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

Southron finances

Thanks to the staying home earning of moneys, which is largely nominal as most came from gifts and my mother's payment for painting/moving things in the family room, I "broke even" once again, especially if you discount the foray to Houston. But that's cheating. What that means is that over the two months since quitting Gainesville, I leaked money very slowly indeed, relying as strongly as ever on the goodwill and generosity of friends and couchsurfing hosts. Anyway, what I've tried to do in each of these finances post is lay out precisely what I spent and then make excuses to discount particular sums so I can feel like I broke even... when, of course, I didn't. Not once. Busking with such a humdrum act as mine and meaning to travel with the income requires less wanderlust. If I remained places longer I'd make back the airfares and trainfares but I'm always itching to go on, trying to loop around by the end of May. Anyhow, do enjoy the numbers laid out below. As I've done since the beginning I'm keeping the running tally of total net from Day 1 of busking, but as I've noted this number is actually rather larger - my mother ate the cost of my emergency flight home, I considered my trip to Stamsund as my graduation gift to myself and so discounted it and took it out of "savings," etc. I am constantly torn between spending from savings and enjoying myself a bit more or hoarding like mad and getting as close to that hallowed ability to say, truthfully, "I broke even." So here I'm admitting I haven't. And from this point on I won't mean to - if I do, that is well, if I don't I'll simply finish up this bit of my journey. It's too tiring, anyways. Much of the sheen and exultation has faded.

Gainesville, FL:

Tripod: $10.94
Christmas presents: $15.00
Merch/card paper: $7.64
Website: $10.35
Greyhound to New Orleans: $87.20
Change fee: $15.00

Total: 146.13
Earnings: $568.00, Poster
Net: +$421.87

SOUTHRON NET: +$421.87
TOTAL NET: +$45.37

New Orleans, LA:

Water: $1.56
Streetcar tickets: $4.00
Train to San Antonio: $59.50

Total: $65.06
Earnings: $76.08
Net: +$11.02

SOUTHRON NET: +$432.89
TOTAL NET: +$56.39

San Antonio, TX:

Taquitos: $2.50
Breakfast Tacos: $5.00
Food: $2.00
Train to Austin: $10.20

Total: $19.70
Earnings: $0.00
Net: -$19.70

SOUTHRON NET: +$413.29
TOTAL NET: +$36.79

Austin, TX:

Bus tickets: $5.00
Guitar Strings: $5.94
Bus to Houston: $22.28
Bulgogi Burger: $5.73

Total: $38.95
Earnings: $66.97
Net: +$28.02

SOUTHRON NET: +$441.31
TOTAL NET: +$64.81

Houston, TX:

Food: $2.34
Train to Tucson: $102.00

Total: $104.54
Earnings: $0.00
Net: -$104.54

SOUTHRON NET: +$336.77
TOTAL NET: -$39.73

Tucson, AZ:

Train to Los Angeles: $33.54

Total: $33.54
Earnings: $29.50
Net: -$4.04

SOUTHRON NET: +$332.73
TOTAL NET: -$43.77

Los Angeles, CA:

Busses: $3.00
Flight to Honolulu: $172.20

Total: $175.20
Earnings: $21.87, Video, Pasta Bolognese
Net: -$153.33

SOUTHRON NET: +$179.40
TOTAL NET: -$197.10

O'ahu, HI:

Bus x8: $20.00
Hostel x2: $40.00
Hanauma Bay: $7.50
Groceries: $18.21
Spam Musubi x2: $3.72
Flight to Sydney: $341.30

Total: $430.73
Earnings: $182.86
Net: -$247.87

SOUTHRON NET: -$68.47
SOUTHRON NET excepting Houston: +$36.07
TOTAL NET: -$444.97
TOTAL NET excepting Houston: -$340.43
Total Net excepting nothing: -$2331.90

Hallelujah, Hale'iwa, Day 3

I knew I couldn't leave without trying Spam musubi, so upon arriving back on the North Shore to pick up my things from Tom's, I stopped into the seven eleven (best rated Spam musubi on the island, apparently) to get one. Delicious. After the obligatory hour of Tom monologue, he kindly gave me a lift into town so I might catch the bus and bid farewell to the Clarke family. David tended the shop and he and Tom chatted a while about various material things. He offered us smoothies and insisted on buying the CD I'd brought to give them, my first CD sale! Soon some customers arrived and I picked up the guitar Kevin left in the corner at David's bidding to while away the wait for our smoothies. Just like the previous day this brought a flood of people when we'd been the only ones inside for the first half hour. Maybe it's coincidence, but I like to think I've been helping their shop in my own small way.

Makani arrived shortly thereafter with Kala, Mantain, and Lotus, and Tom took this opportunity to bid us farewell. Kala delighted in seeing me. Giving me a hug about the knees head at my waist, and then told me she'd forgotten to bring the poem, but that she could probably remember it. I gave her my chord book to write in, and she spent a few minutes writing the first lines.

Thank you, thank you, butterfly.
Fly up high, fly down low.
Thank you, thank you, so so so...

And so I sang her a C G Am F progression of the song inside the store on the high chair beside her while the customers listened. I sang her spare lines twice to get a short song length out of them. She was absolutely inspired and ran outside with my book to write some more - lit by the sun at a small cafe table almost beneath a tree, feet dangling unconsciously, face completely focused, grass and butterflies lending her thoughts direction. A sight I will not soon forget, so beautiful and serene - Makani and I watched her in appreciative wonder for a while, and when she returned her newest lyrics blew me away. She's truly the wordsmith her mother touts her as.

Thank you, thank you, butterfly.
Fly up high, fly down low.
Thank you, thank you, so so so...
Butterfly, butterfly,
Fly so high, fly so high,
You can touch the sky.

With such a simple vocabulary she took an observational poem of gratitude and added that sense of wonder and freedom, bringing us into that grace. And then, after I sang this to her - eyes completely rapt, so kind and gentle and honest - she wrote more.

Thank you, thank you, butterfly.
Fly up high, fly down low.
Thank you, thank you, so so so...
Butterfly, butterfly,
Fly so high, fly so high,
You can touch the sky.
But please don't leave,
You'll make me cry.

Suddenly bittersweet, longing, yearning... And then:

Thank you, thank you, butterfly.
Fly up high, fly down low.
Thank you, thank you, so so so...
Butterfly, butterfly,
Fly so high, fly so high,
You can touch the sky.
But please don't leave,
You'll make me cry.
Smile, smile, smile, don't cry.
It's ok, it's ok, it's ok.

Simply incredible.



After I sang this a few times to great applause and positive comments from the shop's patrons (which I deferred to Kala), I knew I had to leave. I'd called into Hank's that morning and he'd agreed for me to play that night at 6:30 or 7:00. Makani offered more ice cream and Kala begged me to stay, but I needed to. Kala hugged my legs many times, Mantain jumped up for a piggy back ride, I gave them a few bookmarks - my Stego one, zebra, paddington... - Kala had me promise to return soon, saying "I won't be here next weekend, I'll be in Kauai." after I said I'd try my best. "As long as you're back within the week." Rats.



I was right to leave early, though, as it took another exceptionally long journey to get downtown. I needed to pick up my guitar from Alison's place but the transfer in Wahiawa took over an hour - 62 busses kept passing northbound and returning "Not in service." I dashed to get my guitar and some merch but all for naught - though I arrived precisely at 7pm (after three and a half ours in transit), the bartender, David (alas, my last chance to see Kulei foiled!), informed me confusedly - "You're not playing tonight, Don is and he starts at 7:30." Crestfallen it was given me to know that Don's a regular Thursday nighter and that Hank must have forgotten. So dejected did I feel that I hung around the bar a while, speaking with the patrons a bit. They took pity on me (all middle aged folks) and Lani and Mark bought CDs from me.

Now here's where my characteristic naivete/why the hell am I a traveller/busker showed through. Nothing untoward occurred mind you, but much of the time a nagging voice in my head kept voicing all the things that might. You see, Mark was particularly friendly to me - clearly a touch drunk and quite into me - and offered me a ride home. I only saw him consume a drink and a half so I accepted the offer. Hm, maybe I'll just lay out the facts and you can sort out how my actions may have been unwise. He led me to his car a few blocks away through seedy Chinatown and drove up into the heights by Punchbowl where he needed to walk his dog, Paco, before taking me on. Once there I availed myself of his severely out of tune Piano and his roommate "Aunty" came out and offered us her recently cooked meal. Naturally I hadn't yet eaten, so I dove in for two portions. While I was playing, Mark walked his dog quickly and had a joint. Now he's the most gentle, kind man, from San Francisco, but obviously I wasn't about to let him drive me the half hour back to Waipio. Then again I certainly couldn't stay the night - so I asked him to drop me off at the close King St. bus transfer point and bid him farewell. As I quit the car he pressed me $20, reminiscent of the man in Denmark - perhaps from my tellings of my usual earnings (I originally intended to head to Kalakaua to busk before arriving at his place) and for the simple pleasure of the company.

Now, was it wrong of me to accept after only refusing once?

Earnings: $50.00, 0 minutes
Song of the Day: Butterflies - Kala Clarke

Hallelujah, Hale'iwa, Day 2.5

Another host, Alison, messaged me back, keen to go hiking. Surely I didn't do enough of that, though the manner of Hawai'i hiking is of the terrifying cliff/ridge lots of wind and wet trail variety so I certainly wouldn't have been prepared for most of it. Tom delayed my leaving in asking me to take photos of his jeans to sell on eBay, but I still departed his place at around 7.30. And here I learned something important about the bus system - it's good if you aren't making connections outside of Honolulu. It sucks if you are. I needed just one transfer on the way down, but this stretched the journey so much that I didn't arrive in Waipio until 9.15. A car takes about half an hour for the same journey, so we'd have been quicker if Alison came to fetch me, even.

And so we we couldn't hike Makapu'u Tom Tom. Just as well. Google it, add unusually whistling high winds with crazy gusts and passing showers and you'll be glad we traipsed up a much calmer hike - the many many steep steps of Koko Head. We stopped for a quick bite at the breathtakingly gorgeous super accessible locals knowledge only Spitting Cave on the way. The ocean below terrified the ** out of me. So Koko Head's very popular with the locals as a test of fitness - apparently people commonly post their times online. We endeavoured to break Alison's 21 minute benchmark. As my brothers can tell you, I'm a very strange hiker, my legs don't tire but my lungs always do - I tend to dart ahead then gather my breath a moment and I hike at around 3-4 miles an hour, depending on the terrain. Brent and I call this trail crushing pace. This weirdness held true for Koko Head (which I didn't bother photographing), as my legs never felt the least tired except from the normal strain of a particular tall (thigh height) step, but I nearly collapsed up top from lack of air. Oh asthma, how strange you are. I impressed Alison, apparently, as I spent the whole hike just ahead of her and cheering her on to beat her time, never leaning over from lactic acid unhappiness and only at the end needing to sit a while - but a serious while with spotty vision and extreme lightheadedness. After I felt human again we walked down the crater's ridge a bit of a ways to grab some photos - and at the end a pair of guys hoisted a flag in the ripping wind, wind so strong I crawled along crab style. I've a fear of being blown away as times in New Haven with my art bag or Hueco with my crashpad or Chicago with just myself have taught me. I'm pretty aerodynamic but I don't really have a strong grounding force.





We sampled some absolutely delicious Waiola Shave Ice in town before she dropped me off near the FedEx center where I was to pick up my cover CDs. Excitement turned quickly to a bit of consternation when I realized I'd left my phone in her car and that the package weighed in at twelve pounds - with that and my guitar I couldn't really travel very far without my arms desiring to quit their jobs. So I borrowed mobiles and arranged to meet her later at her place of work, discovered Couch Surfer Stefan couldn't go to the eating contest, and read The Farthest Shore inside a Nordstrom's, where a live pianist tickled the keys to the right of my white leather chair. I couldn't call Hank's - my main reason for wanting to stay downtown being to play there and maybe see Kulei again - so I waited for Jazz Mind's Art and Cafe to open - waited to no avail half an hour past their posted opening time of 6.30.

Now, naturally, only today did I require a jacket, and only today did I not bring one. Spitting rain blown sideways or hanging in midair to soak me through. The rain drenched everyone's spirits. In a land of paradise where the weather begs friendliness and helpfulness from everyone, on the slightest of unpleasant days the city people turn cold and uncaring - malicious even. Taking the bus to Alison's workplace proved an ordeal in itself with a bad transfer ticket given me by the first driver. I finally arrived after 8, and left just after 9. Or tried to. At the bus station at 9.15 to return to Waialua the first bus didn't come until past ten. And my transfer never showed - either I just missed it with the late bus or the last bus of the night failed to show entirely. Both, actually. And so, out in the damp cold with but a t-shirt on and little shelter, I waited until one am for Alison's kind conveyance of me back to her place.

Song of the Day: Mad World - Tears for Fears

Hallelujah, Hale'iwa, Day 2

Makani recommended I try playing in front of Matsumoto's General Store or Aoki Shave Ice. The North Shore is famous for it's shave ice, so busloads of Japanese (and non Japanese, too) tourists gather in unending out the door lines in front of both shops, especially Matsumoto's. I inquired inside, and the spare English of a worker denied me permission, so after wandering to a couple other places and being denied I ducked into a church where I heard classic rock being played. I sat in a pew and listened a while - at this church, apparently, they leave the P.A. and sound system out for anyone to use, so people constantly drift in and out to play together or prepare for gigs. How wonderful! I was taken aback on hearing the guitarist's name - Terrence - and when we met each other a few songs later he happily noted the good luck that must be emanating from such a rare occurrence - two Terrences under one roof. When his guitar's receiver broke they asked me to play a few songs, which I did and they enjoyed.

I'd ducked in mostly to get out of the passing shower, and now that it'd quit I walked back to Makani's shop. We chatted a bit and a few moments later her husband David - he just as friendly as his wife; a perfect complement - arrived with three of their four children: Mantain, Kala, and Lotus. I'd already been enjoined to sing a few songs. Customers started coming thick and fast - as we'd spoken there was but one in the beginning - people smiled, chatted happily, listened in line... My throat felt off because of the vog, no doubt, so I played but briefly, and Makani gave Kala a couple dollars to give me "So that when they see a street musician they know what to do!" I'd told her I wanted to head to the library and she offered a ride via David, which I accepted.

But they were so busy with the sudden influx of customers (which I flatter myself as having a hand in) that it was a couple of hours before we left. I didn't mind at all. I watched the kids while they ran the shop - Mantain with his piercing Hawai'i sea under palpable rays of sunlight five minutes before sunset blue eyes and chubby face, Lotus shy and quiet with a tendency to erupt into tantrums over tiny things, Kala slim and tall and astonishingly mature being used to looking after her siblings. Kala finished her schoolwork while I played with Mantain, then we played hide and seek, and freeze tag. I, of course, was the permanent "it" for the latter game, and my role in the first was mostly to keep them from wandering too far away from the shop. Delightful fun. Basically I got to play with delightful delightful children in the warm Hawai'ian sun - warm but not hot - what could be better? One of the customer's two kids joined us for the game of tag - everywhere was apparently base so that they just jumped on the sidewalk and back into base and I made to tag them during that split second of vulnerability. Simple, but so simply fun. Just before we left Makani took us all to the next door ice cream shop. In such a small, friendly town they of course knew the couple who ran that shop and procured the ice cream free. Mine was a pretzel icecream, with pretzel sticks slightly soggy within the icecream and surprisingly delicious.

Kala felt very sad to see me go and promised to write a poem for me to write a song to on parting at the library. I checked out a couple of books and then got a touch lost on the walk back to Tom's house - which afforded me incredible views of the unreal layered mountains behind the gray mist of near but far rain.

Earnings: $2.00, 30 minutes
Song of the Day: A Thousand Post-Its - Terrence Ho

Hallelujah, Hale'iwa, Day 1

And some days give you everything.

I awoke early to play a pitch in downtown Honolulu before continuing onwards to my new host on the North Shore. My host in Mililani, Edward, had recommended I try playing on the Fort Street Mall right in the center of the CBD, and when I'd come through to check it out a few days ago it looked promising. I asked the security guards whether I might play and they said I'd have to play around the corner, on Hotel St., a road with heavy bus traffic. I gave it a go by the side of a McDonald's. On a random note, McDonald's are landmarks for bus stops in O'ahu. Very amusing. And sad.

Most of the passersby treated me well, with a mother tipping me almost immediately by way of her daughter and a young woman stopping her friends a moment to request Time in a Bottle and then Here Comes the Sun on discovering I didn't know that first request. Today I debuted my laminated song list, and I was glad to put it to such quick use. But while Hawai'i staunchly protects first ammendment rights, most of its buskable land is privately owned. So just like Kalakaua I wasn't allowed to play on Fort Street and a few songs after the request the owner of the McDonald's came out very sternly, with a look of disgust and impatience and shooed me off.

So I asked the girl manning the Yogen Fruz shop if I might play in front and she delightedly agreed. While inside I heard the not quiet enough comment from one of an older businessman patron to his lunch date that "He didn't make any money", gesturing to me not quite subtly enough in a schadenfreude haha tough luck get a real job way. They proceeded to talk a bit quieter about that. I felt furious but kept myself in check, setting up outside and promising myself I'd bring it up with him when he emerged. I cooled down enough by then that I didn't do that, either. I played a few songs there but the businessman remained as uptight as anywhere and my being on the ouskirts of Chinatown didn't help either. One man very purposefully jangled the coins in his pocket right in front of my case before walking on a way and making a big show of "listening and searching for money" before going on. He did the same on the way back. I wasn't taken in for a moment so this didn't bother me too much, beyond the ugly taste it left in my mouth. Only just before I finished did my one tip here come, from an older man who crossed the street just to tip. Very kind.

On the bus up to Hale'iwa a sat beside a slow witted braggart who nicely ceded the seat, but did so mostly to show off. I remained humble throughout without mentioning my own doings or playings. Let me illustrate:

"What kinda guitar is that?"
"Classical." (Why do people give a shit? like they measure my worth by the brand.)
"Yea, I mean what kind."
"It's a Raven." (I don't even know any brand names.)
"Never heard of it."
"Do you play."
"Yea. I've got a bunch of guitars, is that your only one?"
"Yea, found it in my attic."
"How long you been playing?"
"About eight years off an on. And you."
"Fifteen." Haughty, haha more than you.

Some more banter during which he reveals he's trained as chef, doesn't have a job right now but has "Cordon Bleu" honor honor honor and could totally get one but people don't see how good he is.

"Did you grow up on the island."
"Yea, North Shore. I've been all over though."
"Were you in the military? Is that how you've traveled so much?"
"I hate the military."
"Where about have you been?"
"All over. You wouldn't know."
"Oh, I just wondered what places."
"Mexico. Canada. France. Holland. Germany. Spain. And Italy." (and here I laugh a little inside) "You been any of those?"
"Yea I've been to France before."
"Paris?"
"Yea."
"How many times?"
"Once."
"I've been five times to Paris. Six times to Europe."

And so on. When I got off in Hale'iwa after an hour and a half of this I felt much lighter. Only to meet up with my host Tom, who engaged me in an hour long monologue about his eBay trades in which I had absolutely no interest.

I wandered through Hale'iwa looking for cafes and bars where I might get a gig, but each one needed much greater notice than the week I had remaining. Well most had no live music at all. I saw a random colorful sign advertising "Music Box..." other thinigs I can't remember and I had to enter. I was welcomed in along the ramp by some young boys and girls and taken aback, to discover I'd stumbled into the Ron Artis (Art...Is) family band studio space. The mother very helpfully recommended me some places to play and after a few moments chatting some people dropped in and the children set up to play a "Rainbow Show" of all styles, incredibly impressive and joyous and musical - great voices, dance steps, piano, drum, harmonica, guitar, bongo, synth talents working in beautiful concert from four boys ages 8 to 24 and two girls in their early teens. What a range of sounds they displayed, and what mature musicality. Their father recently passed, yet they carried on, gentle and warm and filled with Christian goodwill telling me "Talent is like water, my dad used to say. God filled you with it and you can pour it into the guitar or the violin or art - it's the same thing." Oh how inspiring, how inspiring the memory of their father truly alive in the music and their love.

So I walked down to the places they mentioned and called the others later that night - most with no luck. But one place, one place would yield the highlight of my time on the island, the most amazing people I've met in America. Hawai'i's now easily my favorite state, and I think of the many places I've gone on of the few I could see myself settling in. The Artis family's advice led me to Universe Juice, newly opened six days prior by a very young married couple with the most darling kids.

Makani, the mother, tended the shop as I arrived. A houseless man, John, helped her wash dishes for some food, and right after she finished with her customer she bid me play her an original song. She sat right before me in a director's chair, meeting my eyes the entire time I perfomed Stamsund, tears leaking out midway and flowing freely by the end. And so we spoke of music and life and the meaning of names and synesthesia and belief and food and race and Hawai'i; I sang my songs in the incredible acoustic of her narrow, high vaulted store until I ran out of them. Her investor Kevin stopped in to bring a guitar for the shop and dug my music, drummed along on a strange lute-like instrument he'd found at a thrift shop, requested Falling Slowly and told me I nailed it. Requested Hallelujah before he left, tipped me in my case which just happened to be open.

And while I sang Falling Slowly this second time for him a young man who'd been eating ice cream in the alcove outside her side window popped in to drop a dollar with a smile. The few people walking by at that late hour slowed and stopped and clapped and smiled. Makani's friend Nathan and his chums dropped by and they talked or listened right at the doorway - relaxed with faces aglow in the deepening twilight perfect Hawai'ian air. Makani made me a delicious acai parfait/smoothie type thing and dropped me a tip, too, regretting the shop had no money as yet to pay me - not that I minded in the slightest. She gave me a ride back to Tom's place and a box full of local organic fruits and veggies soon to go bad.

Makani told me the Hawai'ian people were tasked with remembering. Remembering how the world should be after it's forgotten and gone awry. I can believe her, and I hope I can help others remember, in my own small way.

Earnings: $13.50, ~3.5 hours
Song of the Day: Falling Slowly - Soundtrack of Once