Friday, April 29, 2011

Slow Burb, Coburg, Days 1 & 2 by Lily Lucent

Lily, my host in the Coburg suburb of Melbourne, very kindly wrote a guest post for our two days joint busking in the small pedestrian street/square off of Sydney Road. The only addenda I can add are that while she was away during the first pitch I sang almost all originals (swapping to guitar) and that I received quite a few tips in that time from the sparse crowd, one man said "I was really happy to have some music to listen to while I had some lunch." It felt remarkably refreshing to play violin on the street in an instance where I didn't feel bad for the... self-centered-ness of playing it. As I may have mentioned before, I chose to play guitar and sing as I feel it's a more honest relationship with the passersby. One is tipped for talent more than assumption (ooh a classical instrument!) and one engages directly with the audience with tunes they like, eye contact, the ability to talk. These pitches with Lily I was able to play facing her, my eyes on her juggling just as the audiences' eyes were, playing to suit what she was doing - ball high, violin high. Dancing about, low G work slow into higher positions. Subtle floating, major soaring tunes, etc. The first day I played more in minor keys with occasionally forays into the corresponding majors and the second I played mostly in major. Cuz it felt right.

Oh, last thing before I leave you to her words: I think 99% of tippers and passersby took me to be female. Two, for instance, said "Thanks girls!"

    As a couch surfing host, strangers often arrive at my house and leave as friends. Terrence was no exception. He bounced into my house one day, full of ideas and sounds and words. He immediately set about playing all the instruments in my house, and re-stringing my violin so that he could play that, too.

    Terrence and I quickly got around to talking about busking. He's a musical busker and I'm a contact juggling (circus) busker. The first thing that struck me was how Terrence didn't seem to know/follow any of the rules I'd been taught about busking. For him, it was all about enjoying himself and sounding good, which was a rather refreshing outlook on it.

    Terrence and I busked in my local suburb, he with the violin and me with my contact ball. It was Easter Sunday and all but one of the local cafes was closed, and there were about six people in the entire square. The first thing I noticed was how much having music caused people to look. The second thing I noticed was how spellbound the people were. We busked together for a short time and almost everyone in the square donated to our hat.

    I left Terrence to play on his own for a short time and this is when my adventure started. A middle-eastern man caught up to me and asked me to entertain a group of about 50 kids next door for 10 minutes. I went in and it was CHAOS. He left me at the door with his wife, no one knew who I was and the kids didn't seem to have any direction or particular activity happening.

    After standing around awkwardly for a minute or two, before realising that no one was taking charge of this situation, I rounded up the kids (at this point I was *very* glad I've taught a lot of circus in primary schools) and tried to figure out how I could keep their attention with only a couple of tricks for ten entire minutes.

    The 'show' went well. I started out with a couple of tiny tricks to get their attention, before moving on to some funny tricks that children like, then using audience participation to build up to the big tricks. Then, while they were all mesmerised, I let them line up to touch the ball. Overall, it went surprisingly well and the kids seemed to really enjoy it. I then got paid $20 for my troubles and went back to Terrence with a surprised look on my face.

    We went home a short time later, rather pleased with ourselves. I went out that night, so he gave my instruments some more loving.

    The next day, we went back to the same place. This time, there were about three times as many people (18?), and I was quite excited. However, after half an hour, we had made about $4.00 and we agreed that it wasn't the day for it and went home again. On the way home, we found the strangest chair I have ever seen. It has a low seat and a high back, like a throne, but is made of copper and pleather and has a strange head-board thing that hits your head if you try to sit in it. The chair now sits in my front hallway with a sign on it saying 'Throne of Madness' and sometimes serves as extra space to dry clothes on.

    The next day, it was time for Terrence to move on to his next host. However he left his toothbrush, toothpaste and floss as a memento of his stay :)


Earnings Day 1: 16.10 AUD, 1.1 hours
Earnings Day 2: $2.30, 30 minutes
Song of the Days: Gm improv :P

Thursday, April 28, 2011

Fitz(for a)roy, but not quite a Busker, Day 1

When I transferred to stay with Lily, I saw she had a violin. And a piano. It's been awhile now since I had a go at the former and I felt so excited to play it I went out and splurged on a set of strings and rosin for her - she doesn't really play so just sort of had the thing. I'd spend most of my three days in Coburg staying inside her house, moving around between the three instruments. What luck that I had access to a piano three hosts in a row! Lily does contact juggling (manipulation of a clear orb to make it appear to be floating, quite entrancing stuff) and I figured I'd make back my splurged money by busking with her for a few hours somewhere. Unfortunately she never had the time or intent to wander to Williamstown or some other favourable location.

I think, perhaps the chlorination of the water here doesn't quite agree with my throat. At least that's what I decided after a short pitch on Brunswick St. in Fitzroy late at night. I was told this was the most happening street, famous for the buskers every five feet all making a killing on the alternative vibe pedestrians wandering out of live music venues and cafes and little boutiques. What I found was a somewhat dead street - that's what Easter holidays will do, eh? I was one of three buskers along the entire stretch, setting up just in front of a charming boutique with headless white mannequins with stumps swathed by matching turbans. Just as a began the shop owner rushed by to take care of something in the shop, asking me to ward the front door. She whirled in and out in moments and after I told her I'd set up there because it looked pretty and she listened to half a song, she tipped me for my trouble. Soon thereafter, three people stopped to listen, talk and make requests - a nice woman, nicer south asian man and a curious young man engaging me for a long while about what busking was like and such. He'd stopped upon hearing Falling Slowly and sang the harmony softly along. Though I gave him my card, he hasn't yet contacted me - most people I've given my card to haven't, actually - photographers, cheery people on the street etc. It's a bit lonesome. I thought for a while he might purchase a CD, but alas!

Kyla, the middle aged woman, requested Norwegian Wood and I blanked on the lyrics halfway through. I felt horrid. Luckily their young companion saved me with a request of the Mario Kart Love Song which somehow all knew and sang along to. They predicted a slower day what with few people about and it being a bit early to busk (but I have to busk earlier than locals so as to return to my hosts at a sensible hour). Correct. Now that I think on it I realize I played a set of no cheery bopping songs aside from Under the Bridge. That can't have helped. See I'm trying to shore up songs that fall through the cracks in practice/performance, so I always take bad days to think a bit harder about my playlist. Probably reinforces the offness of the pitch. Pun intended.

Mostly the same people passed back and forth many times - one woman threw both her hands in a warding gesture both times with a defensive "I don't have any money" both times she passed, though the second time she appended it with "Good song choice, though!" while I sang No Doubt. I had to rely on children for tips. One I engaged with a song while his father looked on out of my peripheral. I suppose both enjoyed enough that he passed me a note. Naturally, Where is My Mind once again did fabulously. Must be the humour value.

On the way home I encountered a few of the passersby at the tram stop and we somehow got to talking about the "musician" in the piano bar behind me. I think from traveling to many places and passing many such establishments that they actively seek out horrible singers and bang-on-keys pianists. This one, for instance, was screeching out Eye of the Tiger when we started our conversation. It is so depressing to me that people can't hear shittiness unless it's pointed out to them and that they respond to the tune and the banging more than true musicianship. I had to show the note he was trying to sing "the EYE" - a G# by my false perfect pitch - before they realized he was not only a full semitone flat on that note, but strangled and off sounding for most of the song. And rhythm? Wazzat? Who needs rhythm when you can scream into a microphone to incite a crowd with "You know this one!" Ugh. I was very happy to jump on the tram when it finally arrived.

Earnings: 20.80 AUD, 1.2 hours
Song of the Day: Falling Slowly - Once

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

A Buskers - no Williamstown, Day 2

Ri and Neil accompanied me to Nelson place, the waterfront promenade of Williamstown, where I started a pitch in front of yet another recently defunct store. I chose the spot for it's natural amplification and position at a crosswalk leading from the touristy pier, as well as the shelter from the non trivial wind. My hosts sat at the nearby cafe after requesting Hallelujah. Tips came slow despite a good request vibe. I felt somewhast ill and woozy still, so after a collection of mostly silver tips I thought to give it a rest. Ri and Neil suggested I have a go at the base of the pier, where people gather in wait for the ferries. Though quite windy, people were quiet and no car noise and a good vibe made me test out my audibility on them, standing a few paces away.

So I had a go. For an absolutely phenomal pitch. I had a hard time positioning my sign/request list nicely in my case such that it remained visible yet didn't blow away or turn over to obscure my case. My request list really characterized the pitch again. I found myself singing about half requests. From foreigners. Almost every person who passed favorably had a non-white shade to the skin. I can't stress how surprising this was.

A group of malaysians smiled and asked in that trademark accent if I was a student, smiling to my response and tipping me well. A set of children became captivated with me and their father requested Nothing Else Matters recognizing his sons fascination with my guitar. Three passing men pressed me a five dollar note. A child noticed Zebra sitting in my case and voicelessly pawed at him before being chucklingly restrained by his father. Three times Tears in Heaven got the nod, once from a group of young men, once from a largish Singaporean guy with his sister and elderly father who seemed so gratified by my playing it we had a little bowing match as he walked down the pier, smiling so wide, once from a girl who reminded me of my singing teacher Gala, a singer/songwriter from Sydney who couldn't stop smiling, took my card, watched me for many songs after her companion requested Yesterday after I'd captained their attention with a lively Hotel California. My voice warmed up over time.

Even the Japanese got in on the tipping, and let me tell you that, that is a rare thing. Two shy girls stood about a full meter away from me for a V sign posed picture, much to the chagrined amusement of their white friend and photographer, who tipped for them. Later on I happened to sing Ue Wo Muite Arukou just as another pair of Japanese girls passed - tiny in baggy white tees, loosely done hair of black and shocking orange - much too shy to say anything, taking photos and giggling, mouthing along, then darting in for a tip while I wasn't looking a few songs later on their way back down the pier. I could feel the vibe and the vibe was oldies - Simon and Garfunkel and Beatles wandering into Fleetwood Mac and back with Sinatra and Nat King Cole.

And, of course, John Denver. He started me on the whole oldies kick courtesy of a group of quiet south asians. One stood reading my sign a while, looked carefully over my request list and chose Leaving on a Jet Plane while I finished my second Tears in Heaven. He waited patiently as I wrapped it up. Then, the entire way through his request, his eyes never left my face. Quiet, curious, appreciative, soulful, connecting on a wordless intangible level holding eyes a long while. His friend/brother steadied himself on a bench to my right and began crying, much to the amusement of two of the women in the group. One of the men looked on at the rest of us bemused with a "what's the big deal" expression. Women in silk saris of green and orange listened somberly without expression or comment but the occasional gentle touch on the men. Just before the last chorus my requester pressed me a ten dollar note, still wordless, eyes still full of gratitude, and they walked slowly down the pier as I finished. On their return thirty minutes later I pressed him a CD.

Babies danced, parents gave tips to each of three children and the eldest girl demonstrated to the younger ones how exactly to bequeath them. The man at the the very end gave me a tip with a jolly look and a pleasant "Don't look how much I'm tipping you." holding his fist in front of my face and using his other hand to drop a loud thunk of coins in while I hold his eyes.

On my return, Neil called me in to their room to teach me two new songs, which we practiced for their friend and her daughter. He just happened to have Chopin's C#m Nocturne lying around so I photocopied it, very happily in Melbourne I've stayed with three pianists in a row. Just before I left on a public transit oddyssey to swap hosts to Lily's late at night, I sang them some of my originals. Their daughter Erin, who I'd seen little of while staying, told her mother (who told me when I finished) that she got goosebumps as I began, and never gets goosebumps. A magical night.

Earnings: 73.70 AUD, 1.7 hours
Song of the Day: Leaving on a Jet Plane - John Denver

Tuesday, April 26, 2011

A Buskers - no Williamstown, Day 1



I swapped to a host in the beautiful tourist suburb of Williamstown after finally finishing a song I began in December. After sharing this song those same new hosts, I started to wonder about my process - they are poems with "lots of words" as Neil said, and somewhat repetitive. Perhaps the music is incidental to the poem, and that's not really ideal - they should be synonymous. Something to think about, certainly - once I get myself together a bit I'll attempt to post the four new songs on here. There simply hasn't been time enough. As I write this, for instance, I've taken my first full day not exploring to do all the various strange things that have piled up from lack of computer access/need to busk/explore/practice. Still I'm not close.

So naturally I remain woefully behind on blog posts. Having read a comment on the website thebuskingproject on the self-centeredness of said travelers, I had a brief moment when I reconsidered my own self centeredness in the writing of this blog. But then I got over it. It's meant to be. That, and a resource for buskers to be. I wonder if anyone's yet benefitted from it? At least it lets my mother know I'm alive, and that's useful enough. Otherwise she'd send my younger brother out to find my presumably dead body after three days of no contact.

In Australia they celebrate Easter with a public holiday. In fact people get more time off work than at Christmas. Apparently Good Friday is the only day when all supermarkets are closed. Apparently people go nuts on Thursday because of it. To take advantage of this fact, a friend of my new hosts recommended I play a bit outside the Coles supermarket in the center of town. After hearing at the info stand how busking requires a permit and that police are wont to arrest in Williamstown, I took stock of the town vibe (which is quite akin to the Virginia town of the same name) and decided to go for it anyways. A few police passed me with absolutely nothing better to do but still didn't bust me. A pleasant place.

I set up between two bakeries after procuring permission from their tenders, in the doorway of a shut down shop so as not to "obstruct traffic" and to captain the marginally better acoustics. With allergies and a nervousness born of my last pitch in Hobart, I expected a slow pitch. I interpreted the first comment as I passed of a "I don't have any money, sorry." while I tuned as a snide racist one, with little reason. Happily, the warmer Melbourne climes and cosmopolitan feel guaranteed a rather opposite result.

I played a set of all good Aussie songs (everything that got requested before or had a good response). Voice sore, ear a bit off, busking felt familiar nonetheless. Regular, like a pleasant job (yes that's possible). Nothing really impressed upon me too much - few things do any more. If I don't note down instantly the look of the old lady who smiled while inching along or the comment of the mother walking over from the supermarket with gray plastic bags in the crook of her elbow or the businessman with a sharp nod of acknowledgement or the olive skinned painter slathered in white paint over blu overalls and a tired expression brightening from his eyes down through his outstretched arms and into his upright thumbs - I'd never remember a single one. Just the impression of them, a general feel of what might have happened this day, what was wont to happe with the vibe but no certainty.

I wrote three things down.

Two little girls - one white, one the chinese child of her slightly disintered brand name aviator young woman who completely ruined my stereotype and kindly gave each girl a dollar to tip, stuck around a bit and said "No worries" still detached to my "Thanks." She sat on one of the bakery's chairs while her wards requested Dream. (I think because it's the first on the list). During the instrumental bridge, one of the girls asked "Why do you do this?" and I had a very difficult time coming up with a sensible answer. When you can't explain something in simple enough terms for a child, maybe it's time to do something else?

Tips came pouring in when I sang Where is My Mind. Probably the humour factor and the very happy smile I sported by then. People started telling me "Happy Easter." while tipping or indicating approval. When I finished up after just over an hour, the girl tending the baker's delight stand outside the shop said "You were wonderful!" when I asked the time.

I intended to take a break and return after dinner. I walked about the absolutely beautiful coastline to a pristine circular grassy field to watch pelicans wing by huge and close enough to touch just over the gentle waves towards a gorgeous pre-sunset - that kind of low sun that splays halos of light into clouds that suffuse visible rays. Until it got way too cold.





I cooked Neil and Ri a picadillo, which took rather longer than I anticipated what with a single frying pan to work with and grand designs for plating. As I served up the meal, rain starting pouring down, thoroughly dampening my plans to go back out.

Earnings: 25.75 AUD, 1.2 hours
Song of the Day: Where Is My Mind? - The Pixies

Monday, April 25, 2011

Mal in Melbourne, Day 0.5

The combination of Megan's three cats and dog and the flight to Melbourne late at night left my sinuses - especially my ears - in a miserable state. My right ear still isn't quite right. As such I missed the safety meeting mandatory for buskers to attend (which I'd planned my travel around), and thereby forfeited the possibility of busking in Melbourne CBD. Not a huge deal, as Melbourne's layout and people-flow reminds me a lot of Chicago and New York - wide dark footpaths and people rushing briskly upon them. I'd probably garner little money plying them. But a couple alleyways looked so absolutely beautiful.. I wish I could try them but once, though from stories of other buskers, that would very quickly result in arrest.







Sunday, April 24, 2011

Putting the Ho Back in Hobart, Day 4

Maybe I had you all think that Hobart was all lovely. There's another typical Tasmanian in direct contrast to the vegetarian composting ones I'd mostly encountered. The ones who called out "Speak English" and stole money from me. Apparently the term is "bogan" or the equivalent of an american redneck/hick. My Monday was filled with them.

I walked down to the Elizabeth St. Mall for a pitch in the same Soundy's Lane to find the recorder player from the market playing in the middle of the mall. I don't think it's much of a stretch to say that a recorder is probably the most annoying busking instrument in the world. She "improvised" - loud and cutting to all corners of the mall, and even to the end of my lane, many many meters away. Now, I hate to play in other people's soundspace - I like to be heard without interference but obviously today that would not be possible.

I played as far down as possible within the tunnel to still take advantage of the acoustics therein. Not long after I began, a woman requested I sing her a love song she didn't know, and I obliged with I Will Follow You Into the Dark, which threw her off a bit with the "someday you will die" bit, but she enjoyed it enough to tip a second time. A group of young men passed and said something in a mean way but neither she nor I could catch the words so I didn't bother about it. In general, however, the passersby weren't in a requesting mood.

Their mood seemed to align more with being assholes. Right after the woman left a pair of girls passed and asked in that awful sarcastic you're a beggar we're using you for our amusement voice "Can I have a dollar?" and burst into giggles. Obviously it didn't particularly matter if I responded. I did, denying their request politely and told them succintly that it wasn't that funny. They looked at each other, laughed some more, and assured me it was. A bit later on, three rough looking men performed the same skit, though with distinctly less forgiveable fun and quite a bit more maliciousness. One made to swipe something, another took a menacing step, the third made the comment. I felt so pissed and rattled I asked to no one in particular "Is there anyone kind in this city?" though I knew, of course, kindness abounded.

As if in answer, though, the nice girl who'd shushed her friends in the tunnel a few days before happened to pass. She stopped her friend, telling her "He has an amazing voice," requested Flake. Her friend was favourably impressed, and the two listened rapt, such that I sang right for them, ignoring the continuing "Do you have a dollars" of passersby. They didn't tip but took my card and left me at balance once more. The rest of the pitch went somewhat uneventfully, ended by the councilman at three after forty odd minutes.

My second pitch still sits unfavourably with me. I set up once more outside the sweet shop in North Hobart. After an hour of playing there I'd earned all of two dollars. I felt the slowness of the day and used it to sing some songs I hadn't in a bit of a while. People parked in front of me, listened out the window, lingered to the side... but mostly passed right on by, heads down New York style.

The freshness of the hurt has faded, of course, but more than just bogans being rough or assholes what really rankled was the racism. I encountered more in that hour than I had in all my time since Poland. All young men, yelling slurs across the street, mock tipping me with sneers and looks of "you don't belong here." Some made odd noises with the usual "Speak English" despite my singing no foreign songs. Some passed menacingly, but I felt safe enough what with the window to the shop unshuttered and patrons within the shop.

And then one pair: "Fuck off to your own country!" they said as they crossed the street. I was so taken aback I thought I heard them wrong, and asked "Eh?" and they repeated "Fuck off to your own country." turning about for a moment to emphasize their malevolance with a glare and stomp. I tried to finish Sound of Silence. I'd sung up through the fourth verse. But I couldn't. I couldn't remember the words, couldn't remember the tune, couldn't really think as everything felt sort of white and foggy. Not an angry fog. Not at all. A despair. A sense of helplessness against that, a hopelessness. Feeling so keenly alone without any ally. Those who know me know I don't much cry. Those words and the cold, absolute nonsensical hatred he delivered them with cut me to limbs all shaking and I shivered to a seat on the bench behind my case, knuckles on my eyes, elbows on knees. Like middle school not a personal sadness but something much larger and so cutting deeper.

After composing myself a little I went in to the shop to thank the lady for letting me play outside. Usually I keep my troubles to myself, but I felt so utterly stripped it tumbled out a little. Still in a daze I felt aware of the customers shocked sympathetic looks but I didn't give them time to say or do anything, just trying to keep strong, keep the tears in, try to feel safe for the long walk back.

And so when I closed Megan's door behind me, I started immediately on the best kind of calming therapy. I began to caremelize some onions, slicing apples thin, put brown rice on boil, made a sauce of capers and moroccan seasoning, blanced some broccoli and chickpeas...

Earnings: 14.60 AUD, 1.7 hours
Song of the Day: Flake - Jack Johnson

Saturday, April 23, 2011

Putting the Ho Back in Hobart, Day 3.5

I am very behind on blog posts. So to be brief, I hitched down from Hobart to the Neck Beach on Bruny Island and back again on a rest day for the voice. My hitch down from the ferry to the beach with Libby was particularly memorable - a wonderful woman who offered to let me stay at her place - if only I wasn't leaving! She'd be taking children out for some camping later and invited me to that too. Sometimes, too much planning isn't good...


Mt. Nelson


The Neck









Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Putting the Ho Back in Hobart, Day 3

I swapped hosts again after that one magical night, lugging my amazingly non ergonomic backpack and guitar down to the library to meet Megan (pronounced to rhyme with vegan) and then to the Salamanca market. Every Saturday morning Salamanca place transforms into a large arts and crafts type fair - not a terribly notable or unique crafts festival except in the mind boggling fact that it happens every week. In Florida, for instance, we have similar fairs... which happen once a year per place (Spring Arts Festival). At the market I ran into Clare and Steph again walking up and down with Megan looking for the Market Manager. As we found none and the spot they theoretically based was vacant, I decided to set up and play in front of the designated busking area complete with sign warning buskers who hadn't registered of the dire consequences of playing. A recorder player with a German accent wanted to try the spot, too, but couldn't find the manager herself. I asked if she wanted to play together but she demurred.

A very slow pitch. People seemed tired from a long day at the market (I hadn't started 'til late) . Megan's request of Trapeze Swinger gained no tips - which after the previous day's success I knew to be the sign of a bad spot. I had a few other goes, getting strange disgust-ridled looks for my foreign songs and moved quickly on to a new pitch round the corner, in a beautiful alleyway called Kelly's Steps. Sandstone cut walls, close enough for an audible echo (not just reverb), beautiful yellow light with the quality of films made about Tuscany leading to ancient steps curling up to the historic area of Hobart. Less traffic, great acoustics, a beautifully framed now blue sky - I simply enjoyed playing there no matter the income. A little girl carefully opened her little clutch purse, delaying her mother with an admonishing look to tip me. I asked a man passing with a DSLR around his neck if he'd take some photos of me and gave him my card when he agreed while I sang him his request (and Australian favourite) Mrs. Robinson. Megan requested Fix You before we needed to head back to her car, where her dog lacked attention.

We spoke all afternoon away at her place over a beautiful lunch on the patio outside. After dinner she dropped me off back at Salamanca Place, where we noticed a much lighter crowd than normal. I didn't figure out until I debarked that the cause was a very cold night. After a very brief pitch in the same alleyway as the previous night, during which I received a tip from a woman who told me "You're brave, on such a cold night." I moved to the main thoroughfare, setting up at the corner of the closed fruit market. To my right the buskers who'd just finished sat divvying up their earnings over some beers, and assured me they'd be fine with me taking the pitch, though they played and sang their still audible at my location. Further left the bars started so I couldn't really try a different spot. I just did my thing, confident, using my request list well.

With this attitude my slow start picked up extremely fast. Once again, it's all about the requests. Two young men abandoned their rush to the bar to revel in "you're like a jukebox, man!" buying a CD, requesting Yellow and tipping a twenty dollar note between them. All through the night passersby complimented me and the my "I know 108 songs, ask for my list!" sign worked wonders. One member of a group would notice it, dally behind his friends, take my list, and then call the others enthusiastically back. So they do all the talking I don't want to do so I can be free to sing. I remember most vividly one group of boys gathering round, each tipping some coins. My enthusiastic proponent within the group saw one of them being a bit niggardly and protested loudly, "Thirty cents? Thirty cents?" which naturally prompted the rest of the guys to have a go at him, shaming him enough that he responded, "Look, here's five dollars!" And in it goes. I took a short break from playing to speak with Anna, a young au pair from Barcelona with much deteriorated Spanish. I sang her Fix You, eyes locked, while loud young men roughhoused and tipped or asked a request around us and I ignored them. She took a photo and she promised to send it, soon.

Our Spanish garnered some unsavoury reactions from those about, as did my earlier Ue Liang Dai Biao Wo De Xin - lots of "Can you speak English?" reminiscent of my middle school days. Soon after I started back up, a waiter on break requested Save Tonight, with that shy encouraging smile of a one person relying on tips encouraging another. My night ended with an enthusiastic quartet featuring an awkward freckled ginger boy, a platinum blonde avant garde rail thin, platform shoed Lady Gaga esque girl, a soft spoken lumberjack/indie singer/songwriter guy and a partying artsy type in grey tshirt and scarf and plaid skirt. The first two stayed for quite a few songs, making request after request and dancing awkward and drunk and badly right in front of me. They tipped well, promised a fifty dollar note if I returned next weekend (damn!) and even borrowed my guitar for an awful strum. They called out to a trio of older ladies passing as "mum!" I passed this set on my long walk back up the hills to Megan's. One guessed me from Hong Kong and asked for advice for which side to stay, money not being an issue. I recommended Kowloon.



Earnings: 99.80 AUD, 2.3 hours
Song of the Day: Fix You - Coldplay

Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Putting the Ho Back in Hobart, Day 2

Before I've been remiss in updating for many reasons. This time I blame it on success.

Terri took her son and me out to MONA, the Museum of Old and New Art just opened for a few hours on yet another grey, drizzly day. I loved it. The combination of artists I despise, a beautiful building cut into the cliff and surprisingly wonderful installation work with mirrors and black facing and silver or white and light pine and so on made a great impression. With a theme of death and sex, after seeing a Damien Hirst on the bottom level I knew I'd eventually encounter a Kiefer, an Abramovic, a McCarthy... etc. Taken together in the distorted world they create I found them a bit less distasteful. Only a bit. But what a building! Had I more time I'd have sat at the top of the central stairwell for a nice long draw.

I swapped hosts to stay with Clare the next afternoon. This nixed my plans to play during lunchtime, but owing to another overcast chilly day I wasn't terribly bummed out. Clare and I chatted inside for a while before I rushed off to the New Sydney Hotel for a possible 4.30pm gig. The manager offered me one if sunny and told me to come in either way - well no sun and no gig and I got a bit sweaty to no avail. Undaunted, I walked about the corner to the Elizabeth St. Mall, which I now knew was off limits past 3, but found myself a beautiful alleyway leading into the mall, called "Soundy's Lane" which wasn't specifically mentioned in the busking pamphlet. True to the name I couldn't have encountered better acoustics.

I played around an hour in that narrow corridor near the opening into a closing Salvation Army. A group of young kids took up residence at the other end of the passageway right as I began, not 10 meters away, rather loud and nearly drowning me out, but still I received a few tips for my first song. They decided to move on and passed before me. I admit I felt a bit worried having had my money stolen two days ago by similarly dressed youngsters, but these took to me enthusiastically, requesting two songs in a row and tipping some silver coins. The second of these was my rough Nothing Else Matters, during which the young girl kept hushing hte boys to listen. Requests would define Hobart for me. Unlike Sydney or Honolulu where my sign and request list seemed to deter passersby, here in Hobart it marked me as different, and my greatest asset finally showed through - human jukeboxness.

A man passed by speaking into his mobile but paused, slowed and told me "You've got a really great voice!" before picking up his pace and conversation while I sang Dream. As in Bergen I made a point to sing my slower melodic tunes, and went through most of the songs I'd neglected for lack of projective power. Almost nothing went poorly. Early on as I retuned to compensate for the weather, a woman passed humming the notes. She apologized hastily saying "Sorry, I have perfect pitch." Luckily I was tuning in the right direction. She passed back the other way a while later right as I sang Scarborough Fair, joining in as she heard and stopping across the narrow way to make eye contact. Her partner (in Australia it's common to refer to significant others as partners) stood happily by, clearly relishing the opportunity to enjoy her voice. What a voice, too! I asked her after we sang a rousing Country Roads together about it and she admitted that she had indeed been a professional singer for many years. And so I asked her, timidly, if I was singing alright - hoping my efforts in technique via Bram resulted in better intonation, expecting an "eh, alright" - and she replied with a dismissive laugh, "It's wonderful!" as if why are you worrying? "You're singing really well." She took my card.

A very young couple stopped to request the girl's favourite song: New Slang. Her boyfriend's kindness poured out of his eyes - that gentle wonderfulness with her reserved soft smile - and then the skateboarder who'd sheepishly passed through thrice sat down on his skateboard right in front of me with a similar smile and two thumbs up, listening to Falling Slowly as his pedestrian friends tipped. A girl looked in delighted at the end of the passageway, beaming at Under the Bridge but not stepping in. A man who passed before and complimented my voice on the second pass double back from the entrance for my "Good choice of song." Nature Boy. I was on with song choices. Rarely does a pitch prove so fruitful, such that I only left on not receiving a tip for a song.

But I want to write about the night. I'd arranged to meet Clare at Rectango, a wonderful block party type fest which happens every Friday night, apparently, with a large funk band with backs to a quarried sandstone cliff, dancing hippies and all for free. There are two typical Tasmanians, apparently and up to this point I'd mostly encountered one kind - the environmentally conscious, vegetarian/vegan, bushwalking, composting, bike-riding sort the square was infested with. At around seven o'clock I proclaimed Hobart the greatest city on earth and I meant it.

I decided to try and catch the crowd departing from Rectango but the alleyway I liked already boasted a trio of bored locals sitting on skateboards and hitting crates with sticks to go along with some uninspired guitar strumming. So I took up a spot in an arcade of closed shops at the back exit of the square, catching a few passersby for tips with two songs. With the arcade then absolutely deserted and still, I wandered back out to see the trio wandering off and I quickly claimed their spot, backlit nicely by a studio window.

I honestly can't remember too much detail from my night pitch. Everything flowed together beautifully, tied together by one character - an admittedly piss drunk man with a great voice and an exuberant friendliness as large as his belly. He split from his friends and wife on seeing me and asked to sing along to one of my songs after seeing my request list. "People tell me I have a good voice but I never get a chance to use it. I'm not good with words... but I can sing along if you don't mind." At first I didn't mind at all. It was nice to have someone friendly. But then I though perhaps he was scaring people from tipping with his obvious inebriation, lapses in intonation and nonsense instead of lyrics. So I had him stand across the way, which he figured out, and was a tiny bit hurt. He wanted to help, though, and started to corral passersby with that easy personability, telling them half jokingly "You have to tip!" "This man's come all the way from Florida..." (People were amazed anyone would visit Hobart, even from the mainland.) "Make a request! He knows one hundred and eight songs!" and people responded, open minded enough to entertain him and so to give me a chance. When people actually listen, I do well.

My ally bought me two fried "veggie dimsum" skewers from the Vietnamese restaurant, a sprite when he needed a drink and I'd coincidentally run out of water. Clare sat by across the way with a newly met keeper of a boy for a bit and came back for the end. With my ally's help, few songs passed without a crowd. One requesting pair signalled for my friend to stop singing along to Tears in Heaven, which he got self conscious about. All the time I assured him he sang quite well (and he surely did) but that people get annoyed when someone's a bit off time and doesn't know the lyrics. Once a lovely couple with a small child joined in on Country Roads which we sang to the southern stars and some girls gathered round with us. I played them Skinny Love on a request.

Soon my friend starting calling himself my manager, jokingly, to passersby. He'd already bought a CD off me. The seven out on the town girls who gathered round each tipped, singing along to She's So High, though the one they singled out to sing it was too nervous to sing alone. When I changed the key for Hey There Delilah (from the oh so Pachelbel Canon-y D to a more comfortable for her G) she sang bits alone, timidly. I felt surprised I could still sing it (though I sat out the choruses, simple as they are, or sang an octave down). All the while my "manager" engaged them "All together now!" "Come on!" "Don't be shy!" Everyone smiling - bashfully as the girl on the spot, softly and maybe even covetously watching me do my thing, drunkenly with arms waving, innocently a babe in the arms of a father delighted and bemused with his wife in awe and gratitude.

So I kept going, and going and going. Kept singing with a voice still strong with the breaks afforded by singalongs, the ease of singing provided by people crowding close and the excellent alley acoustics, the sprite he gave me. I knew I couldn't stop until my friend left, so I kept going, taking a rest here and there, until his friends and wife returned, happy to see him so cheery, requesting all manner of songs including his request for his wife Your Song which we sang together though he couldn't manage keeping the melody when I switched to harmony. Like Dan Geoffrion a perfect amplifier but not a lead. And then all of a sudden he left in a huff, maybe something his wife said about "Maybe we should go?" or just the strange whimsicality of the drunken. I stayed to sing Clare and Steph a few last songs to some last tips. During our chat that afternoon she'd complained of finding no good men in Hobart. I'd set out hoping doubtfully for thirty dollars. We walked back together, the three of us, them ahead hand in hand, smitten, chatting and smiling beautifully, while I trailed behind hugging the heaviest case I've yet brought back.

Earnings: 106.00 AUD + food + sprite, 3.5 hours
Song of the Day: Country Roads - John Denver

Friday, April 15, 2011

Putting the Ho Back in Hobart, Day 1

I spent my first rainy day in Hobart hiding in a hostel's living room and in the Tasmanian Museum. It's an excellent museum and the first gallery gave a narrative of Aborigines on the island and how they've been treated. Not terribly well. Later that night I spoke with my host Terri, who told me how homogenous Hobart is - almost all Anglos, and how recently the White Australia policy ended. Indeed, when I forayed out at around four in the afternoon the next day, I felt like I was in Britain.

Well, not really, because the mist, the mountains and small roads, the sleepiness of the town and the friendliness of the people all reminded me of Bergen. I'd spent the morning writing and managed to get a couple verses for a song whose tone fit the weather. I already acquired a permit from the City Council Tuesday, so I headed off to the Elizabeth St. Mall quite emboldened. The policeman I asked for advice said I might play wherever I liked, so I set up beneath a little awning to sing, a perfect spot with benches up and down the pedestrian street and good acoustics. You see, as much as I've enjoyed playing in the rain in the past, I've finally put two and two and realized that my low E string tends to go when I play in such humidity. What with the high price of strings in Australia...

One lady sat on a bench facing away but clapped after my second song. The passersby consisted mostly of youth. The girls looked at me confusedly, especially when I sang Liberta, and the boys were... boys. That is they sort of acted rough about me. One group called out "Speak English, mate" but strangely not cruelly, just ignorantly, as I sang Ue Wo Muite Arukou. Later on, a one toothed old man with horrid breath and bad enunciation (what can you expect) thanked me specifically for that song. Apparently the tune was used for an Australian film. Those who tipped did so handsomely, so that by the time a duo of policemen advanced menacingly at me and told me to move on, accusing me "You aren't allowed to play past three, it's in your contract!" as if it was the end the world, I'd accumulated a good six or so dollars.

Undaunted, I took the opportunity to hit up the pubs around Hobart to look for a gig. Just like Hawai'i and other places, calling or emailing yielded no results, but showing up garnered me quite a few "maybes." Though none have gotten back to me as yet... For whatever reason I passed droves of musicians as I walked about, and three (3!) music shops. I noticed that this north part of Elizabeth street might be a good pitch, too, so I set up outside a sweets shop which was in the process of closing. I wonder if it's an Australian thing that the first song of mine is always greeted with an absurdly disproportionate amount of tips. I started with Somewhere Over the Rainbow to surprise and delight all around and probably at least half my income for the pitch. Or at least half of what I came away with.

You see, just before I finished after a slow hour, two secondary school boys passed with the usual messing with you sort of mindset. Horsing around, and I thought none of it. They made some silly comments and disparaging looks and asked if I might spare a dollar. Naturally I declined. Then the stopped, turned back and I asked if they might have a request. One boy requested Relax, Take it Easy while the other tipped me a few small silver coins. Now, while my attention was focused on the first boy I thought I saw the second pocket something discreetly, but I didn't want to assume any such foul play and sang to them without looking down to check my money. You see, I've found I do better (and play better) when I don't look down at my case at all. In fact, usually that means passersby don't look down, either. After finishing the song, however, after they'd left with a snicker and I received a tip for the song from a passersby heading the opposite way, I looked to notice at least four gold coins missing. I knew I'd left two two dollar coins in there from the time I checked last, and may have received more. And certainly more than as many ones. Adding in the gold one that flashed in after they left, I missed at least five discounting the other tips I hadn't bothered to check the value of.

The assholes stole at least seven dollars. Really?

Earnings: 27.10 AUD, 1.3 hours
Song of the Day: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

A Square Busker and a Circular Quay, Day 1 (Sydney 5)

So I've been writing posts that are likely overlong. To compensate for that, I'll detail my gig at The Basement mostly in video. I filmed a random song from each of the six contestants from this grand final of the singer songwriter competition, for you to judge who you think ought to have won. Please leave a comment about that below - it'll also let me see who's reading :).













So The Basement is THE venue in Sydney for folk, jazz, indie (as opposed to the Annandale Hotel). I can't describe how amazed and grateful I was to play there, in a packed house with a peak audience of a hundred and fifty, sitting in a dressing room where Billie Holliday, Harry Connick Jr., Ralph McTell and many others also prepared to play. A wonderful sound guy recommended I borrow a guitar rather than double mic it, and recorded the entire gig live. Again I played while Russell counted the votes, which were legion this go around. The lowest vote total was 157. Australians really drink. I thought I might play four songs, maybe six, but I ended up playing twelve. Ah!

The audience started off quite loud and chatty, which I thought normal as they'd been kept pretty hush throughout the night. After three originals I decided to try and win them to me with the Mario Kart Love Song, which did the trick well. Their conversations and fidgety looks had been very disconcerting and somewhat discouraging before, along with the steady flow of leavers, and I felt it hard to even keep up my smile. You see, I perform as I've learned from countless Play-ins and JS shows - I focus almost not at all on the words or the tune but more on the feeling and with finding a connection with the audience. I keep my eyes open and focus on my allies in the crowd. This time they sat near the bar - the nice men who promised to look after my Zi8, stood to my left drunken and raucous and enthusiastically calling for "One more!" and up front, where the initially disaffected youth table found interest. Malachy's friends sang along to Mad World, even.

Afterwards, Dan Usher having won out in classic person who goes first and brings a lot of drunkards fashion, those allies on the left bought my CD and signed up for my mailing list. I found myself unconsciously bowing after everything, Japanese style, but couldn't seem to stop. I stuck around for stragglers even though it was past midnight and my flight to Hobart left the following morning at 7.20, but I needn't have. What with the long night, the steep admission fee and the high volume of money spent on drinks, people shook my hand and thanked me but weren't terribly keen to spend more money. I set up my mini merch at a choke point at the end of the bar. The venue rushed people out, too, as they wanted to close. Still, I played in The Basement, and that's all I wanted from tonight.

Audience: ~150 and falling to ~ 75
Earnings: 109.00 AUD, 40 minutes
Song of the Day: Mario Kart Love Song - Sam Hart

Tuesday, April 12, 2011

Rockdale, Day 1

I had a feeling that this night would be a good night. Though my voice felt super fail throughout the day I felt determined to head to the gig at Rockdale in St. George Tavern. Andrew and Julia took me to the Wildlife World in the very beautiful Darling Harbour which was most fun for the Legos, the fat Koalas and the super fat Wombat. I felt a bit bad going to a zoo when there, as I'd thought it would be more of a nature reserve where you'd find things roaming around. I'm always think how I'd feel in a cage when I visit them. Some think it's a great easy life, with everything provided for you - but look how humans degenerate when absurdly rich and pampered. It can't be healthy.

On preparing to leave for Rockdale I still felt unsure about my throat. Still off. After some hmming and hahing, however, Julia took me there, arriving precisely on time. I needn't have. The host Carolyn was having huge technical difficulties with the PA, and we didn't really get started until half an hour or so later. During the interim I walked about and met the other performers and their crews. I classify myself as shy and this takes a lot of energy from me to pluck up the courage, as I go to these things alone and they always go with largish groups. The prolonged time meant I got to meet quite a few of them, including a pair of brothers from Tucson.

Carolyn, a girl from D.C., played a song in that trademark female indie singer way with those grinning leaps into head voice - like Sarah Bareilles' chorus in King of Anything or any Hotel Cafe singer. Captivating at first. This night I really noticed how one can expect a musician's sound from their look. Natasha, a diminuitive sixteen year old girl with braces and dressed up like a sabrina the teenage witch complete with black dress, and a cute pair of boxy bowed shiny black shoes. Wish I knew the term for them. And she sang just like she looked, part of that generation of girls who grew up listening to Christina Aguilera like the Christina Grimmie's of the youtube. Her voice and style, her tosses of the head and winks, her very juvenile (but she's sixteen! of course they are!) lyrics rife with cliches on how others think she won't succeed but look, she is! She's sharing her music! Kind of shake your head adorable. The old men sitting up front looked captivated.

Alan Watters followed her with an absolutely phenomenal set. He's the kind of songwriter who knows just how to write for his own voice - he's strongest in the high head voice range and so sings most of his songs there, using full and falsetto just to accent. Good lyrics, too, with a cute sixties Brit style and teeth (think Robin Gibb). He won me with the first song and just kept laying it on song after excellent song despite a discomfort with the stage. The woman who followed him, past forty surely, did not follow up so well. Zilda Smythe sang four "Long, slow and depressing songs, like my life, but it's getting better!" - her words. She had sort of a Janis/Stevie Nicks/Blondie vibe with her stumbly unfocused Jack Sparrow drunkish (though hadn't had a glass) way about the stage in her new agey clothes with the forearms of the sleeves slit in half, curly hair and eyes rolled back with teeth bared at the mic. I often looked up surprised she had a guitar rather than a drink in her hand. Reminded me of Stifler's mom from American Pie.

Malachy Milligan played the next set, with dark emo type songs and a strange uncertain conceitedness with the audience. That is, he'd say things like "Forget that one" and then introduce his last song with the bold proclamation "I wrote this song in one day and I think it's pretty great because I don't think it sounds like any other song in the world." But after Zilda, a welcome change. And finally Lance, an excellent guitarist and musician who'd helped with the PA earlier and knew how to adjust his levels between songs. He played a twelve string in Csus2 tuning, which I thought unfortunately overpowered his voice. The tuning yielded a rather dirgy feel. I still thought his set was the clear second place - excellent guitar skills and a good voice if a bit strained.

I've been noticing that the one who goes last almost always get's last. And so this night Lance only beat out Zilda. That's the thing with voting based on drinks. People will buy tickets for who they came for, listen to the next artist and then stick that artist on the bill just to get it over with. No one waited 'til the end to vote except me. You see, despite my only getting water, the bartender very kindly gave me four votes. At any rate I played a four song set while Carolyn counted the votes up - From Dawn to Busk, Squirrel Song, Kids, and Stamsund. I felt comfortable among the warm, supportive audience - none besides Christina had left, and she only due to being underage.

After Alan netted his first place five hundred dollar prize and Malachy netted his second place studio time, business went crazy. I turned the pool table into a mini merch table, and people flocked over. Lance asked me for a CD and for my signature, then an older supporter or Alan's came and gave me three dollars for nothing in particular before taking the bookmark I insisted on. Then a middle aged bloke bought my CD for ten, then another, then the Tucson man bought three bookmarks, and then Malachy's supporter payed ten for a CD and refused change and then his mother and father look through my bookmarks and buy eleven of them, the father paying an extra ten cents for his and all the time people coming up and thanking me or chatting with me and I'm overwhelmed but oh so happy.

But best of all was the compliment from that same kind bartender. He told me seriously he thought me a great songwriter and could see me with a band. And so the song of the day was his favourite.

Earnings: 55.10 AUD, 20 minutes
Song of the Day: From Dawn to Busk - Terrence Ho

Monday, April 11, 2011

Busking Can Be Brighton Le Sands, Day 3

By the by, I updated the last Hawai'i post with a video of Butterflies. But I'll post it here, too.



Children characterized last Friday's pitch at Brighton Le Sands. I think I've oft mentioned how I enjoyed my class with the Calvin Hill threes and how my post busking plans might include early childhood education. I think I'm good with children and I really love how energetic they are, making them smile, treating them like adults which they're so grateful for, etc, but today i happened upon a reason why I might not be so well suited for such employment. Sometimes they're too energetic. Way too energetic. The same batch of kids greeted me this night (I set up at five thirty) and perhaps because I set up while they watched or because they'd just finished school their hyperness and noise level were at high. Of course I love enthusiasm, and they're so sweet and mean so well, but it just got overwhelming. As a highly sensitive person I seriously couldn't handle it. Too much chaos and things to try to control and read... agh! It's just like in a homegroup or jooksongs or a party when there are too many discrete personages with strong personalities and opinions and I'm reading them all and it's a total overload.

They clamored for No One and then Tears in Heaven just like that last night. The boys rode bikes around and around me, screaming delightedly at each other and tossing a ball. The younger children rode scooters or casterboards, and like last night the two youngest girls sat quietly and attentively just in front of me. And then everyone began crowding at once, pressing in from all sides with requests - song requests, requests to say "Say this song is dedicated to Kayan and Lashaan." To the former's chagrin, all so insistent with an undertone of friendly competition and making fun within the group that I didn't want to be a part of. So loud, blocking off the other passersby from seeing or hearing, me twirling my head around in circles trying to make sense of it all and finally just getting so absolutely flustered I gave up: I don't know if I can explain that feeling of being completely overwhelmed just like I get at dance parties or sports games or big concerts - it's like there's so much ... stuff out there screaming and screaming like a million babies and i feel dizzy and unstable and like breaking down and pressured... So I apologized to the kids and told them I couldn't play for now, I had to sit down a moment. They were very nice and didn't mind all too much, even though many of them had already tipped me with small coins.

Under the sympathetic gaze of the nearby convenience store workers I sat down on a bench just behind, still talking with the kids but quieter and not feeling quite so responsible for the ruckus on the street. The asked me all sorts of questions about my life and travels. One at a time, though, respecting and understanding my need for calmer times. The eldest girl, a very pretty thirteen year old by the name of Paris, a Kiwi, borrowed my journal to write me a note, getting many of the other children to sign it. I felt so overwhelmed for these twenty or so minutes that I just let them pass it around, pass my list, my business cards, my CD.

Naturally when things quieted down a bit later and they left for a soccer game, I still wasn't on my game. I felt dazed and exhausted, but played by hour and a bit to a very warm audience. One middle aged woman who passed said something to the effect of "You should have been on that X Factor and not Altiyan, he was here a couple weeks ago and he sucked. You're way better." X Factor is an idol show, Altiyan just won it. Without the raucous children to scare them off, a lot of younger ones came and got their parents to tip through them. I think 80% of my tips came from hands less than ten years old. Must be a Friday thing, too. These younger children weren't so pubescently charged and they'd approach quietly, sit or squat with my list, play with the coins in the case. My favorite two, Andrew and Michael of maybe three and five, stayed a long while. They'd inquire about my capo, what it was for, why it worked, why I needed to change it, about my songs. Michael, the younger one, requested songs though he couldn't read based on the length of the text. Oh how pure and beautiful children are when intent and curious. And this made me realize perhaps early childhood isn't a silly idea - it's the middle school aged kids I couldn't handle, and I already knew that, didn't I?

Besides these little tips from little hands - mostly twenty and fifty cent pieces, only $5 in gold coins - a local evangelist coloured my pitch. He set up beside me handing out small leaflets reading "Eternal Life is a Free Gift," and at one point asked me if I could sing any Christian songs. I figured, why not? So I sang all three I knew, all to quite a good response from the older passersby - as I said in my last post, I think it's almost always good to just go with it. I particularly enjoy the memory of one early thirties man with a girl who pointedly went over to tip me a gold piece before paying any attention the the evangelist, who'd been speaking to him throughout. The evangelist was a nice chap, had nothing to tip me but offered me a drink when he finished up after forty five minutes or so, and helped convey what people said about me as they passed, or what they commented about me to him as he chatted with them. As passersby often note, my guitar doesn't strike them as particularly interesting but they like my voice. Towards seven I knew I ought to finish soon, as the older folks and younger folks began to be replaced by frowning dolled up high heeled twenty something girls, compensating young men in loud motorbikes or blaring pop/techno out of open windows and sour faced old men.

On the walk back beneath gorgeous southern stars and a beautiful golden crescent moon, I happened to pass the lady who'd requested Don't Speak the other night. We had a wonderful encouraging chat which helped smooth and calm me out for the rest of the dark way home. She told me she thought I was a local, couldn't hear my accent at all. Funny that. :)

Earnings: 17.90 AUD, gumball, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: No One - Alicia Keys

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Busking Can Be Brighton Le Sands, Day 2

A group of energetic young children greeted me in my return to Brighton Le Sands. I ventured out for a later pitch, beginning around 4.30. The kids came by in the middle of my second song and quickly requested No One and then Tears in Heaven. One of the younger girls of maybe seven loved the latter song, staring with rapt wondrous eyes only a child can have. The two older boys tossed around a rugby ball as they all cavorted around me, and I got hit in the head by it during one song, which we all laughed off. The elder boy felt bad, though, and he was the first to tip me. Eventually they'd dart around and find coins from somewhere - parents? shop owners? I've no idea - and drop the 5 to 20 cent coins in very reverently. The youngest girls spent loved crouching down in front and counting them: "Six money!" I love the way small children are unafraid to crouch on their heels and look at things up close, touch things, point. Two girls sat in front of my case for a few songs playing with the coins, and on leaving I saw they'd organized them by color and then size in a nice line.

So wonderful I had these children to help me through the beginning of my pitch. What with the other pedestrians scarce and less tip friendly than the previous Friday, I'd otherwise likely would've pulled into myself and been a bit more reserved and less open and smiley about my performance. And when they left I really felt at home. Really felt like I loved busking again for the first time in a while. Of course, my elation fed back onto itself and people responded, I felt more wonderful, people kept responding, and so on. Today I played with that knack of what to sing when, and to whom. Comfortable enough to move around, walk back and forth from my case, to talk randomly with passersby between songs and feel no ill will when they didn't tip. Best of all, I felt comfortable enough to sing at a normal volume with the lighter car traffic. The cars that stopped at the light rolled down windows to smile and enjoy, too.

Back to busking as I love it, as in Scandinavia, those same patterns of tip demographics re-emerged. My tips came from young women, children, and older folks. Young men looked at me askance, as if troubled or unsure how to react and the old men were polarized between looks of disgust and haughtiness and questioning, solemn, head-nodding tips. The shop keepers on either side of the mini plaza both offered their smiling approval.

So I played longer than I intended. A African Kiwi woman passed by once and her child, who'd been among the terrors earlier, pointed out my list when I engaged them friendily, but not assuring them I didn't need a tip. I think the ability to say that honestly, to play for the pleasure of it and for the pleasure of passersby is such an intangible, difficult to find thing. With this warm, casual attitude, she requested Don't Speak, delighted with my Em take on it. She tipped the fifty cent piece she had, and on passing the other way recognized the Dream, calling out "Fleetwood Mac!" And so initially suspicious becomes a friend and ally. I'm reminded of Blågårdsgade.

A little later on as the sun set to my left, one of the young men exceptions tipped me and took a seat on one of the benches behind me. This pitch I didn't really worry about those surreptitious audience members, realizing that to think on them would likely drive them away. He didn't make a request at first so I continued to sing some oldies, but after two songs I took my list and walked back to give it to him. He asked for Where is my mind. Now, there's another benefit to asking for requests - generally speaking locals request songs that other locals are in tune with. Like Brighter than Sunshine in Sopot garnering surprise tips, this song suddenly netted me quite a few, too. I sang it with feeling and ease now that I've moved it out of falsetto and into a comfortable mid-range full voice.

When I headed to sing that song, a kindly Eastern European man who I assume to be Greek (as the neighbourhood's predominantly Greek), clapped me on the arm and gave me a broad smile and a thumbs up with a "You great." A little later on I lent him my guitar on his request and he gave me some advice in halting, earnest English. To get an amp, play from five to seven and my entire case would be full, he's sure. My finger picking was lost on people, he explained, even though it's difficult, and that I needed to play loud chords (he demonstrated both), but that with an amp I could demonstrate what mastery of the guitar I have. And then he really moved me: "You so great. What you do really great. I really appreciate." A solemn nod, a rough hand gentle on my upper arm, eyes shining wet. "You make community... like this." Clasping hands firmly, eyes so hopeful in mine. And I felt bad I've already bought a ticket out for Tuesday night. When he left, he tipped me by way of his child, reminding me to heed his advice.

You know you're doing well when an old Asian lady tips you. One tipped, looking confused and searching my face for guile while I sang Hey Ya. I ended my pitch after these two girls who'd rushed back and forth giggling wildly - maybe at me? I'm unsure. I wonder what it was.

Earnings: 25.10 AUD, 1.6 hours
Song of the Day: Don't Speak - No Doubt

Friday, April 8, 2011

Missing a Kogarah Gear, Day 2

Well I stayed in again this past Wednesday due to my whatever it is sickness. I watched Ponyo which has the cutest song ever, and only headed out after dinner for my gig in Kogarah - the same deal as the last week where I played last while Russell counted votes. The talent pool this night didn't quite match the last week's, and once again unworthy acts progressed to the finals on the strength of their fan base - or more the strength of their fan's alcohol tolerances. You see, you get a vote slip for buying a drink.

Last time, Peter's fans and the rest of the artists stayed through till the results were announced - salient to me as I played for a nice sizeable audience with a high number of friendly musicians. The makeup of this crowd ran markedly different. Most acts left in the middle of the next acts songs. Extremely rude. A side effect of this meant that the later you played, the less votes you could captain. And thus the last act of the night, Dave Sattout, easily easily the best act, garnered a mere five votes to the winner's ninety two. The winner, Dan Coates, brought the majority of the crowd, yet left almost immediately after he sang, taking his crowd with him. And so talent lost out. The other acts who made it through included Dan Usher, who's apparently also made the Grand Final I'll be playing at on Monday at The Basement (the premier venue of Sydney, what!), who as far as I can tell knows one strumming pattern, four chords, and two melodies. I guess if it ain't broke, take a generic country song and copy it. He particularly appalled me by playing IV chords where clearly a vi should have been. Reginald the Safety Dancing Goat, the sole worthy finalist, finished out the group. He played with great energy and skill - wonderful songs that he did a disservice to with silly cheap laugh titles and jokes like "If Ron Jeremy Can Be a Porn Star, I Can Too" which had nothing to do with the actually serious, good song.

As per usual not all of the acts showed up, but a "warmup" group offset this. My god they were abysmal. I only just recently happened upon the "Homeless or Hipster" idea, and coincidentally or not, this group cemented that idea for me. That bored, perma-high glazed eyes, slack-jawed lazy bum look replete with torn skinny jeans, chest hair baring shirts, unkempt hair and nose rings. Hipsters are supposed to play music well. They started with a cover of Santana's Smooth, and continued even more laughably with a cover of get this: Led Zeppelin's Stairway to Heaven. I mean, seriously, you don't record one of the most difficult, showcasey songs of all time unless you totally kick ass. Certainly not if you forget lyrics, fumble guitar lines, simplify the solo, change tempos, sing off key for a chorus or too. Sort of lost the whole time, with precisely Bram's imitation of a breathy annoying hipster voice which he used to exaggerate my own tendency and how to correct it. Every single note flat, some not even close, not playing in time with each other - the rest of us in the pub looked at each other multiple times like "Are you serious?" Best of all their whole we don't give a shit attitude completed by their departure directly after they "played." Their last song actually sounded all right though - an original - but they'd taken up so much time for just a few songs due to all sorts of equipment issues. And between their second and third the lead guitarist stupidly removed the plug from his guitar without turning down the volume. EVERYONE knows you must do that, and so resulted a deafening pop from the speaker. Massimo and I sat directly up front and felt our right ear ringing the rest of the night.



At any rate, my set went uneventfully, though the remaining crowd warmed to me quite nicely. As usual I prepared a short story to lead them through, singing them an alternation between covers and originals to push my CD but alas, no one bought one. I really hoped someone might to lessen the suckiness of having the US Postal Service lose a hundred of mine as sent by Kevin to my mother, but no luck.

Audience: <20
Earnings: 0.00 AUD + CD exchange, 20 minutes
Song of the Day: Hello - Lionel Richie

Thursday, April 7, 2011

No Win in Wynyard, Day 1 (Sydney 4)

This Sunday past on the way to eat Vietnamese food in Bankstown, we saw a woman looking forlorn through a fence into a rubbish heap. She told us she could hear a cat trapped in there, so Andrew and I went around the back to see if it needed help. The little kitten trapped itself in a small hole of a metal plate and meowed loudly and pitifully at us until Andrew started talking to it. We tried to move the rubbish and things off her but were stymied by one particularly heavy slab of metal. Tugging as hard as we could in concert we couldn't even budge it. So we called the fire department in. We stayed for a while waiting for them and were rather amused that it took five big guys to rescue one little cat. They employed various tools and the called in pet shelter guy retrieved the little thing squirming away. It was a bit sick, so he rushed it to the shelter. Not every day one aids in saving a kitten.





Bankstown, where we ate our lunch, feels like some part of Asia. We saw maybe seven or so non-Asian people the entire time we sat inside the restaurant on the well trafficked streets. Pretty phenomenal. I thought Michelle might enjoy living in Sydney because of it. That night I started to feel rather unwell and then Monday I felt positively ill and so stayed in, napping and drinking/eating traditional Chinese medicine as provided by my aunt and uncle. By Tuesday I didn't feel much better but I'm a stubborn kid, so I insisted on heading in to the city - I haven't been able to write letters for months as paper's been beyond my budget/hard to find and I was absolutely determined to find some. But oh how expensive things go for here! The same Japanese style paper I'd buy at home for maybe ten cents a sheet necessitates $1.80 per here! So, unfortunately, my next letter will be on inferior quality paper.

The specifics of my ailment run as follows - mild chills/maybe-fever, dizziness/weakness, minute aches, and most saliently a rather uncomfortable throat. Despite that last I brought out my guitar and go figure I ended up playing a pitch. Though the Wynyard Station sits comfortably in the center of Sydney, I couldn't resist the pun. I played first on the ramp amidst some stores leading up from the station to George Street, having asked the station manager where I might play and the nearby shop owners for permission. After a song and a half a very sadly apologetic looking Egyptian security guard told me I had to stop. Already feeling down via sickness this made me rather despondent. Luckily, a lady passing just then, stopped and said, "At least let him finish such a beautiful song!" (Mad World) and tipped me her coins in a "Oh, how sad the world is now" sort of way. Or that's how I read it at least.

So I wandered to the other end of the station, where a harmonica player sat at the bottom of a stairwell, playing Auld Lang Syne ad nauseum very simply with raggedy clothing and unwashed hair and clothes. He'd positioned himself in such a way that his small sound drifted every which way and I'd be unable to busk anywhere and be entirely out of his soundspace. I asked him when he might finish and he told me half an hour or so, so I wandered about and returned thirty minutes later to the top of the stairwell to wait for him to finish. Fifteen more minutes later I heard him collecting the coins and making as if to leave, so I walked down and thanked him, inquiring about the pitch. He didn't really pay much attention to me, counted his coins, apparently decided it was an insufficient take and sat right back down, ignoring me, taking up that same godawful tune with his head bent over and most of the coins vanished into his coat.

So I had to find my own pitch. I decided to play as far away as possible from his sound but close enough to the centre of the Kent streetward tunnel to use the acoustics. I started off well with a few tips for my first few songs, but these soon petered out, coincidentally or not as I started to feel rather out of sorts - a bit hot and unfocused and unbalanced. Sort of almost out of body/almost delirious. I remember through the wooziness that most everyone smiled at me on their rushing ways past. That's the main difference between Sydney and New York. Financially insignificant but emotionally so - in New York they frown at you and not tip, in Sydney they smile and not tip. Towards the middle I decided to play everything on my as yet unsold on the street CD as a theme. Then I tried removing the CDs, business cards, bookmarks, and song list from my case along with half the money as an additional experiment, to which I was rewarded with a couple tips after a long drought. Perhaps looking more professional doesn't help after all.


I think every city has a Hyde Park


Earnings: 6.55 AUD, 1.2 hours
Song of the Day: Mad World - Tears for Fears

Wednesday, April 6, 2011

Tempe Doesn't Taste Very Good, Day 1

I saw a sign by the train advertising the Blue Mountains and I wanted to go. Andrew kindly drove me out there (not without continuous sarcastic complaints there and back) where we bushwalked (Australian for hiked) an easy six kilometre path called the National Pass/Wentworth Falls circuit. My other cousin Julia couldn't make it, for whatever reason, which turned out well as she wouldn't have been able to handle walking even one km, according to Andrew. Andrew complained quite well about this hike, too, though mostly (mostly) in jest. Hiking with a companion is so different from hiking alone. It's someone to share the views with, but less contemplative solitude. Both are nice.





















After a quick dinner on our return, Julia drove me out to Tempe for my gig at the Stella Inn. In hindsight I needn't have bothered. A nice leisurely dinner would've been better. The entire audience consisted of us musicians - Russell, Ande (the tremendous guitarist from Kellys), Charlie and myself. The other three each brought a single person with. The manager didn't treat us terribly well, either, reluctant to turn off the TV behind us or the music on the P.A. Why have us then? As Russell played he expressed his displeasure audibly and loudly announced that "The general consensus is for Ande to give it a go." Very sour faced man. Aside from him the rest of the bar goers largely cared about sport and gambling - ever so prevalent in Sydney! - loudly watching horses and reacting with even more noise. Didn't make for a great night, but oddly enough I think we all enjoyed ourselves via the misery loves company maxim. I sang five originals then three covers off my request list. The last of these, unfortunately, was Hallelujah. Despite an ailing voice I obliged.

Naturally I didn't sell a CD or a bookmark. Ande very kindly gave me five dollars to buy a hotdog with, when returning for his girlfriend's diary which I found and brought outside to give them. Though ever so talented with music, his approach to it is quite the opposite of little planned me - he wants a nest egg before heading to Europe to try to "make it," playing lots of indoor gigs with his bachelor's in music, scraping earnings with his 9-5 sales job. Helped me realize that my take on music isn't quite so typical after all.

Earnings: 5.00 AUD, 30 minutes
Song of the Day: Purple Dress - Terrence Ho