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

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

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

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

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

Busking Can Be Brighton Le Sands, Day 1

On Richard's advice and Andrew's, I played a pitch in nearby Brighton Le Sands on April Fool's Friday. This already afforded me one monetary advantage over playing in the city - no need to pay the absurdly steep $4.00 rail fare. Brighton's main intersection of The Grand Parade and Bay St. isn't the best busking location as the cars there go quite quickly and the footpaths run in very specific ways. Furthermore, on enquiring within the RSL club whether I might play outside, the man denied me permission to and told me I likewise would be unable to play in front of other private businesses - so I needed to find an open area.

I chose a little square/dead space leading to a car park with two squares of benches like you'd find in a mall. I decided to play right in the middle facing traffic and in line with the footpath. The girl working in the convenience store seemed keen to hear me play, too, so I started off with some confidence. And rightly so. I'd only realize much later just how much strain I put on my voice despite warming up thoroughly at home - again it's hard to tell how loud one's singing when cars are zooming by and there's not natural amplification. At any rate, right as I began I received a flurry of tips - one from the woman talking with the nice convenience store girl, another thrown to my case from that same girl, another from a passing couple. It's funny how the first few seconds of every pitch tend to be the most lucrative in Australia. That first song was Somewhere Over the Rainbow but I don't think it mattered what song it was.

I kept going with this happy theme and snuck in a debut of my cover of I Will Survive, which actually gained me a tip. Tips came steadily and largely - few coins smaller than a fifty cent piece and tipped at least every other song. People of every demographic, too, even Indians and Chinese! I like playing in smaller places like this - like in the bits of Europe - with a steady trickle of locals who aren't businessy. Unfortunately, they're a bit harder to find when I fly through the places as quickly as I do. A man sitting and playing guitar sitting on a balcony of the top floor of the building across the street walked down and tipped me a gold coin as he passed with a smile. Drivers stopped at the stop light to roll down their windows, beep-beep, and smile or give thumbs ups, the construction workers across the way paused in wonder. For one of my last songs, Mrs. Robinson, three professional thirty somethings stopped to tip, talk with me, and asked to take a photo. What a marked difference in courtesy/treatment from the city!

I sang mostly oldies for the generally older crowd, but I don't know if it would have mattered, either. You see, I like to think I'm tipped for my quality but oftentimes it's mostly dependent on location and timing. Or the choice of song. I think that's part of the reason I feel the need to project and thus oversing - I want to be heard and then tipped, not the reverse. Later on as I rested by the beach a woman who passed with her pram told me assured me that I could be heard four or five meters away, so probably I needn't have projected quite so much. At any rate, one tip in particular underscored the fruitlessness of such vocal abuse - one lady tipped me saying "I can't hear you, but anyways." I responded, and she pointed at her ears. "I'm deaf." and left a dollar. In direct contrast, a group of four men in business attire walked by halfway through the pitch and sat on the benches directly behind me, staying the whole pitch just out of my peripheral, chatting happily and/or listening to me, then getting up and leaving exactly when I started to pack up. Fail.

Looks artificial

Some cities boast beauty in a skyline, like Hong Kong. Some in their history, like Istanbul. Some in people - Copenhagen. Some in mood, some in weather, some in lifestyle, some in variety... What I notice most about Sydney, I think, has been the multiplicity of all these. Nature isn't relegated to a "Central Park," but integrated throughout the city. The botanical gardens sit right by the CBD, alive with bright birds and junipers and flowers. Macquarie Point boasts wonderful boulders begging to be climbed with just the faintest traces of maybe chalk. Down at Brighton the seagulls fly incredibly, wings almost clipping against the sand in beautiful envious horizontal floats while planes touch down in bright red at their insane speeds just beyond. At sunset in near the Opera House and all through the city the bats come out huge and translucently wing-ed; insects make themselves known chirping all through on the walk to The Rocks - unwise of them with the bats so abundant. Just off shore jellyfish shimmer like discarded plastic bags, and people, people of all colours and languages and cultures and foods and customs and manners and moods and histories and wants and intentions and incomes and educations and families rush or amble or sit or stand or lounge or sleep, all beneath the same strange upside down sky.





Earnings: 18.35 AUD, 1 hour
Song of the Day: Mrs. Robinson - Simon & Garfunkel

Siding with Sydney, Day 3

I headed back into Sydney CBD and got a bit distracted in the art museum - my first foray into one in many months. I really like Sydney's - incredibly accessible and friendly, that sort of Australian decency and assumed orderliness without the loud "DO NOT TOUCH" signs or other garish announcements. Small, tasteful placards, well curated exhibits - made me think of Michelle. After wandering about a while I decided to try the school let-out pitch at three down in the Devonshire Tunnel. There I met a very talented fingerstyle guitarist from Japan. He ceded the pitch to me after about twenty minutes of excellent playing and I tipped him a dollar and we exchanged cards. One song he performed was a beautiful rendition of Ue Wo Muite Arukou, so I began my set with mine, which he sang along to. Unfortunately, just as I finished the song an amplified erhu player started playing just down the way. He'd arrived long after me but seemed to go by the "might makes right" mantra. His expression was one of a tired old man stubborn and doesn't care about you - like the gypsies in Europe - clearly uninterested in his music and more playing for endurance and pity tips. On the other end an accordionist played.

So I returned to the Railway Square tunnel. I fared about as well as the last time. If it's broke, don't bother trying to fix it. I got my usual person-who-sees-me-setting-up-and-likes-the-first-song tip, and then after about twenty minutes a magazine hawker set up across from me. He shared in my lack of luck with a sympathetic expression and shrugs in my direction. When it became clear that nothing was really happening for either of us, despite it being Thursday payday, we chatted a touch between songs. From his arrival through the end of my day I received two more tips - one from a guy who tossed in the change incognito as if embarrased (yay bystander efffect!) and another from a nice woman who gave me a five dollar note, looking searchingly in my eyes for guile, for Mrs. Robinson, avowing "I like that song."

When I finished the hawker recommended I take a short rest and return for the rush hour crowd. In his estimation the students I played for couldn't be expected to tip, but the business people might. I popped into the bookstore adjourning the tunnel for thirty or so minutes, but my return pitch failed even more so I wrapped it up quickly. At one point a man with a large DSLR with macro lens spent about 2 minutes photographing me from all angles and distances, never looking me in the eye once (so I knew he wouldn't tip) and indeed he walked off without a word. Go figure. Afterwards I spoke with the hawker who noted he also had a surprisingly wretched day - some days it's just not happening and there's no way to know why. Though I've a guess that it was the same gray spitting weather that kept me from playing outside. He told me of a girl who banked in the same tunnel - much worse than me in his estimation, but playing with a PA and singing what people want to hear - slightly older pop ballads fitting her gender role - about horrible boyfriends and such. Alanis Morissette, Sheryl Crow, etc. Ya gotta play what they wanna hear - but I don't have a handle on Australian tastes just yet.

Earnings: 9.00 AUD, 1.6 hours
Song of the Day: Ue Wo Muite Arukou - Simon & Garfunkel

Missing a Kogarah Gear, Day 1

For whatever reason, perhaps the oversinging from being in a tunnel with too much foot traffic, I needed a break on Wednesday. And so I stayed in to figure out flights and such, with pretty much no results. I've still yet to buy them. The chief question is whether to return to New England in time for Yale and Harvard graduations.

Sydney is strange in that each tiny hamlet retains its own name for addresses, on maps, etc. I mean tiny. My cousins live in Monterey, of population 4,000. The train stop, Kogarah, boasts 10,000 folks. It'd be like calling every subway stop in France it's own "city." Each enclave has its own government, library system, police, fire department... rather odd, to me. At any rate my staying at home served another purpose - my gig that night would be at the Kogarah Hotel right across from the train stop. (Subway for Aussie's signifies a pedestrian underpass, so they call their public rail the train). Russell invited me to play while he counted votes for the Singer/Songwriter contest semi-final and I obliged happily.

What a wealth of talent! Nothing intimidating or mind blowing, but a great collection of varied talents - great fingerstyle, blues, pop, ballads... After Russell played a few tunes to warm us up, Peter took the stage with guitarist Nathan and mandolin player/backup vocalist Amelia as PAN for four tunes. Tim followed with an incredible first song showcasing thoughtful lyrics on a troubled girl. I noticed the contestants this night used I IV V progressions unashamedly with somewhat generic melodies but hey - it sounds great, so why knock it? My vote Craig played four of his own jaunty thumb picked songs and then Miss Gray, late twenty-something twins in pop getups, tightly pulled back hair and copious makeup sang to backing tracks off their iPod - nervous and unsure in their expressions giving a completely fresh vibe to the room. Very very pop. Two more singer/guitarists followed. The second, Ross, was rather terrible and this got me secretly happy as I'd follow him. Bad of me, eh?

The crowd in there almost universally came to support Peter. A great great group of guys and girls very friendly and welcoming, with that wry Australian humour and enthusiasm. Even as Russell introduced me on my entrance they engaged me curiously right away about America, traveling, whether I'd sing.. They wanted me to sing right away and throughout the night kindly acted impatient for me to go up there. They expected a lot of me. One said "If you came here confident to busk you've got to be good." So, when I went up to sing at the end, I felt absurdly nervous. It's uncommon that I have a crowd from the get go to lose - not one to win. It's a strange feeling and absolutely nerve wracking.

I sang a set beginning with From Dawn to Busk and then alternating back and forth with covers from my album. Russell didn't tell me how many I'd sing so I didn't really plan out a flow. After six songs he announced the winner and I remembered to push my album before singing my usual closer, Stamsund. The audience overflowed with praise and kind words as I returned to my seat and bought a few bookmarkers and a CD. I'm ever so grateful for the opportunity to play for such wonderful people.

Audience: 20-30
Earnings: 12.00 AUD, 25 minutes
Song of the Day: Crazy - Gnarls Barkley

Siding with Sydney, Day 2

When I bought my ticket to come to Australia, I agonized a long time over the decision. You see, the JS show just happened, and I was not there. Now that people are reporting back to me on how it went, how people felt, and so on, I feel quite strange. I can't figure if my purposely not going was actually a healthier move. If my heart is there, should I not have been, too?

I forayed into the city once again for a go at an earlier pitch - the rush hour just felt too busy for me. A good Tuesday for a lunch pitch, I figured. I headed to Martin Place to find a spot, but a special event captured most of the sound and groundspaces. A "golden slipper" booking booth - Australians are unhealthily keen on gambling on horse races. I didn't even know people still did that. A nice busker playing some kind of Chinese mandolin recommended I try below the Queen Victoria Building if I didn't want to try the Devonshire Tunnel again - those are the only spots he knows of that are friendly for non-amplified players. I met a classical guitarist aboveground there, who didn't know about the tunnel but treated me quite nicely. The tunnel seemed far too busy but I thought I might have a go - but on asking shop workers and security guards it turned out I'd need permission from the subway station's manager, who wasn't around. So back to the tunnel beneath Central Station.

This time I played in the adjoining tunnel to Railway Square, a bus depot (odd, eh?). I met a duo just as they packed up, and they told me they only knew of this pitch, too, but that they played there more for exposure and practice than anything else, relying on gigs for income. John and Yuki gave me their contact information and bid me good luck. I love that about Sydney - the buskers are friends here, helping each other out. The passersby are allies, too, with scornful looks few. Unfortunately with such a surfeit of talent people are generally quite jaded and tune it all out. Rather like New York, in that sense. I got just two tips. One from Ande's girlfriend, who saw me set up and start with High & Dry.

But let's not dwell on that. Let's commend the beautiful colours of that stretch of tunnel. Let's mention the comments of a high school girl passing by with her friends as I sang my Colin Hay song, "Wow, that's so beautiful." over and over constantly looking back and lagging her friends a bit, face holding some kind of gentle longing. Let's focus on the Iranian man flying back home and giving me his unused bus tickets as a tip.

When I emerged from the tunnel I ran into another busker on George street above, whose voice was essentially inaudible through his P.A. as compared to his guitar. I believe he's named Richard. He matches the description by Tammie and John and Yuki of a "professional" busker who sings too high for his voice and too long. He told me he sings overly high on purpose so as to stretch his voice, which is precisely the opposite of what Bram taught me. I think I'll go with the choral director on this one. He invited me to play with and launched immediately into Under the Bridge, then asked for my capo for Hey Ya. Luckily his guitar was tuned a full step down (unbeknownst to him) so this effectively meant I needn't transpose it, myself. We jammed out on a couple of such songs - I'd always sing the harmony - and his hour earnings of under three dollars ballooned by about eight during this time. As we parted I expected him to offer me my half but he never did, never even thought of it. I suppose I don't need it as much as he?

Richard recommended I try busking in the suburbs rather than the city. Just as many other buskers have told me, city folk are far too used to buskers and life is too fast paced. I haven't tried busking many non centers, however, as they're more difficult to reach and I was content in the small cities of Europe. In America I was pretty sure busking would be a total fail in non-cities, for the cultural implications. But here in Australia... good advice, I'm sure. On the flip side, he represented much of what I dislike about the itinerant busker - an aura of stench from lack of showers, nappy dreads, horrid facial hair, disgusting clothing, bumlike street persona... Oh well.

Earnings: 3.70 AUD, 9 bus rides (worth $18.00)
Song of the Day: I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You - Colin Hay

Siding with Sydney, Day 1

I happily changed all my coins and bills into australian currency before departing to Sydney. Upon arriving I waited in a bit of consternation outside the international terminal for my cousin - who I'd never met and had only a photo to go by. As soon as we walked to the car I knew this place would feel strange to me - just easy enough to get everywhere that I forget the little differences. At the car, of course, I tried to sit in the driver's seat. I'd proceed to make this mistake continually from then on. When I arrived at my uncle's place I made the switch to Cantonese. My uncle and aunt speak hardly any English and when they do it's with such a thick accent it the same thing. They were all worried we'd be unable to communicate as my mother's warned them my Chinese is pretty useless and I have too, via email. Luckily I've been able to converse just fine. I've made it a point so speak about an hour or two every day with my aunt, and thus I'm experiencing Cantonese immersion in Sydney.

Apparently this isn't at all unusual. I thought I knew what a cosmopolitan city was until I arrived here. Here people on the streets, in the busses, in the libraries, in banks, etc. speak non-English languages as there sole language. That is they are often not bilingual, instead relying on enclaves to be fine. So my uncle and aunt not speaking any English is pretty normal - they can as their doctor, banker, dentist, grocer, etc. all speak just Cantonese, too. I'm slowly losing my shyness to speak it, too. You see when I learn Turkish or Polish or Spanish or what have you I have no shame whatsoever. I'll speak it horrid accent and all and I don't particularly feel self conscious because I know they'll forgive me. So I learn those quickly. But Chinese? There's a lot of embarrassment and shame wrapped up in there that I have the hardest time with.

On Monday I headed into the city to procure a permit. Now, a few days later with no one having bothered me for one, I realize I shouldn't have bothered. Australians are very kind and used to buskers. They tend to think of Americans like myself as a rather uncivilized lot and I must say I generally agree. Then again, they're amazingly more sports mad and keen to drink than we and if that's not barbaric...

After acquiring the permit I walked around a bit to ascertain a good spot to play. My cousin Andrew took me into the city Sunday to show me about so I felt pretty confident looking. I'd pretty much decided on the Devonshire Tunnel beneath the Central Station and what luck, it was completely unoccupied but for a paltry melodion player. I felt suspicious. Maybe it's a shit pitch then? I asked an artist hawking her aboriginal wares if I might play near her and she welcomed me cheerily to do so. Throughout the pitch Tammie sang a long some to the songs she knew, which were many. The hour and a bit went well. I sang all my best busking songs to the detriment of my voice to get Sydney busking off to a good start. While I didn't earn the heaps people assumed I would, I did well enough to feel encouraged. That tunnel is very heavily trafficked, especially during the rush hour I played, but unlike New York people looked at me kindly with but one exception, at the end, when a young blonde and blue eyed bigot stuck his face near mine and jeered some Chinese sounding noises at me. At the time I was singing Let it Be, so I did.

Now it's hard to gauge just how strained one's singing to adjust to the noise of the passersby, because you just sing at about the same level to your own ear's and it's only after many songs that you realize that you're pushing it. It's incredible how much sound shoes make on pavement, and when you make that hundreds of shoes in contest to a lone guitar and voice it's definitely a battle. So after an hour I called it quits and walked down the way, where I saw a spindly tall amateur fiddler playing with horrible posture in the center of the tunnel. I watched him a moment and he invited me to jam with him, so I did. We swapped after a Bm/Dmaj jig and I played a bit of Gm improv while he strummed the two chords he knew - Em and G on the capo I affixed to the third fret (thus making it Gm and B-flat.) We played about half an hour and he graciously portioned me half our earnings from that time. I gave him my card and mobile as we parted as he had a printed sign in his case reading clip art "Busk Around the World" which he'd yet to begin and I felt keen to give him some advice. I think I have a lot of that to give.

Before leaving Hawai'i I contacted one Russell Neal, who happens to manage the entire singer/songwriter scene in the city single handedly. He invited me to play that Monday night at a pub called Kelly's on King in nearby Newtown, so I walked there in the light rain. What a fun night! The other acts spoke very friendly to me and each other, and while the talent level wasn't astonishing, I very much enjoyed the coziness, and the community feel. A nervous Massimo sang a few tunes, first, followed by Chris from Central Coast, Niall from Ireland, myself, and then an absolutely fabulous guitarist Ande who looked a doppelganger of my host and friend Pontus from Stockholm. Midway through my act my cousin dropped in, and as the act following Ande sounded horrid (Hugo) we then took our leave. I left my card and sold a CD to this Ande, too, and I'm still hoping we might play together before quit the city.

Earnings: 27.00 AUD, 2 hours
Song of the Day: Squirrel Song - Terrence Ho