radio, around the time that my second CD was released and also being played on CBC Radio. I remembered liking the song, so I figured the CD was probably pretty good. It is! I bought it for $2.99 (it probably cost about $30 per unit to produce) and I'm listening to it now. It gets two thumbs up, one from me and one from my son, whose favourite CDs these days are The Police (Best Of) and Maroon 5's "Songs About Jane".
As I said, I figured it'd be good. But I wasn't really looking for any new music to listen to. No, even as I carried it up to the cashier, I realized I was buying it so the artist wouldn't accidentally discover it at Value Village.
I know this is ridiculous.
There's no shame in someone giving away your CD. Repeat this mantra after me: "You can't please everybody. You can't please everybody". In fact, a friend recently spotted "Lynoleum" in a cool used record store and told me with glee that this was proof I'd finally made it! He truly was impressed to see it there, in company with lots of other good recordings that were also looking for a second home. (The CD at Value Village today was sandwiched between Englebert Humperdinck and Shawn Mullins.)
Even though we all know this is bound to happen (like the authors who know their novel will end up on a remainder table eventually), I knew that this particular artist, and the people associated with the artist, would be disappointed to see the CD at Value Village because they have high hopes for it. And for good reason. It's a good CD...not great maybe, but very good. It has a smart, snappy, contemporary sound without being annoyingly of-the-moment. The artist comes across as perceptive, original and likeable.
A quick visit to the artist's website suggests that the career is going just fine.
And in case you're wondering, I don't believe the artist is anyone who's reading this blog.
My daughter was staying at school for Poetry Club at lunchtime and no writing projects were pressing. Housework could be avoided as always. I could pop up to Broadview or Pape Station.
Instead, I decided to go to Value Village.
I spent a successful hour (and $24.54) at "Chez Vivi". I tried on a sleek little European jacket with raised black plastic leopard spots. I know it sounds hideous, and indeed it was when I tried it on, but while it was on the hanger it had that special quality known as "Could Work Onstage". Sometimes I buy these clothes, but the only venue they see is the inside of my closet (which, come to think of it, looks quite a bit like some of the venues I've played). When I'm choosing an outfit for a performance, I inevitably end up skipping over anything that might prompt the question "Did you get that at Value Village?". So the shiny leopard thingie is a no.
On the other hand, I did find a great looking knit top for me, shirts for Dave and the kids, and a six-foot long swath of autumn coloured chiffon (with gold trim!) that might be useful in decorating the hall for an upcoming show.
I also found a well-regarded, recent CD by another emerging Canadian singer-songwriter.
I first heard this artist's work on CBC Radio, around the time that my second CD was released and also being played on CBC Radio. I remembered liking the song, so I figured the CD was probably pretty good. It is! I bought it for $2.99 (it probably cost about $30 per unit to produce) and I'm listening to it now. It gets two thumbs up, one from me and one from my son, whose favourite CDs these days are The Police (Best Of) and Maroon 5's "Songs About Jane".
As I said, I figured it'd be good. But I wasn't really looking for any new music to listen to. No, even as I carried it up to the cashier, I realized I was buying it so the artist wouldn't accidentally discover it at Value Village.
I know this is ridiculous.
There's no shame in someone giving away your CD. Repeat this mantra after me: "You can't please everybody. You can't please everybody". In fact, a friend recently spotted "Lynoleum" in a cool used record store and told me with glee that this was proof I'd finally made it! He truly was impressed to see it there, in company with lots of other good recordings that were also looking for a second home. (The CD at Value Village today was sandwiched between Englebert Humperdinck and Shawn Mullins.)
Even though we all know this is bound to happen (like the authors who know their novel will end up on a remainder table eventually), I knew that this particular artist, and the people associated with the artist, would be disappointed to see the CD at Value Village because they have high hopes for it. And for good reason. It's a good CD...not great maybe, but very good. It has a smart, snappy, contemporary sound without being annoyingly of-the-moment. The artist comes across as perceptive, original and likeable.
A quick visit to the artist's website suggests that the career is going just fine.
And in case you're wondering, I don't believe the artist is anyone who's reading this blog.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Sunderland & Sundry
Today I drove an hour-and-a-half northeast of Toronto, to a tiny little town called Sunderland.
It's a beautiful place, where you can park for free on the main street and buy crumbly pecan tarts from the corner bakery. I went into three stores in Sunderland (in the extra time I had before arriving at the public school for the songwriting workshop). Each store had jingling bell over the door, a bell that didn't seem necessary because each merchant was waiting just inside the door to welcome me, but a lovely bell just the same.
As it turned out, the teachers weren't expecting me at the public school. They had told the workshop organizers not to send somebody today, because the whole town had been too busy with the local music festival that had just taken place. But there I was, and I had driven all that way from Toronnah, so they showed me to the music room where twenty students were assembling.
I talked with them about songwriting, telling them it was okay--in fact it was great--to just make up a little tune in their head. Anyone could do it, even if they didn't have any formal music training. A little girl about eight years old knew all about that and was eager to tell everyone about all the songs she was writing. She told me excitedly that when she sings her songs, people listen to what she has to say! All through our session, there she was, putting up her hand, again and again. Listen, she said.
I sang a song called "I Would Recognize You Anywhere" ("because your heart is mine").
I sang that song, also, for a man in Pape Subway station yesterday, where I played for an hour and a half, before meeting a woman who was interviewing me for a thesis on subway musicians. During that short time, a friend came along who bought me a much-needed coffee from the Tim Horton's at street level, I ran into Roger Ellis (the experienced busker who had originally inspired me to consider singing in the subway) and I met Samuel (the kindly man who tells me (every time I see him) that he was on "Touched By An Angel". The man who responded to "Recognize You" was kind enough to buy a CD even though it's not on one of my current ones. (The third CD is coming soon, really it is. Have I mentioned I'm calling it "Broadview"?)
It's a beautiful place, where you can park for free on the main street and buy crumbly pecan tarts from the corner bakery. I went into three stores in Sunderland (in the extra time I had before arriving at the public school for the songwriting workshop). Each store had jingling bell over the door, a bell that didn't seem necessary because each merchant was waiting just inside the door to welcome me, but a lovely bell just the same.
As it turned out, the teachers weren't expecting me at the public school. They had told the workshop organizers not to send somebody today, because the whole town had been too busy with the local music festival that had just taken place. But there I was, and I had driven all that way from Toronnah, so they showed me to the music room where twenty students were assembling.
I talked with them about songwriting, telling them it was okay--in fact it was great--to just make up a little tune in their head. Anyone could do it, even if they didn't have any formal music training. A little girl about eight years old knew all about that and was eager to tell everyone about all the songs she was writing. She told me excitedly that when she sings her songs, people listen to what she has to say! All through our session, there she was, putting up her hand, again and again. Listen, she said.
I sang a song called "I Would Recognize You Anywhere" ("because your heart is mine").
+++
I sang that song, also, for a man in Pape Subway station yesterday, where I played for an hour and a half, before meeting a woman who was interviewing me for a thesis on subway musicians. During that short time, a friend came along who bought me a much-needed coffee from the Tim Horton's at street level, I ran into Roger Ellis (the experienced busker who had originally inspired me to consider singing in the subway) and I met Samuel (the kindly man who tells me (every time I see him) that he was on "Touched By An Angel". The man who responded to "Recognize You" was kind enough to buy a CD even though it's not on one of my current ones. (The third CD is coming soon, really it is. Have I mentioned I'm calling it "Broadview"?)
+++
And on Wednesday night, I went to Fat Albert's again and brought my friend Brenda along.
Both of us being huge Ron Sexsmith fans, we were thrilled to be there when he made a surprise appearance, previewing the new Sexsmith and Kerr project with Don Kerr (formerly of the Rheostatics, excellent musician and producer.)
Ron was one of those people I might have met twenty years ago if I'd gone to Fat Albert's, so it's remarkable that he just showed up after I wrote last week's post. He's one of the songwriters I admire most, and his songs have influenced and inspired mine.
We've come close to meeting several times (I called out 'I love your music' when I was pushing a stroller and recognized him on the street...he answered a few 'fan e-mails' from me over the years...) but this was the first time he heard me play. I expected to feel a bit nervous, seeing him in the back of the room. Instead, I noticed that I felt calm, and not starstruck.
It meant a lot to me when he shook my hand afterward and told me how much he enjoyed my songs.
+++
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Pennies from Heaven
Yesterday I finally got around to rolling some of the coins that have been accumulating in my house over the past few months.
Right from the start, I was determined to view my subway tips as income, so I've kept careful track of how much I'm earning. When I finish performing on the subway, I quickly scoop up the change from my guitar case and put it in a deep pocket. (I'm always conscious of not lingering over my cash in a public place.) When I get home, I count it, record the total and put the coins in a Ziplock bag. Then I put the Ziplock bag in the top drawer of our front hall cabinet.
I intend to roll the coins promptly, but it ends up being a chore that I put off.
It takes a long time to roll coins. You have to gather the coins, find a bunch of rolling tubes (which may involve a trip to the Dollar Store), sit down and actually count. Although you might think it's possible to listen to CBC Radio or watch "Oprah" at the same time, it's not so easy. Just when you're congratulating yourself for being such a great multi-tasker, you lose count and have to start all over again.
It's actually more efficient to just count. Every. Single. Penny.
At times, it feels like wasted effort. After all, 50 pennies laboriously counted is still only 50 cents. That's why, being keen on immediate gratification, I tend to count the bigger coins first. Twenty-five toonies rolled into a tight little tube makes fifty dollars--which feels like easy money. However, if you just count the big coins, before long you end up with piles and piles of overflowing Ziplock bags full of uncounted little coins.
When the little coins pile up like that, I'm tempted to use the CoinStar machine at Loblaw's, which turns unsorted change into grocery vouchers in return for a percentage. It's a bad deal. Not only am I losing actual money, I'm missing out on the opportunity to pay attention to what's been given to me.
I now know, even from just a few months' busking experience, that even the smallest exchanges, whether they come in the form of cash or human interaction, are gifts to be treasured. And yet, in the daily act of prioritizing my activities, I remain tempted to ignore the tiny returns and focus on the big ones.
It's interesting to me how those uncounted coins, once they've been zipped into bags and allowed to accumulate, weigh me down and create a nagging sense of guilt, when only a few days before they made me feel alive. They were sparkling coins flying through the air from one human being to another, dancing to music.
Right from the start, I was determined to view my subway tips as income, so I've kept careful track of how much I'm earning. When I finish performing on the subway, I quickly scoop up the change from my guitar case and put it in a deep pocket. (I'm always conscious of not lingering over my cash in a public place.) When I get home, I count it, record the total and put the coins in a Ziplock bag. Then I put the Ziplock bag in the top drawer of our front hall cabinet.
I intend to roll the coins promptly, but it ends up being a chore that I put off.
It takes a long time to roll coins. You have to gather the coins, find a bunch of rolling tubes (which may involve a trip to the Dollar Store), sit down and actually count. Although you might think it's possible to listen to CBC Radio or watch "Oprah" at the same time, it's not so easy. Just when you're congratulating yourself for being such a great multi-tasker, you lose count and have to start all over again.
It's actually more efficient to just count. Every. Single. Penny.
At times, it feels like wasted effort. After all, 50 pennies laboriously counted is still only 50 cents. That's why, being keen on immediate gratification, I tend to count the bigger coins first. Twenty-five toonies rolled into a tight little tube makes fifty dollars--which feels like easy money. However, if you just count the big coins, before long you end up with piles and piles of overflowing Ziplock bags full of uncounted little coins.
When the little coins pile up like that, I'm tempted to use the CoinStar machine at Loblaw's, which turns unsorted change into grocery vouchers in return for a percentage. It's a bad deal. Not only am I losing actual money, I'm missing out on the opportunity to pay attention to what's been given to me.
I now know, even from just a few months' busking experience, that even the smallest exchanges, whether they come in the form of cash or human interaction, are gifts to be treasured. And yet, in the daily act of prioritizing my activities, I remain tempted to ignore the tiny returns and focus on the big ones.
It's interesting to me how those uncounted coins, once they've been zipped into bags and allowed to accumulate, weigh me down and create a nagging sense of guilt, when only a few days before they made me feel alive. They were sparkling coins flying through the air from one human being to another, dancing to music.
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