Sin Moneda en Santa Monica, Day 2

I met up with my host Carl in downtown Santa Monica with a mind to play Venice Beach. With temperatures dropping to a balmy sixty with clouds and wind, people were fled home as if from a storm. Very cute. I hung out with a group of three guitarists jamming out in front of an incredible view of the sunset. Those very clouds created a wonderful, multi-textured canvas for the angled light. I didn't have my camera, but Carl did:



So with the suggestions of those guitarists I went back to Santa Monica to play the 3rd Street Promenade. They had mixed opinions on if I could get away with playing the actual promenade, so I asked the three buskers I saw there. Each sported a large, laminated license with a photo prominently in front. The first I spoke with, a drummer, told me very cynically and defeatedly about the licensing situation. How yes it's unconstitutional, but do you have the money to fight it? Do you think two million dollars would fight it up to the supreme court? He ranted long and bitter - I make sooo much money out here I just choose to wear old clothes, you know I actually have four homes, no five, in... He told me the security was very unkind around there, that on this night I'd probably run into no problems as they needed the entertainment (all the buskers home from the weather), but was it worth the risk of arrest, a $200 fine and a misdemeanor? Obviously, no.

It's pretty incredible they issue a misdemeanor for an exercise of the first amendment. Kevin also pointed out that they'd be even quicker to give it to out-of-towners as I'd have to pay and stick around for the court date and thus provide more city revenue. The second busker, Regina Spektor voiced Clare Means very kindly advised against trying the promenade too. The last, a trumpeter, explained his horrible playing to me in his reaction when I went up to him to ask - he was deaf. Now the draconian policy extends only to the promenade itself, however, so many buskers play around the corner from the street, though these mostly suck (according to Carl). I'd have to try to defeat this preconception. That's a big part of street performing, the initial judgments from associations - homeless hangout, bums nearby, experience with other buskers in the same spot - things I can't really help.

Well, I got nary a tip in the hour. A few songs in, however, a set of two ladies bringing food down the street gave me one of their styrofoam containers full of pasta bolognese. As I said - associations. But hey, I was hungry, so it certainly helped. Most passersby apologized for their lack of money, with generally cheery and non-disdainful expressions. The Asians looked at me suspiciously, but nothing new. Were it not for a chance meeting I'd declare the whole pitch a complete fail.

Near the end of a song I saw Bridget, from my digital photo class two summers ago, approaching down the street. We double taked and chatted a moment while her father returned from around the corner. He'd passed me earlier. They requested Here Comes the Sun, as the father had attempted learning it often. Now that there was a connection, he felt alright saying, "You have a good voice, by the way." Funny how that changes thing, hm? They then rushed off to see their movie after an awkward half second where they decided not to tip.

The food.

That night at Carl's I sang him a couple of covers and an original, singing well after the warmup on the street. The coziness of his modern flat with a fake fire to the left and a shag carpet below me made me very happy.

Earnings: $0.00, 1 hour
Song of the Day: Here Comes the Sun - The Beatles

So Passé en Pasadena, Day 2

Like a glutton for punishment...

I returned to the fabulous acoustic spot in Pasadena for two reasons - to possibly meet up with Adele and to be in a a convenient location to go to the church. Jerry stayed out with me for a good bit of pitch, sitting on the little footer just behind me, making requests every now and again. He spent the time doing readings for his upcoming exam, so with his head down he didn't notice as I did how he also received those horrible distrustful looks. One song he requested was The Blower's Daughter which I'd avoided singing for a long while now due to it's particular significance to me, but now feels alright again. It's a really really depressing tune.

As I write this long after the ire has passed, I can't quite capture the fierceness of my frustration and the intensity of my disgust. I'm not sure if that's a good thing. A few have told me they want this blog to provide an unfiltered view of the highs and the lows. Usually I get over the shitty times - somethings saves it or I choose not to remember or time simply passes. Much of that anger is fresh still, it raged so strong, but this many days later, happy as I currently feel, I don't want to let it out to burn again. So forgive me for omitting.

Characteristically, my only dollar tips came from an Irish couple. Well besides a haughty dangled quarter shoved in my face first before being placed with a sneer but I said I wasn't going to get angry. Towards the end of the pitch a fourteen year old punk rocker busker passed and sang me his original Pasadena People are Stupid song with understandably juvenile lyrics which I sympathized with anyways.

Church saved the day. No pun intended. I took the bus to the Christian Assembly as directed by Jonathan, with an unfriendly bus driver and fellow commuters as company for the ride. The music and joy within, the commitment to see one another, the strength and goodwill flowing back into me as we joined hands or sang or listened to the very apt sermon. He spoke on humility and loving those customers/clients of yours by seeing where those ornery bits are coming from, forgiving them their cruelties. One verse he read and explicated at the end particularly blew my mind - how Jesus did not lower himself to be a servant, but how service is actually the very nature of God. So for me - serve, remain humble, and love those who love me not.

Jonathan treated me to a sandwich from the cafe, where a singer/songwriter, Austin, played a set of excellently rendered covers, including The Blower's Daughter. I'd been requested that song the day previously, too, but hadn't sung it, and somehow it just kept popping up in conversation this day (3.6). I stayed 'til the end of his set and gave a pointer when he asked. And never in my mind did I compare his quality to mine - and so I was able to enjoy the music, as music.

Earnings: $4.33, 2 hours
Song of the Day: Blower's Daughter - Damien Rice

So Passé en Pasadena, Day 1

Jerry figured Pasadena Old Town might be a bit better, seeing as Palisades Park isn't heavily trafficked and is the de facto home for the homeless (does that make them not homeless?. Roofless. As we drove down the main drag I rejoiced; it looked perfect! People strolling, wide sidewalks, slow car traffic down the middle, shops everywhere, little alcoves for good acoustics. The only thing I worried about was the names of the stores. Rather than South Congress in Austin's New Bohemia, the stores bore names like Abercrombie & Fitch, American Apparel, Apple Store, H & M. These do not usually entertain generous patrons.

Which defined the pitches. I played somewhere around an hour to the tune of $1.15. The fifteen cents came from a man in a Hawaii shirt who bounced delightedly along for three or four songs as his torn jeans daughter and aviator sunglasses wife roamed the Abercrombie I played in front of. His expression sort of spoke "Dance, minority, dance." It made me feel like I was on a minstrel show. And that fifteen cents. Seriously. He counted it out. Fifteen cents. That's how people are out there. Disgusting. I originally intended to expound on their attitudes but I think there's been enough negativity in the blog recently. So just know they're the worst kind of people you'll ever meet; the reason I never want to visit Los Angeles again unless I'm passing through LAX, and the reason I never want to become rich. What if my kids end up like that?

My only other tip from the first go came from a group of barefoot youngsters being young, doing handstands, laughing - like hippies in the best most positive way. They dug my song list, requested three songs, took photos, tried my honey water and liked it, sat behind me to listen etc. A little dash of life in a soul-less place. Naturally they earned us more disapproving glances. That kind of sharp head turn with slitted eyes and a "Get in line, what has the world come to." just as we smile back at them and wonder the same thing.

The day passed strangely, with these dottings of positivity strewn among long moments of blight. After my increasingly depressing stint I spoke with a sympathetic man with a prosthetic arm who seemed to be documenting the street life. He interviewed me, asked me to sing Hallelujah for him to film after we walked to my new pitch - a brilliant acoustic gem of a defunct theatre front vacated by a street poet, and tipped me five dollars. I'll let his excellent footage describe our interaction more. Know also that a Chinese woman lingered in front of the ice cream store to the right emotionally (but ungenerously :) ) the entire song.



He bid me farewell and I played a moderately better pitch what with the ethereal acoustics to stop people in their tracks. I exploited them to the fullest, channeling frustration into my slower, more mournful tunes to almost instant effect. A middle aged Chinese woman stopped her brother during Scarborough Fair, tipped a dollar, and demurred from making a request. I sang them Gotta Have You as the first thing that came to mind. She quietly and kindly told me she loved how the acoustics worked with my voice, bowing in a slight particularly Chinese way and a nostalgic smile before leading her silent and antsy brother on. I feel like I helped her remember something beautiful.

With only a few smiles or remotely positive reactions from the appallingly stereotypical So Cal-ers - faces so obviously painted on, dark dark sunglasses, draped midriff and shoulder baring shirts and short shorts, permanent frowns filled with haughty entitled disdain, arms cocked at the elbow to support massive shopping bags sporting photographs of shirtless muscled men, anorexically thin, stilettos - I needed the unusually positive interactions I got. A young man of eighteen, Jonathan, offered me a bottle of water and then requested and sang Mario Kart Love Song with me. He invited me to his church the next day, offering to treat me to dinner afterwards. He gave me instructions and a bit of a break, but most importantly the strength to go on.

Near the end of my pitch a rich black couple wanted a photograph and procured one from a couple of hipstery girls standing nearby. The girls asked if the couple wanted me in the photo and they said yes (note, they never asked me about it). This stop, however, got them to listen to what I sang. While the couple moved along hastily, the two girls chatted brightly with me about the song - Trapeze Swinger. I sang it again with them. One girl knew more lyrics than the other, maybe 10% of them (it's a looong song), but harmonized very prettily over the recurring "remember me"s.

As if to remind me of the passersby prevailing opinion, however, just before I packed up a dirty man who seemed not too poor to clean up but too rich and lazy chucked a single quarter at the back of the case with a odious dark look on his face. I'm grateful for the young, and for the hope that remains in them.


Another mix of video from the same guy.

Earnings: $10.65, 2.5 hours
Song of the Day: Trapeze Swinger - Iron & Wine

Sin Moneda en Santa Monica, Day 1

A road that looks like money.


Ah smog.

I had very high hopes for Santa Monica. Buskersadvocates.org touted a lively scene and friendly locals. The information must be quite out of date. Jerry drove me over and went off to study in the Santa Monica library and I checked out the scene in Palisades Park, a little strip of green just before the cliff before the beach before the sea. Jerry's roommate alerted me that the Promenade and Boardwalk both required licenses, which I confirmed with a call to the city with a number from the Visitor Center. With this in mind I set up on a bench at the best possible place in the little park, across from that Visitor Center at a bottle neck where the tour busses dropped off and picked up.

And received almost nothing. Santa Monica's population boasts a inordinately high proportion of Asians, and the tourists, too are chiefly Asian (Chinese). They don't tip. The younger ones in their nice kicks and gelled hair and porcelain hide from the sun skin gave confused looks, the older ones put as much scorn into their eyes as possible. I think throughout the entire pitch only one group of young white people spoke anything remotely encouraging. And I think I sang alright.

Three of my tips came silently. The first of these, naturally came from a homeless man who shuffled over and slowly counted out the coins he dropped into my case one with his thumb in a shaking hand, thinking over each dear bit of metal as he considered just how much he could give me. 89 cents. I think I've alluded to the parable of the poor woman and her two coppers many times, but oh how that rings true in Los Angeles. Here a destitute man in rags permanently hunched from the suspicious and hateful looks of the rich passersby bequeaths me a large part of his entire livelihood, while high schoolers who are wearing 890 dollars pass by and laugh with each other on seeing me like I'm some monkey like joke.

A very shy woman with dyed red hair took half of Somewhere Over the Rainbow to work up the nerve to tip me, most likely feeling the sharp stinging stares of disapproval emanating from every other passersby. The first notes shook her and the first verse stopped her. She trembled as she passed the dollar but looked in my eyes only a moment. My last tip went similarly, from an elderly couple performing the same hesitant motions and quick birdlike peck of a tip without an upward glance for In My Life. But they stayed for the whole song and tipped me another dollar at the end.

Now the most telling interaction happened just before this couple passed me. A middle aged woman who'd passed me heading south an hour before asked me "Rough Day?" in a mildly sarcastic tone as she passed again heading back, again with a silent college aged Asian (Korean?) boy in tow. Naturally she noticed how the contents of my case looked identical. The rich never fail to look down and find disapproval with the amount. I answered honestly and after some banter where she found out some about me she decided to tip me, though I can't really call it a tip. She took out some money from her purse, a bunch of twenties and some ones and said sharply, "I'm not going to give you twenty dollars." with a decrying laugh as if I wanted to take it from her, and counted out three ones. Now I can't really dislike her as she actually gave me money - I must be grateful, no? But everything about her attitude... ugh it made me absolutely despise the hubris of wealth. "Here I am being so good and benevolent and kind and I want you to know it, yes really know how much it's costing me and how much pity I have for you, you lower class rabble and your lazy hanging out with the homeless ways and I know this because I have money and I know everything I dont question how I came into this wealth because I deserve it, in fact I'm entitled to it and no you're not getting any of it but here, here's three dollars and you be damn grateful."

I took it. Am I grateful?



Earnings: $6.89, 1.8 hours
Song of the Day: In My Life - The Beatles

Little use on the streets of Tucson, Day 4

Permanent couchsurfer Ben and I took the day to try and find rocks. We barely succeeded. Ben got the beta from a forum which led us to a hike in Ventana Canyon. We expected the rocks would be awesome so we passed by little clusters of blah around the time (one mile past the forest service fence) we were supposed to see obvious clusters of climbable boulders and hiked onwards and upwards... for five more miles. Fail. Canyons are always cool to hike, though, and Zebra enjoyed that bit of it enough that he requested a photograph. So I took one.



When we reluctantly turned back we wandered into all the washes and other boulder friendly locations until finally finding a couple with evidence of chalk. As in two. Maybe this was the "upper" area. Certainly not a great location. I climbed both lines and Ben climbed one on the prouder one, a lightly overhung vaguely polished granite hunk with a good landing and pretty good holds. Seeing as I'm so incredibly out shape (When I wandered to Himmel Park a couple days back I maxed out at around 10 pullups. How the mighty have fallen.) I felt pleasantly surprised to be able to send something outdoors. I tried the sit starts to the problems a couple times but decided not to try too hard for my tendons' sake. We didn't bother with the other boulder - the cool looking problem underneath looked like it lived in V7ville and the traverse was rather uninspiring.


Saguaro are cool and apparently mad old.

So my last pitch in Tucson was not my best. Ben and I went out for the night crowd, which on Wednesday night hardly existed. We received a total of two tips, but I rather enjoyed playing with Ben, who's absolutely excellent at filling in with solo riffs and slide guitar. I sang most of the tunes, and he sang a couple. Nothing really remarkable that coldish, breezy night on 4th. I stood while he sat on a red foldout chair outside the grocery store. Early on a couple stopped and requested Yellow, smilingly, and we later played a great Liberta - so easy to jam off of. Morgan stayed out with us, kindly, but after sufficiently long and people passing us with confused less kindly glances we packed up and returned home.

Earnings: $2.00, 45 minutes
Song of the Day: Yellow - Coldplay

Little use on the streets of Tucson, Day 3

I took a rest day wandering about Tucson to try and rehabilitate the vocal chords a touch. My spirits needed a break, too. As with climbing, my rest gleaned an palpable reward - refreshed and happy to simply to living the way I do, I hardly paid attention to tips. I needed that attitude. I chanced upon a gorgeous pedestrian underpass beneath Speedway with ample noontime traffic and set up on one end. This pass leads connects two outer parts of the University of Arizona Campus, frequented largely by students and staff, less professors at that hour. Most of these passed both ways while I sang softly with the advantage of the natural amplification, mindful of Bram's tips.

Many couples strolled by and often the girl would lean into her boyfriend on catching sight of me, whatever that meant. People smiled often, kind all, and one old lady even chirrupped a "Thank you!" I received two tips for the hour I played, though most of the students demonstrated either by patting pockets or telling me apologetically or opening empty wallets that they wished they could tip but were unable. Morgan later mentioned the fact that college kids, along with being in-the-mind poor, almost never carry cash. True - what do they need it for?


What a sky.

I headed next to the library to finish A Wizard of Earthsea. I budgeted my time perfectly to return to campus from downtown at 4.30, when I was to meet math professor friend Tiep, who'd take me to his house for dinner. I tanned visibly in my spot on 4th avenue, beneath a beautifully painted colonnade in front of the Goodwill store. I knew that no matter my income I'd enjoy playing there.

I think I've oft mentioned the inverse correlation between likelihood to tip and apparent wealth. That evidenced itself most strongly during this pitch. Throughout my days busking I've learned to count on tips from homeless people, expect them from blue collar workers and middle aged ladies, know I can get one if I work hard enough from the parents of a young child, have a decent chance from high schoolers and younger... and not even a chance from Asians or businessmen. Goodwill, as you may expect, sees patrons from the lower end of the economic spectrum. Almost fifty percent of the passersby tipped me. In busking terms, that's insane. Mostly coins of the smaller variety, they kept me very happy in my sunny spot.

I passed a panhandler at the end of the colonnade as I moved to set up who wished me good luck when I explained my purpose there. An older homeless lady sat to listen to the entirety of Trapeze Swinger with a tip and "Beautiful voice!" A nice black man smiled broadly with a comment about Fleetwood Mac. A boyfriend toting a guitar stops with his girlfriend and says, "That's actually pretty good, but I only have like two dimes." which he gives me. Those that didn't tip apologized or shrugged or thumbs upped - they see me as a human there, just like Blaagaardsgade in Copenhagen. I could see the effect of my smile far outweighed whatever my voice created so I sang easy. They smiled back, and just before the end a kind working class man tipped generously.

One slightly scruffy man leaned back on the wall beside me and asked dejectedly, "Do I look gay to you?" For a girl he'd tried to hit on had responded as such. I told him "I don't know if you're gay, but I expect since you tried to hit on a girl you might not be." Which was enough affirmation for him. He cracked a big toothy grin and requested Nature Boy from my list, simply because he liked the title. I sang it directly to him, locking eyes most of the song, watching them soften from curious to a wonderfully moved rapture with everything in between. He thanked me after, but I thanked him oh so sincerely in return. I told him I'll always think of him when I sing Nature Boy from now on, and I think it's true. He gave me a unique moment there, we shared in it, truly, I not the only performer for that intense beauty.



Earnings: $14.50, 2.2 hours
Song of the Day: Nature Boy - Nat King Cole

Little use on the streets of Tucson, Day 2

Last night's pitch.

From my journal:

What am I missing? I get so depressed when I hear and see these lesser talent folks raking in so much more. Forty dollars in under three hours which he spends on booze. Scruffy, swarthy, overalls, singing babbly nonsense with a high broken voice...

That's the gist of what I took away from this Sunday, 2.27. Or perhaps, what was taken from me. Were it not for a five dollar tip at the very end of my depressed pitch, I'd have emerged with a single dollar from forty five minutes, playing in the sun in a good location on a weekend. I couldn't stay out any longer, my throat started hurting like mad. Morgan and I decided it's probably the dryness out here that I haven't adapted to. Just like the first time I went to Hueco and I needed to drink a two gallons of water every day just to avoid dehydration headaches. I suppose I could blame the horridness on the strange chilliness of the day and the weird hail flurries that preceded my stint and prevented me from setting out earlier or the smallish crowd.. but enough passed smilingly... it reminded of that day in New Orleans.

When I spoke with Marcus, the man in the hillbilly getup who'd raked it in the previous night, it depressed me to the extreme. Here I am, plying my art honestly, spending it on food and travel fares and I earn so much less than a terrible "musician" who puts his earnings into alchohol. Me clean, upstanding, singing decently and he unshaven, lazing against the parapet, croaking painfully. Almost all I could bear. The only bright spot beyond the $5 dollar tip came from two bums who enjoyed Ue Wo Muite Arukou and recommended me the spot to begin with. But, of course, they didn't tip.


Ugh.

At least I'd had an excellent morning, jamming away with permanent couchsurfer Ben with his excellent blues soloing and slide guitar skills, even to my newest songs. Happily Morgan's potluck at the end of the day was a small, relaxed affair. With three guitarists in the room we attained a campfire-y feel, swapping leads and vocals for quite a while. I felt humbled where I'd felt so noble and skilled and wronged earlier on the street. The other two musicians knew their way around the guitars so much better than I, who rely on a capo, open chords, and finger picking. Without my ability to belt I'd really be nothing. Towards the end I had us turn Trapeze Swinger into a verse per person song. Shaky, but fun.


Tucson boasts many such murals. Perhaps the proximity to Mexico is a factor as I saw a similar wealth of art in San Antonio.


I really like what the sun did to this photo of City Hall.


Nothing like a Southwestern sunset.

Earnings: $6.00, 45 minutes
Song of the Day: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole

Little use on the streets of Tucson, Day 1

Following a very enjoyable twenty six hour train ride where I played some songs to the passengers in the observation car, I arrived in Tucson just past ten at night. My host, Morgan, kindly took me on a short walking tour of the small downtown area, and even acquiesced to staying out to watch me play a few tunes. I played a short pitch beneath the awning of a tobacco store on 4th Ave. I began with Morgan's requests, playing a passable Fast Car before forgetting the second verse of Flake. The late hour and the fact that it was Saturday, 2.26, meant passersby stumbled more than walked and shouted more than talked. It epitomized all the reasons I dislike playing for drunks - I don't feel safe around them, I feel used or made fun of more often, and I don't like their propensity to incite me into doing outlandish things, like take off a shirt or replace lyrics with obscenities etc.

I sang Hey Ya to demonstrate to Morgan my surefire drunk young people song, and sure enough it was an absolute hit. People sang along as they passed, and two kind but very inebriated men stopped to listen. The younger of these delayed me a while insisting to hear Imagine which I unfortunately haven't polished yet, trying to convince me to give my guitar to his unwilling companion. We compromised a few songs later with Under the Bridge, a song they sang along to with Morgan and then a set of four passersby. But not my favored kind of singalong, the tone was a drunken hands in the air flushed face hands in the air "WOOHOO" kind rather than appreciation of the music and lyrics. I'm not sure quite how to convey the difference, but it's stark.

What made me the most uncomfortable was how the guys heckled passersby to give me tips. I didn't know what to do about this. They'd accost people loudly with "He needs __ dollars to get to Mexico/Texas." or when people would stop and listen a bit "He wants the money guys, don't you have anything!?" So naturally I made some money, but not in a way I was at all proud of. After this song they recommended I moved down to the corner, so I did, only to be moved along in a friendly fashion by the bouncer of the club moments later. Amusingly this interrupted Liberta. Morgan and I took the break to pack up and head back, for I didn't want to keep her out too late.


Observation Car.


Una mesa.


Ciudad Juarez.


The Great Wall of Mexico.

Earnings: $7.00, 35 minutes
Song of the Day: Under the Bridge - Red Hot Chili Peppers

Housed in Houston, Day 0.5

For some reason my voice has been absolutely wrecked since I left Austin. Ironically, that night Bram helped me learn how to sing better - reminded about the importance of breath support etc. I didn't play at all in my short stay with my older brother in Houston, mostly staying in and sort of recuperating. Houston's massive, massive sprawl and lack of downtown-ness means no busking, really, and add to that the propensity for Houston officials to arrest buskers... Let's just say I don't fancy couchsurfing in state facilities.

The two and a half days I stayed in his apartment were nice and slow. Kevin took me to some truly excellent eateries hidden amongst the massive sprawl of the state sized city. That's one thing that runs strong from my father - a love of food. A bowl of pho, some sesame balls, an almond cookie, excellent tamales of all kinds, strip mall ethiopian fare, rustic European food (one of the best meals I've ever had at a startingly low price) and of course, Whataburger. I read a few books, learned some songs, and met Kevin's girlfriend. On the day I left he took me to the massive Hermann Park. We rode the kiddie train.

Austin, Live (Indoor) Music Capital of the World, Day 4

Apparently everyone in the world ever wants to go to Hawaii right now. I've spend most of my hours of borrowed or library computer time writing couch requests to Honolulu-ers and so far no luck. Which is my excuse for being many days behind on blogging. Whatevers.

As ever, my last day in Austin, 2.22, was easily the best. Busking is sort of like that. It's like climbing - on the last go, it goes and you need rest days, and you need to be positive... etc. Oh I miss climbing so. After a few days in a city testing out the likely spots one learns the flow and vibe of the place a little, and that's what's so magical about busking - it's like a shortcut to tap into the pulse of the city, something that normally takes weeks and months to approach. It's amazing what standing still can do. Next time one of you travels I recommend you find a busy spot and just stay in one place for two hours. When I thought of traveling before it was all about motion - that's what that word conveys - but I now think there's equal gain from stillness.

When Bram's suggestion of a new spot looked essentially empty, I hopped on the bus to South Congress once again. I just had a good feeling about it (Wheel of Fortune, anyone?). I struck an agreement with the shop owners of Lucy in Disguise with Diamonds and set up a pleasant pitch just outside of it. What with money worries largely gone, whatever I earned this day would be gravy, I played comfortably and happily despite an initially slow tippage rate. Best of all, my pitch began with a beautiful - in one of those shining personalities as well as in looks - girl. I asked her as she passed if she was carrying a violin and she dropped it off in her nearby beatup multicolored car, returned with another case and played along to Purple Dress, requesting something sad and original. I think I was a quite a bit flat - after speaking with Bram a lot I realize that I can't hear my own off pitchiness very well, and that the best way I can sense it is with monitoring of my technique. Sans warm up I don't think I sang quite right. So lovely, though. That impish smile and little car hat and honest unpretentious bohemian-ness. Climberish, even.


Forgot to take a photo til I'd wandered a bit North.

It took over 20 minutes to receive my first tip, from a kindly Thai? lady with a dog. Buskers generally hold to the maxim that the first 15 minutes set the tone for the rest of the pitch - if they're bad, move on. I've often found, however, that patience wins out. If I can keep a positive attitude, I usually reap some reward. After this first tip my flautist friend passed and commiserated on the slowness before setting up further down the street. But like a power curve my tips gathered momentum from there. Two middle schoolers each tipped me a dollar - each! Take that businessmen groups! I called after them "You are very kind!" with a genuine smile. It's all about that. Throughout the pitch I felt more relaxed and open to talk with people between songs, less engrossed in my own problems and songs.

And then the deluge of the second half began. Three UT students with a DSLR on the same photography assignment politely asked for a photo. They enjoyed my playing and snapped maybe fifty photos before requesting Wonderwall. A man bored with his girlfriend's indecision in the costume shop emerged just as I began and delighted in the song's energy. He stayed with me the rest of my pitch, tipping me a dollar at a time whenever he felt particularly buoyed. The students requested Kids and I could see they were impressed by my rendition - and then knew they were when they tipped me a ten dollar bill - my largest American tip thus far. The man filmed me for his requests - Yesterday and other oldies on his iPhone and people began to gather - a snowball effect. These new audience members rarely tipped, but in that moment I changed the entire feel of the street. I created a hub of life and joy and that's what I'm after.

The students left just as an SUV pulled into a parking space directly in front of me. They rolled down their windows and leaned out a bit to listen, the bright-eyed outdoorsy ish girl in her twenties rapt in the passenger seat, mouthing along to The Rose among others. I walked up to her and asked for requests. So kind in manner they asked for Stand By Me and Hotel California, and then other oldies. A few songs in the boyfriend got out of the car to tip me a wad of ones.

I needed to meet Bram that night for barbecue, but I stayed as long as I could in gratitude of my audience, though the tips from passersby dried up. The flautist returned to chat and when he looked into my case his eyes went wide with a "WOW!" We shared in my success and happiness, though later I did not purchase a pendant from him, but offered him conversation and solace. A little boy of around four began to ask me about the Spiderman in the window and I entertained him in conversation for awhile between songs while his parents looked happily on. When I sang my From Dawn to Busk at the end, I meant every word.

Earnings: $26.21, 1.7 hours
Song of the Day: Wonderwall - Oasis