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

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

What with the pleasant pitch on Guadalupe the night before, I returned on Monday (2.21) to the same pitch. I played twice there and basically failed both times. The difference between weekend and weekday is very stark. I'm thinking, now, that it might be interesting to aggregate all my data and figure out just how different each day is from the next - get an average wage for each day, each time of day, each kind of environment... OKCupid style.

My first go went happily enough with the benefit of sunshine. Bram's girlfriend passed by once in a happy bright yellow tshirt and many of the transients from the previous night also passed. That's the problem with Guadalupe - the high count of bums (which I must distinguish from homeless people) - who often use me as a point of congregation. Shortly after I began, a troupe of them sat down not ten yards away to heckle passersby for change. They stayed the whole pitch. Now I use bum specifically to mean generally white folks with ratty, mostly brown torn clothes, tattoos, beads, relatively nice teeth and disaffected expressions. They heckle passersby for money and not long after wander into the CVS and purchase foodstuffs without much restraint. Smoke weed and cigarettes on the streets... I despise them.

Nothing particularly significant occurred for the greater part of an hour for my pitch. I ran methodically through my list of twenty songs (half of the forty I hadn't much played or needed to debut) with hardly a tip. Many stopped to lean an ear in, including the pleasant CVS shop tender; the greatest tip yield from this behavior was a quarter. At one point a group of girl scout cookie sellers passed and I sang them I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends.

Actually, my one tip from the first hour was very very significant. My first tip from an Asian male! Remember, I started in May...

The whole feel of the pitch flipped when a nice older man who'd passed the night before asked me to sing an original and I obliged with From Dawn to Busk. Later, this man, Mack, gave me his contact information to meet me at a "neutral location" the following day so I could give him some songwriting tips. He also promised that he never hits on anyone below 50, which I thought ironic, since that amounted to hitting on me, in a way. As I played my own song, a trio of kids from a photography class asked if they might shoot some photos of me. I agreed. People began to gather with an established audience of four, and three songs later, when they left, I'd made the rest of my day's total.


Zebra on Guadalupe

Since I'd already made back my ticket cost, I took Bram's roommate's advice and trekked up to finish my must-sees of Austin, a place of locally owned eclectic shops epitomized, apparently, by Toy Joy. Well, I was a bit nonplussed by it. It wasn't quite the high hippies playing glaze eyed at bouncy balls, but not much better. The establishment next door, however, more than made for it. Burger Tex II's bulgogi burger lived up to the hype and then some. Brilliant idea and well worth my days wages.


Toy Joy

I walked past a very excellent duo softly crooning Iron & Wine style (beard and all) covers of Greenday songs. Hardly audible they'd managed $2 in an hour, which they considered pretty good. A set of girls photographed them with no tip, from the same class, of course. My second pitch is hardly worth mentioning. After forty minutes or so of tipless songs and the only interactions being with an old lady selling flowers who said "I liked that song about peace and love, you know, in '61 and '62 I was in San Francisco, the summer of love, that was a good time. I was there." Clearly she tried to stay there in her mind. I abandoned the pitch to check out a concert of original works by Bram's fellow music students. I loved it. Innovative, a great, welcoming atmosphere, brilliantly played, it reminded me of all the things I missed about art music.

Earnings: $7.10, 1.7 hours
Song of the Day: From Dawn to Busk - Terrence Ho

Austin, Live (Indoor) Music Capital of the World, Day 3

I skipped out on Saturday in favor of a very creative, worthwhile day indoors, writing songs, learning new ones and generally being musical. My enthusiasm comes in waves, now I feel excited about music again, when for a little while it felt a bit of a drag.

Sunday in Austin was the Livestrong Marathon. I waited until the buses ran again before heading back to 6th street, which I'd read turns into a pedestrian mall on the weekends. Not so. Congress street and the immediate surroundings were blocked off for the marathon, however, so I set up a few blocks East, catching the steady flow of people hobbling to their cars. The passersby downtown not of the post running variety remained snooty and hipster as ever, with one girl calling out "Come back at night it's way better" with a roll of her eyes in a most condescending disaffected tone and a large round mound of a man with long thin curly hair with the most spiteful glances.

The marathoners naturally carried no money, but they lit up with a burst of energy on hearing me - which made me very happy in turn. Their spectators reserved their attention for their newly accomplished relatives and friends and so my most avid listeners ended up being those safe from tip-guilt - those stuck in traffic. They rolled down windows, smiled at me, spoke to me, took videos and photographs - the post marathon re-routing confusion led some to linger in the same position for as long as three songs. One adorable trio of wrinkly old people swooned to The Boxer, while another trio of young men smiled broadly with assertions they "would tip" if they weren't in their vehicle and requested a song, and a SUV full of college kids sang along to Torn.

My tips came from females of various ages - as young a young child watching rapt to Here Comes the Sun and thus being given an additional dollar to tip by her father aside from the initial 25 cent token. Two teenage girls stood (different events) by me for photographs, one exuberantly and close and the other shy and far. Both tipped - I've found that photographers never tip unless in the photo, too. There's something strangely narcissistic about that, no? Most telling of all the tips, the only man to tip me did as I had a brief break to drink from my honey water. I told him "Thank you! That's very generous, I haven't even sung anything for you yet. Would you like to make a request?" and he demurred with an "Anyone with the courage to stand out on the street in this town and play for tips deserves something in my book."


Yes, I sang across from the sign. :). I don't think it helped.

After a quick stop at the central library (I think the one building I've visited in every town so far is the main library), I walked up to the main drag, Guadalupe, which is the University Ave. of Austin, with low lying shops and eateries right at the western border of the UT campus and played through sunset beneath the overhang of a CVS pharmacy. The cashier requested I stay near the entrance to his door "where I can hear you," quite a friendly opposite to the supposedly tolerance demanding newagers. In a flip of the morning trend (and general trend) all my tips came from men this pitch. By this point my voice already wavered some already, but happily my first tip came from a nice guy going to work in the Chipotle next door who emptied his little manila envelope of coins into my case and he sang along with me his request Sunday Morning. The girls seemed either shy or threatened, which I suppose isn't strange. I am rather imposing and overly gregarious. As befitting the example set by their elders in all countries, the Asian students (especially the girls) ignored me most pointedly.

I noticed, also, a strong correlation between loneliness and tippage. Groups never yield tips and solo strollers always at least patted pockets. One of these groups consisted of three freshman types with DSLRs trying to take snap a photo surreptitiously but shamed into scurrying past with heads down when I smiled towards them. A girl also called out from such a group no-tip safety "You sing really well" when she passed heading South (she passed twice more), which I found ironic as I'd just sang a decidedly mediocre She's So High chorus. Aside from a plethora of shy smiles, my only interaction with the extra X chromosome occurred when a very kind woman tipped me who couldn't "make a request because I have to be somewhere."

Guadalupe Street is host to a extremely high number of panhandlers, which helps my cause none. They tended to linger near me in their hippie filth-hair and hypocrisy. A couple of these not-college-students provided me with the nicest compensation, actually. A sweaty older man who'd introduce himself later as Mack, a guilty looking man sitting on the parapet on the other side of the cafe to my right and watching/listening much of the pitch and finally a set of three different men in quick succession who opened the best and worst parts of the pitch.

A slow stuttering young man sporting that slack jawed vacant tic prone expression of either the mentally impaired or drugged out (but very polite and harmless seeming at the same time) came by and stood dumbly by my side for the better half of a song before struggling through "I just want to hear your music." I sang him I Just Don't Think I'll Get Over You. While I sang he counted out coins - mockingly I thought at first, in the way youth and rich folk often jangle their change filled pockets with jeering looks at me when the pass - but this seemed only a symptom of his simpleness. Before the final verse he announced he had "Two dollars and five cents." At the end he divulged it's transformation into "Two dollars and fifteen cents" and surprised me by dropping the coins into my case. He lingered a while and just before he left another young man emerged from the CVS and plopped himself heavily against the wall to my right with a "I could really use a song right now." He tipped me pre-emptively and I sang him a couple of originals on his request.

As soon as I returned to covers (whenever I get an audience, though it may be long into my pitch and I was about to leave, I feel guilty and stay too long), a stumbling drunkard waddled towards us. In each hand he held a five gallon bottle filled nearly to the brim with some amber liquid I couldn't distinguish between beer or urine. Both captain the same esteem to me, anyways. He set these massive jugs right next to my guitar case, luckily slosh free, and volunteered his services for singing along, despite "I don't know lyrics, man......" I felt trapped.

Deus ex machina saved me in Poland and other times before, and once again it swept in, with the form of an altercation, unexpectedly. Another vagrant passed and said some harmless comment our drunkard took umbrage to. As he stumbled over to catch up and pick a fight, I apologized to my smoking song-needing audience and packed up as swiftly as I could manage, fearing the confrontation would escalate and not wanting any part in it, especially what with Texas' gun policies. The smoker took no offense, wished me luck and after a glance over his shoulder at the two hobos swaying angrily at each other with loud slurs (of the inter-sound variety and not the racist) told me, "I think that's a great idea, man."

Earnings: $23.16, 2.6 hours
Song of the Day: Sunday Morning - Velvet Underground

Austin, Live (Indoor) Music Capital of the World, Day 2

The most excellent brisket I've ever eaten. Barbecue truck thing in the middle of nowhere called Franklin's courtesy of Bram's incredible generosity.

Barring another gutter ball my foray out on Friday, 2.18, was bound to be infinitely better in earnings. Luckily this came to pass. I did not quite strike gold, nor even get much spare change, but I did scratch a reasonable (if still paltry) sum. After walking down from the UT campus and through Texas' larger than D.C. capitol - insufferable, yet hilarious, right? - I set up for a pitch on Congress, as recommended by the Museum worker. Now I need to write a quick note about a chief difference between busking in America and elsewhere. America has a lot of cars. A LOT of cars. everywhere you go they're rushing by or idling or blaring hip hop. The roads are thus too wide for any noticeable natural reverb. Congress Street is a particularly wide street so I used my standard necessary American street tactic and found a solid, lowish awning to exploit for natural amplification.


Yes it's bigger than the U.S. Capitol. It's Texas.


Read it.

I found the daytime crowd much friendlier, but not much looser with their wallets. As soon as I began a couple passed me heading north and then returning south, with the man calling encouraging "Sing it out! Rock On! Do what you do, man!" with a broad smile as they passed. Half of my tips (one dollar) in that spot came from a drunkard who sang along to Leaving on a Jet Plane, tried to drop a dollar in my case and missed by a few inches, retrieved it shakily from the ground and then fell on my case as he hit the mark on the second go, closing the lid as he fell. A passersby remarked "You sure he didn't take anything?" which just about sums up the general attitude of Americans to street artists and homeless folk. My other tip came from a couple of older business types who became my first suit and tie tippers in the country.

The highlight of this short pitch arrived with another transient. This friendly young black man with a drugged/homeless air about him stood by as I began Liberta. I asked if he'd like to make a request and he smiled softly with a "No, I just want to hear your music." I sang it as best I could and I could see he really felt it. He nodded his head (with his whole body behind it) with eyes closed, feeling the beat. I tried to keep this steady, especially as he joined in with a wonderful beatbox. He isolated the tonics of each chord and somehow hummed these in the back of his throat, buzzing, while creating a brilliant beat over it. I dragged the song out, playing empty sections just to hear him, improvising with my voice at the end for five or six cycles. Oh it was fun! We clasped hands after and thanked each other. Here in the library where I'm writing this post I ran into him again - he loudly greeted me with "I love your music man. Be free, be free!" and we clasped hands again, his yet sticky with sweat and the smell of tobacco.



With the disappointment of this pitch, I asked a nearby shop worker where else might be good to play, she suggested I try South Congress, a mile and a half across the river. I passed a flautist on the way who'd passed me as I played - he asked how I fared and commiserated - he'd earned nothing. He'd also been recommended South Congress - I'd see him there later that night (and many times again throughout my stay in Austin).

Time for a mini digression on Austin. It's essentially an overgrown Gainesville. Hipsters everywhere, the smell of weed in every public area, vagrants and bums and ex-hippies and local stores and college students and college football fans and new agers... Everything distasteful about my hometown in spades with none of the natural charm. I'm not sure why they're so keen to keep it weird. South Congress, for instance, exemplifies this caricature-ably contradictory identity. Though still a busy 5 lane road, with ample parking and a high truck count, the store names read: American Apparel, New Bohemia (a clothing store), Lucy in Disguise with Diamonds (costume store), Electric Ladyland, Uncommon Objects (newage heaven), Home Slice Pizza and Congress Ave Baptist Church... and then some food trucks in garish colors. The pedestrians range from scruffy barefoot panhandlers (of which there are many) to stiletto and aviator clad women strutting as if on a catwalk, scattering the hipsters with speed and disdain. Throw in a few hawaii shirted middle aged men lounging inside cafes and you get a very strange picture.

I procured permission from a store to play outside on the corner, which I took to mean the corner of the store, beneath a little awning - necessary for the acoustics. I received two tips almost instantly, from two women in sequence who, as in New York many months back, credited my "lovely" smile for the tip while I sang Gotta Have You and I knew the pitch would be good. About to begin another song, Wazoo, a guitar playing bum/busker from up the street, came by to listen to me with his homeless companion who'd played along with a shaker and a sign reading "Jos' HOngry". I lent my guitar to the latter, reluctantly, who fumbled a few A and E chords, while speaking glowingly of his prowess on the guitar. I know they meant well, but their presence (and smell) drove off passersby and brought out the shop owner, who clarified that I needed to be literally on the street corner. I tried this a moment, but that move destroyed any value the pitch had - open air scattering the sound and at the new spot I felt acutely in the way.

On a local bucket drummer's advice (who commented on the hypocrisy of the new age establishments for running us off), I chose a new spot in front of a parapeted open air live music venue. Tips slowed again, but at least here people welcomed my presence with an interactive air and not just a cursory business nod at best. I enjoyed myself thoroughly. A little girl danced to Here Comes the Sun as I encouraged her back and her mother watched delightedly. One passing new-hippie type called out "Hey cutie!" with a broad grin. A group of old folks lingered a while before one tipped me a few coins and a "I wish I had more to give you." They passed three or four times, each time with a smile or a comment. The hipster and rich girls as noted above just tore past without any acknowledgment of my presence at all, or perhaps sufficient attention to feel as an ant. Another set of middle aged folks passed as I began the first chorus of Streets of London and one female of their number mused aloud "I know that song, but what's the title." So I locked eyes and nodded my headed as we sang the title together. Despite what I now know to be my general flat intonation (funny how unaware of it I can be) I created many smiles this day - and I might explain away the stinginess to luck - almost every passerby patted a pocket or gave me a shrugged apology.

Best of all, of course, the youth. A trio of three strangely attractive (in a Lolita way, but attractive) early high school girls with the blonde hair and thin barbie figure so prevalent in Texas showered me with kindness. First they each tipped - two of them with a dollar each and the third apologizing and setting two sticks of gum in my case. The tallest, bright eyed one - the leader it seemed - requested I'm Yours after confirming I knew no Justin Bieber tunes. They sat beside me on the parapet, patiently with soft smiles and occasional mouthing of lyrics (they assured me they couldn't sing when I asked them to sing along - but hey, I can't really either, ne?). Maybe her stately kindness prompted me or just inspiration, but I decided to sing them the Mario Kart Love Song, which they enjoyed thoroughly.

As I finished my pitch one of two Hawaii shirted men sitting just behind me in anticipation of the band that would start at 6.30 engaged me with "So did you grow up listening to my generation's music?" This amused me greatly. I answered in the affirmative. We spoke awhile on the attitude of American's to buskers and just before we finished the three girls returned, the tall one sopping wet all over. They greeted me happily and explained she'd jumped into a pond when I inquired. Hm, maybe I can also blame having just written a song about nostalgia - forgive me, I liked her all the more.

Earnings: $11.50, 2.2 hours
Song of the Day: Liberta - Pep's

Austin, Live (Indoor) Music Capital of the World, Day 1

Austin calls itself the live music capital of the world. Well, Vienna's known as the (at least classical) world's music capital and we saw how that translated to present day busking, so I wasn't expecting much. A friendly worker at the Museum Alameda in San Antonio assured me I'd do well here, and today while browsing a sheet music store going out of business, one of the tenders was "Sure it's one of the best places in the world to play on the street." Wrong.

What with endless droves of musicians playing for free in bars just to be discovered, the attitude of passersby to buskers tends understandably disdainful. The general quality of buskers doesn't help any. I went out to play 6th street on my first night, 2.17.11, and the only other buskers in the entire area consisted of a horribly attired reggae guitarist with a broken voice and a head-down bucket drummer. In the short time I played out there, we all fared equally well.

Austin's streets are wide and well traficked, such that this ambient noise severely shrank the range of my projection. Add to that copious nightclubs blaring recordings or (surprisingly amateur) live music (the night was young, true) and it's a pretty hostile environment. As I'd arrived quite early after a late night out with my coucsurfing host I felt rather exhausted - I only went out to test out the scene, thinking I'd stay if it boded well despite my cat/dog hair assaulted voice. Two short pitches later I gave it up and returned to Bram's place.

Earnings: $0.00, 40 minutes
Song of the Day: Falling Slowly - Soundtrack of Once