Done For in Denver, Day 4.5

As an addendum to the first American leg of the journey, I'd like to include a sampling of what riding the infamous East Colfax bus - 15 or 15L - yields on late nights. During the... show I rummaged in my bag for my journal to jot some notes and the quiet young man made as if to get up to let me off. I told him what I was up to, saying, "This stuff... it's pure gold. Put a writer on this bus every night and what a book they could write." I still hold to that. Anyone game?

Three stops in and a shifty looking man shuffles aboard. The bus driver watches patient while the man fumbles bills slow wrinkled wrong ended into the machine. His eyes dart about - quick and alert despite an inebriation that robs his arms and legs of coordination as he flops into the seat nearest the door. Head all his, under his control, eyes and ears and mouth and neck, even, but separate from a collapsed body, twirling hands conducting an unseen drunk orchestra, legs in a mini-Elvis seizure. For two stops he observes everyone. A glint of cool appraisal lit with a spark of insanity.

Two men walk straight past the driver without paying, but the driver calls out, "You, yes YOU, get back here. No no no no no... Come. Come. Two dollars. Two dollars. Uh uh. Riiight. Suuure. Two. Dollars. And you sir. Sir!" And they pay, and the riders grumble loudly about "That's what's wrong with this country is that everyone wants a free ride." or "What's the big deal it's late and cold and we just want to get home. That bus driver..." But never do they argue, somehow they agree and the young black women in the back make sassy abuses of driver and riders alike. Our shifty eyed gentleslob revels in the lively chaos. His shoulders lift, slowly, marshalling the slow slow process of sending a signal to his mouth.

He's a loud voice. Sharp tenor with the rumblies of a low bass only possible after copious smoking and beers. Sort of that rough poor-white-guy-with-tattoos-from Boston (Denver) who could could be on the Jets from West Side Story or a yes man on the Beat It video. The scruff around on his chin and cheeks and upper neck from however many days or hours - for I have never shaved and have no guage - has the character of a porcupine as he bellows:

"Does anyone on this bus want to make seventy five THOUSAND dollars?" Slurred and ponderous "thousand" each word tumbling into the next, falling elephant into elephant. "Does anyone want to make seventy five THOUSAND dollars? I'm talking seventy five THOUSAND dollars. That's a lot of money. That's a lot of motherFUCKING money."

The chatter dims to the crash of surf.

"All you have to do is call this number and work really FUCKING hard. I mean, really FUCKING hard. FUCKING hard. I mean... I'm not talking Wal-Mart. I'm not talking being a waiter or Best Buy. I'm not even talking no FUCKING truck driving. I'm talking... you need to work really FUCKING hard. Just call this number."

And the digits come even slower as his eyes twist in on themselves trying to read off a phone his hands keep bringing closer and further away. "Seven Oh One. Six... Five Six Six. Six Seven... Oh Four. THAT's SEVEN oh ONE. FIVE SIX SIX. SIX SEVEN OH four. All you have to do is Call this number. Work really fucking hard."

Perhaps he'd have quieted on his own. The gaggle of black girls jeered and laughed, "What's that? I didn't get it?" And he repeated, louder, slower, sharper, unaware. "I didn't hear you. Say what? Seven Oh WHAT?" Desperate giggles, catty "Oh no he didn't"s, keening "Ahhhh sheet this is too much"s.

A bald fat man behind me holds his phone high as he begins to dial along to the fourth incantation. His companion wonders, "Are you crazy, man?"

"No," Amiably, "I'm just curious where it goes."

"Good luck with that." Smiling back.

A thin, ragged woman with the coal black staring eyes, destroyed wispy hair and pallid, dead skin one reads in books about the undead, "What's this number for, man?"

"Oil drilling!" He'd just begun to quiet, arms starting to still from their angry profanity emphases, "If you can throw a hammer wrench as FUCKING" and it's back, "hard as I can you can make Seventy Five THOUSAND dollars."

From the back, "I can't believe it. He's advertising on a bus. For serious?" And something about a chinchilla.

"Oh, it's a job." The middle left side, an old lady smiling bemusedly.

"That's a SHIT TON of money! Motherfucking seventy five Thousand dollars! Yes you gotta work. And you gotta work really FUCKING hard... Hey, half this bus is flack folks and you guys is Strong, man, not like us white folks..."

"Oh no he didn't."

And it continues ten more stops down East Colfax while our driver radios for security who remove him from the bus, still screaming the number, the profanity thicker, louder, less intelligible, the eyes duller, limbs completely unpowered by the adled brain, dragged into the bracing cold by Monaco Street onto the soft snow covered cement shoulder above a gutter drain, limp and confused suddenly as his feet quit the bus, held up by the shoulders like a puppet as we accelerated slowly away. The flourescents within the bus shone bright as ever, the girls laughed and whooped and discussed chinchillas and the bus driver allowed myself the shadow of a smile.

Song of the Day: Mad World - Tears for Fears

Denver or Busk

Busking in the States - if one means to travel - is decidedly impossible. Two factors, mainly, conspire towards this effective ban on the troubadour lifestyle: attitudes towards people on the street and prices/distances of travel between cities. Let's tackle the first one. The United States is BIIIIIG. Like, super big. Like gobble Europe up and squish it in a couple states and lose it in the belly button lint big. Capitalism's king, duh, so even the close distances are negated by inversely proportional costs of local travel and living. Boston, New York and New Haven are all rather close to each other, and only there did I make back my travel costs. New England's incredibly expensive, though. Denver's got a low cost of living but a high cost of getting-to/from.

Now, I'll come clean and say I knew and expected the stereotypes of American lack of generosity from the get-go, and so that subconscious knowledge may have skewed my performances or the Universe or something a la The Secret. And did I mention it's been cold? That said, even my low expectations failed to prepare me for the amount of money I'd bleed on the first American leg of the busking journey. Enough that I'm wondering where I'll find money for the proposed second leg. 51st and Lexington Station's Larry commented on it, mentioning how his tips had plummeted after May. The blues guitarist in Denver told me my three dollars in half an hour was par for the course. Even Maria's absurd ex-roommate, the one who claimed to generally earn "About sixty dollars in a few minutes, but I don't do it much, maybe I'm a good busker, I don't know I just bring my A-game everytime since I don't go out much and I'm all excited and right when I start someone likes me and gives me a couple twenties or something and then I'm done for the day, you know the last time I went out in Austin this man gave me a hundred dollars he must have liked my music, but yea, I tried busking downtown here and I got nothing, or else I'd just do that and get the money for rent you know."

The looks I get in America and the relative dearth of smiles - perhaps it's also the length of my hair now, or, again, the cold - greatly, greatly outweighs that in Europe. Maybe I had the luxury of not understanding people's sarcastic and snide and cruel-intentioned comments there but I certainly didn't mistake their general moods. The States are like Oslo earnings with old Gdansk audiences on the best of days. We're also missing dollar coins here - I think the fact that two euros (or twenty crowns or fifty crowns or five zloty or two lira) is a single coin really helped, too. My gig was a free affair as well, and it now seems that all of Gainesville's Open Mics shut down "a while back." All this to say - Terrence is broke.

Much of this could be expected, what with the stated purpose of this leg of the journey - to get to Maria and make a record. Making a record is always an investment, and Maria's too poor for me to take meals off of. (She rejoined this assertion with, "Aww, you didn't have to say that!") I already feel awkward and strange doing that off the rather employed of my friends. As I'm now away from the music and mixing process, lacking a computer to carry the files with me and the knowledge to know what to do with them anyhow, I've but to hope and pray Maria will create a fabulous set of records out of the bits we recorded. Then, perhaps, I can recoup some of the losses. Thanks, Maria.

Boston, MA:

Charlie Card, two swipes: $3.40
Charlie Ticket: $2.00
Bus to New York: $12.50
Water: $1.68

Total: $19.58
Earnings: $33.05
Net: +$13.47

US NET: +$13.47
TOTAL NET: -$101.03

New York, NY:

7-day Metro Card: $27.00
Metro Card: $10.20
Metro North to New Haven $14.00

Total: $51.95
Earnings: $41.54
Net: -$10.31

US NET: +$3.11
TOTAL NET: -$111.34

New Haven, CT:

Train to Chicago: $83.30

Total: $87.10
Earnings: $21.50
Net: -$65.60

US NET: -$62.49
TOTAL NET: -$157.94

Chicago, IL

3-day Chicago Card: $14.00
1-day Chicago Card: $5.75
Strings: $14.99
Train to Denver: $82.45

Total: $117.19
Earnings: $62.76
Net: -$54.43

US NET: -$116.92
TOTAL NET: -$212.37

Denver

10 ticket book: $18.00
2 bus tickets: $4.00
Groceries: $59.08
Thanksgiving contribution: $11.32
Harry Potter 7, Part I ticket: $10.50
U147 Mic Rental: $60.00
Flight to Gainesville: $106.00

Total: $263.90
Earnings: $3.00
Net: -$260.90

US NET: -$371.82
US NET excepting flight home: -$265.82
TOTAL NET: -$473.34
TOTAL NET excepting flight home: -$367.24
TOTAL NET excepting nothing: -$1886.93

Done For in Denver, Day 4

Before I write anything else, I'd like to note that Maria and I have updated the recording of Kids we posted online, as the old one was... of lesser quality. The link is here.

This past Tuesday (12.14.10), I played at the MeadowLark Open Stage in downtown Denver, after wrapping recording on a rather harried night Monday afternoon. Funnily enough, my voice decided to feel alright on the last two days - perhaps I'd gotten accustomed to the dog fur? Regardless, what you can all expect from me is an EP of seven originals and a live album of nineteen covers. They'll come out... Soon™ (Blizzard). If you didn't get that you're not as geeky as I am. That's not hard. If you did, let me know, eh? I just arrived home in Gainesville for the holidays, so I'm leaving the mixing in the very capable hands of Maria.

Back to the MeadowLark. I'm an extremely awkward person in Bars and Cafes and such - especially when I know no one. This didn't change when I walked in. I basically wandered about looking lost till I found out where the sign up sheet was from another loner looking type named Paul. No one'd signed up before him and I wasn't eager to do so myself - I ended up fifth in the list and tried to settle down for my turn. While we waited for the organizers to set up mics and things I whiled away the time with a drawing of Paul.



He later told me he moved often intentionally, since he knew I was drawing him. Cheeky bastard. After his three song set - soft muted vocals murmured directly into the mic and big strumming patterns on his guitar, no eye contact with the audience - in short your general singer/songwriter type deal - great guitar playing in chord choice, bad sense of balance and cheesy lyrics, I wandered over to his seat admit that I indeed drew him, earlier. This sparked a little conversation with him and a couple who'd joined the table, so I joined happily and voila. Allies!

Paul during his set.

Next up the fabulous, soulful Teresa Storch originally hailing from Boston, MA stole the stage. After my set I'd find out she'd been a professional busker there for a number of years. She'd offer me wonderful advice on booking gigs and the like - recommending me to plant myself in more cafes than bars. I agreed. Her three song set consisted of two originals sandwiching a Patti Griffin cover. Her guitar playing flew naturally with strange funky chords. Her voice never seemed strained - deep and rich and cheerfully painful. She'd smile at the audience, look some of us in the eye... I was captivated. There's just something about female singer/songwriters that males like myself can never approach. Some certain magic and confidence to them.

A small mousy Indian-American man followed her with a truly painful set of songs from his upcoming demo, the release party of which he pitched at the beginning. He'd set up his pickup all wrong such that a sharp high pitched squeak emitted from the speakers with each upstroke. He also had a habit of swaying out in time to his music perpendicularly to the guitar, closer and farther from the mic so that he'd blow it out when he sang close and be inaudible on the opposite end of the pendulum. The sound was so awful that Paul, Mary, Jacob and I took our leave for a "smoke break" midway through the second song.

He was followed by Minneapolis-based A Night in the Box. They intimidated me greatly. I'm almost never very nervous for being on stage, but the bigness of their sound and hugeness of their energy level and professionalism put me off. They played acoustically right up off the stage in the area between that and the bar, walking around and engaging the audience to clap and the like. I didn't find them very talented musically, but what they lacked there they more than made up for in energy level. The lead singer's voice was completely blown (or rather, he couldn't sing nearly as high as he attempted to) but you forgave that because of how hard he was trying and how much bounce and life the band gave. Four people - a violinist, a banjo player/drummer/tambourine-man, a mandolin player/harmonica player and, and the lead singer/guitarist. They sang six songs per an agreement with the establishment, as they were to headline a show the next night. Playing mostly traditional bluegrass music that utilizes the same melody and chords and relies on shouting and participation and density of sound, they owned the crowd. At the end, the lead singer stood on a chair belting at the top of his lungs while the others stomped in time and sang a capella style on the stage behind.

So energetic they're a blur!

I quivered on the way up to the stage for my set. I'd chosen From Dawn to Busk, Squirrel Song and Stamsund for my turn. A distinctly lower energy, simpler sound type deal. I framed it a short explication of my journey. I engaged the audience by looking at them, speaking to them despite my nervousness... but at the end of the night I don't think they really dug me. They cheered after my first song, but after that they started talking a lot amongst themselves. By the last song I felt crushed. Stamsund is a song that's so important to me. It's my best. Interactions like this are the reason it's so hard for me to sing my own songs on the street. That feeling that you're giving something of yourself - something bare and real and no one's listening, no one cares. Like a Jook Songs performance where people laugh at your sadness or disregard your triumphs. Something of a rejection of me.

Perhaps people needed to talk after remaining silent for A Night in a Box's long set. Perhaps - and this I noticed to be true after I sat back and listened - I only noticed the high level of conversation for my own set, since others dealt with high noise levels, too, and I noticed so well because I spoke between my songs - a time of low volume from me that couldn't cover up the chatting. To compound the rejection, however, the duo, MiracleMan, that followed me met with large applause and cheers for their "songs." A thin Thom Yorke doppelganger played head down, hair in the eyes muttering Ramstein esque nonsense babble into a mic while a Dresden Doll type girl banged nonsensically at the drums - replacing finesse with sheer force - and screamed ear piercing atonal shit into her mic. Then they switched and the girl wore a guitar she didnt play while screaming into the upright mic while the guy banged even harder on the drums to no apparent rhythm. It felt like a personal insult.


Apologies for the quality. This should just give a sense.

I stayed for two more performances so as to hear my new friends Mary and Jacob as Cobary Jam. Micah, he singer before them seemed a copy of Glen Hansard - beard and propensity to sing low verses and high, loud passionate choruses, svelte, good natured. Then Cobary Jam. I'm glad I ended the night with that note. They were positively excellent, matching each other very well with a wonderful combined sound that convinced me once again that I'm half of a duo waiting for my other half. The other half that can sing while I write and do backup harmonies - that can strum while I finger pick or solo on the violin. Where are you?

Before my walk through sketchy downtown Denver back to the bus stop, Night in a Box asked me for advice busking downtown, which I happily provided. I suppose I am something of an expert on the vocation, now.



Encouraging Christmas lights downtown.

Song of the Day: From Dawn to Busk - Terrence Ho

Done For in Denver, Day 3.1

Maria did the honor of capturing some of the gig on our pair of shitty cameras. I debated a bit whether or not to post the videos, especially with the annoying fan thing in the background (which was hardly noticeable during the gig) and the fact that the cameras didn't pick up the guitar very well, but I decided I needed a blog post anyways. If you're using headphones, watch out, it clips a bunch. One of these days I'll acquire a real camera (thanks again to Ragnvald for this one, if you're reading) and start a real youtube, eh?

Enjoy :).




Car No. 5


Christiania


A Thousand Post-its


Mario Kart Love Song - Sam Hart

Done For in Denver, Day 3

All photos courtesy of Maria

I had my first gig last night, a solo show at the Mercury Cafe in downtown Denver. It's a distinctly hippie place, full of heavy velvet drapes in lieu of doors, rich purples and greens and reds. I played in the "Jungle Room," a largish place with little dark wood round tables and armchairs with spooled backs, wooden floors, christmas lights of red and yellow strung up along the far side, red drapes cordoning off the kitchen and bar areas, and a modest stage half occupied by an old wooden piano with the strangest keyboard like action. When I contacted the owner about the gig she was distinctly cold and unfriendly to me, but I suppose she let me book it, which was something the other bars/cafes I contacted didn't do. Most of them have yet to respond. Unfortunately it was a free gig, which doesn't help my income any. Then again, were it not I'd have no audience.



The waiter who helped me set up and served me some tea (I failed to take advantage of a free meal because the owner hadn't indicated that was in the cards...) was the most enthusiastic of the waitstaff, coming up to speak to me afterwards, too, telling me I had a good taste in music. A tall, spindly man in hippie rags and long hair and foppish manner. Steve, Maria's roommate, helped me balance the guitar and voice. I stood right up at the edge of the stage so I might see my audience better through the blue-hued shine of stage lights. I knew the vast majority of my audience - seven of the fifteen who stayed for a significant portion of the time. I knew everyone who stayed the whole way through. The waiters and bartenders encouraged me, however, by popping in often to listen at the back.



I was to begin playing at 930PM, and I told the man who'd just shown a hippie conspiracy theory type documentary to stick around, and he did. At 940, with Chris's friends yet absent and Ashley and Henry not yet arrived, either, I decided to just go ahead and begin. Thanks to the monthly recitals "play-ins" my violin teacher mandated for us in my youth, I was only the slightest bit nervous. Right as I began, an late middle-aged coupled stopped on their way upstairs and gave me gentle tips as to how to position my voice mic better. They stayed for a few songs.



I began with Hey Ya to get my energy up. The call and response section didn't meet with much enthusiasm, mostly embarrassed titters - too small of an audience to feel comfortable being so engaged, I suppose. From there I launched into a one and a half hour set list based conceptually around my travels in Europe. I interspersed an equal number of covers and originals as I told of Scandinavia and East Europe and busking in general. Talking felt natural and comfortable. I think I can thank Jook Songs for that. Halfway through my second song, Purple Dress, an annoying buzzing sound began from my left, never quitting for the rest of the show. At about the same time, two cafe patrons sat down nearish the front. This pair of youngish men warmed to me slowly after my energetic Liberta, and by my second to last song they were grinning shyly at me. All my audience was extremely considerate with their silence or hushed, brief conversations. Two engaged couples were in the audience, so I sang them Gotta Have You.



It took some time getting used to hearing my voice out of speakers and out of my own mouth to feel comfortable with my pitch. The coldness of the room also did a number on my guitar strings. A trio of young men joined after a few more songs, and right before Mad World and Mario Kart Love Song, Ashley and Henry joined - perfect timing as these were the two songs she was most looking forward to. Not long after that, Chris's two friends Dan and Hannah joined, and from their expressions they seemed to really dig me. My audience laughed at my stories, comisserated with my telling of racism, stayed engaged throughout my songs. I'd worried before I'd have to cut my set list short but it ended up a fine length. I think the only thing off was occasional problems with my voice - due to allergies, oversinging for recording, etc. - but nothing horrid.



My main flubs came towards the end, as I'd never really thought of how to go about doing that. Though Ashley loved Stamsund, which I closed with, I very awkwardly introduced Steve to play a song after me, and never adequately thanked my wonderful audience. Steve played a great cover of Gypsy Woman on the piano, and that wrapped up our set. I realized as he played that I'd completely forgot to plug myself. The two men had taken their leave during Stamsund, as had the trio in the back. I even forgot to tell the waitstaff anything about how or where to find me. Luckily I remembered in time to jot down the names of six people to contact for the impending release of my EP.

Audience: 15 people, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: Car No. 5 - Terrence Ho

Done For in Denver, Day 2

Unlike in Poland, where my "prolonged" absence - prolonged for my mother, who was convinced I'd been killed, or jailed or something - was due to inability to access the internet and events so intense I had to take a while to process them, here in Denver the lack of posts owes to a lack of events and an excess of internet. Over the last few weeks, Maria and I have been perfecting my originals for recording, which began this past Saturday. Naturally, that leaves no time for busking et al. I've hardly left her house, actually. We've run into rather the gamut of problems. I think we've spent more time fighting with the software than actually recording. That and my allergies or asthma or something have decided that this is the perfect time to rear their heads.

That said, I'd like to share a quick live recording we did just to show the quality difference between it and my rough ones earlier. This cover, of MGMT's Kids earned me one of my memorable experiences in Vienna, when a lovely twenty something girl engaged me in conversation, sharing her blog with me and sending me some music.

We have a few more days to complete recording for both my record and Maria's arrangements. If all goes smoothly from here out I'll have the components necessary for a EP. Don't be alarmed, now, this investment serves my busking designs. Money's been so absurdly difficult throughout my trip (and actually impossible in the States) that I've decided to make something to sell to keep the journey going. Most professional buskers make the majority of their profits off of CD sales. Now that I'll have hopefully two records to sell, one original EP and one of live covers, I hope to be able to continue the journey for many months to come.

Song of the Day: Kids - MGMT

What, I write songs too? Part XIII

If I sound far from the mic for the covers, well I am, compared to my guitar - it was the compromise I decided to make for balance (since my voice carries rather more than my guitar). The recordings Maria and I will begin shortly will, of course, be free of that problem. In other news, literally, I stumbled upon a story on the LA Times which seems rather indicative of the dynamic between street people and "the establishment" if you will, and the general state of honesty. Link here.

I've uploaded:

Leaving on a Jet Plane
Scarborough Fair
Torn
RE: Stacks
How Great is Our God

Maria objected rather strongly to the topic of this song, so it likely won't make the CD. I suppose I wrote it to get the lyrics out. I still like the melody and general feel of the song, so I may rework it in the future... in a less "Woe is me, I'm so bitter" fashion. Many have told me I ought to be a lyricist. They accompany that praise with strong feelings about the (low) quality of my singing. I think I'd agree overall, but I don't know:

1. How to be a lyricist
2. Whether I'm OK not singing my own songs
3. If I can get a lot better at singing

Link here.

Will

It's been a while since I have seen you,
Yet somehow you're still on my mind.
Each cloudless day's too gray to get through,
And oh how swiftly they pass by.

I feel such bitterness about us.
It was you that closed the gap.
Your brokenness just proved contagious,
But unlike you I can't detach.

And not hang on to not just anyone,
To love again. To give.
But my heart breaks slow, I've nowhere to run,
I'm losing the will to live.

They say you're deep beneath my skin,
In every reflex I betray
Just how much you bared me open,
With pretty words that couldn't stay.

I squandered trust and hope inside you,
As number fourteen on your shelf.
And when I wonder what those many do,
I sing hopeless to myself:

Don't hang on to anyone.
Smile again, and give.
But my heart breaks slow, has no strength to run,
I'm losing the will to live.

I fill each moment to forget you,
Finding calm in foreign skies.
And sometimes I'm not even sure who
Keeps me grieving all this time.

If I ever quit this memory vault,
I'll sing softly to myself:

I'll move on and find someone.
I'll love again. I'll give.
May my heart mend whole, turn towards the sun,
I'll smile, I'll cry, I'll live.

I'll live.

Done For in Denver, Day 1

The train to Denver, once I finally got on it, felt like home. With a nicer Lounge car attendant, two floors and great company - it was like the train trips I took across the country a few years ago and the reason I prefer them over planes or cars. Ironically, we left the station over an hour late... if only they'd had the same engine problems the previous day, eh? I introduced myself to some young skiers and we sat together by the only other young people on the train.

Dusk out the Lounge car.

All of this has happened before... and all of it will happen again.

A large Amish family occupied half of the lounge car, so my new friends and I squished into a couple of seats facing the window. I passed my guitar around to Gabe and Colin and even to a completely sloshed man sitting a seat to our right, Don, who spent most of the time babbling away to us about music and how one needs math to do medicine. Over and over, the same thing. Later on he came by our seats and trapped me in conversation for a good twenty minutes, admitting once that "I'm an alcoholic, I drink a loooot" between his repetitions of old musicians' names. Towards the end of the night we saw him passed out in on a table in the lounge car.

Now the first few days - the first week, really - in Denver I didn't even consider busking. As I noted in a song post, earlier, the temperature proved a bit ridiculous for that, and for the few days where it crept above fifty, promises of twenty mile an hour gusts promptly killed my enthusiasm. I hardly left Maria's house at all. The occasions which prompted such leavings consisted of visiting Dan, seeing Harry Potter with Dan and Maria, or going to one of the most incredible bookstores I've ever had the pleasure of reading in. It's cooler than Powell's in Portland. Portland, incidentally, seems to be a fantasy writer's paradise. My new favorite fantasy writer after Terry Brooks, also from the Northwest, is Portlander Brent Weeks, whose book The Black Prism is simply excellent.

Tattered Cover.

I finally tried a pitch on the Saturday following Thanksgiving, which I spent at Dan's place with a drove of others and excellent food (especially compared the the pasta and tomato sauce meal Maria and I consume for dinner each night to save money). The only place anyone could think of playing was the 16th Street Mall downtown. I left (11.27.10) around 12:30, but couldn't decide for the life of me where to play on that long street. Every block had a busker or two, all quite horrible (not quite Chicago bad but close). The mall was decked out for the Holiday season with pianos in the middle islands for anyone to play and speakers blaring Christmas music every other block or so. Salvation Army bell ringers posted themselves at most intersections... busy place. My indecision fed on itself, too, as after I'd finally decide on one location I'd find it newly taken by a busker or bell ringer. My first spot met such a fate - I didn't notice the guitar player down the block or the piano directly across from me until halfway through I'm Yours. Afterwards, I apologized to the guitarist, who hardly acknowledged me, head down and scruffy looking slumped against a parapet and moved on.

Eventually I settled on a pitch under a tiny awning, recommended by a guitarist who'd just stepped out of the free mall shuttle to look for a place to busk, himself. Earlier in the day I'd run into another busker who was advocating for Children International. It seems, indeed, that every one and their mother plays guitar in Colorado. I played all my knockout surefire songs to test the waters, and I was met by utter failure. Two thirds of my tips came from one nice black man who deliberately and kindly pressed a set of folded bills into my case, doubling back as I sang Scarborough Fair.

I often write of how the kind interactions are the most meaningful to me, but there's a certain point at which the money issue becomes un-ignorably salient. Throughout the pitch my passersby were unfailingly kind - no sneers, no advances, no intimidation but smiles and singalongs and cocked heads - but the lack of tips really got to me. Probably the profusion of buskers in the area contributed to that. That said, I will detail some of the interactions that on a warmer, brighter day would leave me feeling the pitch was a success.

As I began Somewhere Over the Rainbow the Free Mall Ride Shuttle stopped at a fresh red light to let people out but the driver kept the doors open until the green light came on so that people could listen to me. That did make me beam - or maybe a foolish grin, a grin that proved infectious as I saw it creeping up the faces of the bored-looking passengers in the bus. Most of the passersby mouthed along to my covers, but one particularly enthusiastic group of youngsters sang loudly off key with me to Leaving on a Jet Plane. Another set of forty somethings hung about in my peripheral, listening, for a good while with smiles. Many parents, bucking the trend of enthusiastic children and strict elders, gave me encouraging glances while their children pulled them on.

The Mall at Night.

After my thoroughly depressing pitch, I holed away inside the nearby Barnes & Noble to finish The Black Prism. On emerging I noted more guitar toting buskers warbling away to their strumming (one great, all the others horrendous) replaced the previous street musicians - flautists and trumpeters taking breaths between every shaky note of a christmas carol. When I returned to Maria's, I felt determined to book some gigs - I'm loosing too much money in the unfriendly States.

Earnings: $3.00, 40 minutes
Song of the Day: Scarborough Fair - Simon & Garfunkel

What, I write songs too? Part XII

I began writing Stamsund quite a while after leaving Norway, in Istanbul. Sickness, notes and poems from Stamsund itself and the feel of going to mosques all contributed to the feel - a pace I'll probably add more motion to. I think the general feel of Poland and Turkey colored this one strongly, and the skies that reminded me of many things both positive and not throughout my travels.

Bonus points if you can identify the movie that, in retrospect, may have inspired the lyrics - though not at all intentionally.

Link here.

Stamsund

I've been to a place
Where the sun never sets.
Life moves at a slower pace,
And gives my voice a rest.

But like that lonely sun,
Hanging aching in the sky.
Though my body recovered some,
My feelings wouldn't die.

Maybe Summer never ends
And with it never love.
Maybe I'll just hover,
In circles forever up above.

I'm still on the road
People say I'm free.
Wandering the globe,
They say the envy me.

But each new face I greet,
Calls back to one I've known.
Though I sing on busy streets,
Each night I sleep alone.

Will Autumn ever come.
And with it let me fall,
Or will I keep on flying,
In circles and never move at all.

No matter how I sound,
Each time I perform
Couples gather round,
And keep each other warm.

I know I should find hope,
In the shimmering of their eyes
But I know if my sun goes,
A new one wouldn't rise.

Tell me why won't Summer end?
And with it let me love.
Tell me will I wander
In circles forever up above.

What, I write songs too? Part XI

It's been hard to stay positive here in Denver with the absurd cold (high of 30, low of 2) which kills any chance i have to busk.

I wrote the following song over the course of my busking in Europe. There was this annoying set of coincidences (or what have you) that one part of Copenhagen was called Christiania and that I ended up going there a few times - and it was the perfect metaphor of a place. Then Oslo used to be called Christiania also. I stayed with Pontus in Stockholm in a place called Kristineberg... Everywhere I went in Scandinavia I was dogged by that name and images.

Link here.

Christiania

Ten days and thirty one nights,
Halfway lost near Christianshavn,
Three eyes, sipping one tea,
Laying claim to fleeting ground.

Grey skies with nary a cloud,
Hanging high beneath the stares,
Of ghosts shuffling with the same gait,
Peddling each a different ware.

CHORUS
Running through the many steps,
These shattered streets have humbled.
Eight months gone, four thousand miles,
But I still stumble...
In Christiania.

Voice strong, struggling for tips,
Moved along from Vigelands Park.
Cold waves deaf passion adrift,
In gentle eyes with a manic spark.

CHORUS

A wash of rain, an iris gleams,
A drunkard points to copper green.
A darkened room, a passion loosed,
Left unwanted, broken, bruised.

Memories burn in Frederiksberg Have,
Chasing skies that can't be caught.
Kisses salt wounds never closed up,
From a porcupine hug amounting to naught.

What, I write songs too? Part X

Maria's roommate's dog, Jolie, needs a ridiculous amount of attention. I think you'll hear her whining away throughout these recordings. This will be the first of a large flurry of song posts - I'll be putting up rough recordings of all my remaining originals by the end of the week so I might get reactions before I begin recording in a week.

Jolie and Steve

I've uploaded:

Landslide
Mrs. Robinson
Apologize

Ever since I began busking I wanted to write a song about it all. This one depicts the more positive side of it.

Link here.

From Dawn to Busk

Hello there, Mr. Passerby,
Won't you stop and stay a while.
Listen to this song and you'll hear why,
Don't have to tip more than a smile.

I'm not a drunk, so please don't glare,
There's nothin' in my case so why look down?
Come now meet my eyes please if you dare.
Just looking for some change to change that frown.

Take a break from hurrying.
Take a breath, then go on if you must.
Don't feel guilty, stop worrying.
Tomorrow I'll be here from dawn... to busk.

Why hello there, dearest little child,
You remind me why I stay to sing these songs.
Make me beam but don't dance too wild,
Or Mom and Dad'll say "Run along."

Take a break from hurrying.
Take a breath, then go on if you must.
Don't feel guilty, stop worrying.
Tomorrow I'll be here from dawn... to busk.

Be you sad or lost or stressed, relax.
And smile along.
Smile along.
Smile along.

Hello there, Mr. Passerby,
Won't you stop and stay a while.
Listen to this song and you'll hear why,
Don't have to tip more than a smile.

Cheered in Chicago, Day 4

I was supposed to take my leave of Chicago today (11.15.10). All my bags were packed, I was ready to and I was standing there outside the door (to the station) to go to Denver. If you got that you got it. Unfortunately, I didn't quite anticipate the transfer time from the red to pink lines (an entirely unnecessary transfer, it turns out). So once again I missed my train. Not a huge deal - the nice Amtrak lady rescheduled me for the following day with no penalty.

Zebra's tall

I took the previous day off, something about cold and allergies or travel or whatever didn't quite agree with my voice. Ben's place (the model homey pad photographed in the previous post) boasted a bathroom scale which revealed my weight as still somewhat non ideal. I appear to be oscillating about a pound above or below the 120 mark. With my health in mind I decided to try a single pitch the evening of my failed transit, with the goal of earning back the money I'd spend for that extra day: $5.75 for a transit day pass.

It took an hour and a half to make that. In retrospect I assume the Mondayness of the day factored hugely. My passersby wore that exhausted "I need to get the hell home" look and most didn't spare me even the smallest glance. I noticed an increased average footspeed too. The two platforms were dominated once again - the blue by the painful erhu/accordion duo and the red by a horrid "quartet" consisting of a man idly thumping the cajon on which he sat, a singer with a decent voice but no rhythm, a would-be rapper who thought lyrics could be grunts and a "dancer" staring at his floor and shuffling his feet back and forth (from both pointing inwards to both out. Repeat).

Even passing musicians gave me little love. A heavily tattooed hippie woman scolded me with a "Get that permit!" My tips came in one quarter at a time - sometimes that larger coin had a couple smaller buddies with him, but even that was rare. I suppose that means I was tipped often, at least. All in all the pitch demonstrated rebuffed all norms. My first tip came from an Asian man in his forties. Young men complimented my voice without stopping while the women seemed more skittish.

Before I left Ben's apartment to man the pitch I wrote out a set list of songs I'd not played in a very long while - the last twenty odd songs on my list I hadn't busked with in at least a month. Going methodically through them helped me keep at it, but towards the middle I needed a sure-fire song to boost me. I sang Hello, and the reception was so excellent I played the second half twice to stretch out the feel even longer. I think I acquired half my tips (quarters, remember) during that one six or seven minute stretch. Even the CTA janitor employee who'd wandered past innumerable times chose that time to acknowledge me with the slightest hint of an almost smile, looking up and leaning on his broom for a moment a few feet away.

A trio of girls passed three or four times, stretched out through the pitch - perhaps they were utilizing the passageway as a warmer alternative to the street above? They never tipped, but on their last pass they finally acknowledged me and spoke kind words. A little later, a thirty something black man started singing away as he approached and departed (something I forgot to mention in the previous post - the singing many younger black men do to either mock me or defeat me or just generally mess with me) in a friendly manner, trying to get me to play along with some chords. Exhausted as I felt, however, I merely smiled, waited for him to get out of earshot and then ended my pitch.

Earnings: $6.50, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: Hello - Lionel Richie

What, I write songs too? Part IX

I'm finding Denver's elevation (or something) rather disagrees with my singing. Hopefully I can acclimatize soon.

I've uploaded:

Ue Liang Dai Biao Wo De Xin
Save Tonight
Crazy

The lyrics of this ditty were inspired by the events of Stamsund I. There's not much else to it :).

Link here.

Car No. 5

An endless dusk settled down over Trondheim one night.
Girls from Zürich, men from Paris with no sleep in their eyes,
On a train whistling northwards to the land of unending sun,
Found themselves a cabin - empty to their delight.

With ham, beer, and cigarettes, olives and some hamburger buns,
Speakers, cards and a guitar from a shy man who needed some fun,
Drinking in the coolest air and the feeling that all things were right,
They smiled at the controller and with that their adventure'd begun.

For he said, "Go to Car No. 5, go to car No. 5,
Go to Car No. 5 right now."
He could not be reasoned with, didn't hear a thing they said,
"Go to car No. 5 right now, right now."

Body stench wafted rancid from each wagon door,
Café closed and no haven free from those snores,
Stopping at the very back brows smoothing with no one around,
Laughed with some beers in hand, slicing olives on the floor.

Burst in, "Go to Car No. 5, go to car No. 5,
Go to Car No. 5 right now."
He could not be reasoned with, didn't hear a thing they said,
"Go to car No. 5 right now, right now."

Nowhere else to go so they stayed,
The controller returned and unwound,
Named himself the chief, quite irate,
But neither gave a bit of ground.
Voices began to escalate,
When suddenly a way was found.

Adieu, adieu, adieu to Car No. 8,
Cramped between car 5 and 6 - gone tension and hate,
Standing as one to let the restless into the loo,
Played their cards and chattered till their energy waned.

Then they slept in Car No. 5, slept in car No. 5,
Slept in Car No. 5 'till morn.
They could not be reasoned with, didn't hear a single thing,
And slept in car No. 5 'till morn... 'till morn.

Cheered in Chicago, Day 3

Model home much?

I'm rather sensitive to cold. Or sensitive, period. As such I couldn't abide multiple pitches on my third day in Chicago (11.13.10). Perhaps owing to the victory of the previous day, I overestimated my pitch - that and the platform buskers were inordinately loud and horrid. Ben accompanied me to the Jackson station, where I began with Your Song... which didn't have much of a reception. While he stayed we noticed a pronounced display of the racial lines that emerge in regards to my tippers. To be blunt: they're all black.

As I mentioned in the previous entry, the black passersby interact most easily with me. For whatever reason (and coincidentally Ben and I had engaged in a long discussion on the legacy of slavery, earlier) they're by and large comfortable with me. They see me as a human and aren't shy or guilty at all. Hence the intimidation and the false tips but also encouragement and real tips, too. Here in America we like to pretend we're past the issues of race. Comedians often use this false assumption to excuse otherwise offensive jokes, but at street level you can see just how deep the divisions are.

Not long after I began, a scruffy looking black man paused next to me, suggesting things for me to play: Eric Clapton, Led Zeppelin (all curiously white artists who covered black music), calling out artists as even as he passed away. Of the few who tipped me during the entire pitch, all but two were black. The first of these was a thin, ragged man with what looked to be cerebral palsy. He didn't say a word - perhaps he couldn't - and didn't even lift his head. It took him forty painstaking seconds to extricate a dollar bill with one shaking hand from a wallet he held in the crook of his other permanently stiff, bent arm. Everything about him looked slow and deliberate and pained, even as he shuffled in that characteristic way down towards the red platform.

I think I've noted my rejection of trickle down, but that last serves as a perfect example - those who do not have share. Those who have guard jealously. I think this also feeds into the divisions of race. Today especially the white men who passed displayed particularly cruel and haughty faces. They had a way of not looking at me that conveyed "Hey, I'm not looking at you." The nicer ones seemed skittish and nervous around me, put on the spot by my presence and judged by the lack of generosity being shoved in their face. At one point in the middle of my pitch a rather square-jawed specimen with broad shoulders and laconic eyes called out to me, "Well, are you going to sing anything?" A comment that's become all too common and mocking from mid thirties white males while I'm adjusting my capo. Happily this slight was hastily mended by a young (white) girl who passed seconds after I began, squealing at the first line of Yellow and reaching out for a high five that I met. I made sure to stare pointedly at the assholic mocker after this, whose eyes were still cast haughtily back towards me.

Now, I've already detailed a bit of the intimidation that's the flip side to most of my black passersby. The distinction between these fake tips and joshing lies in the feel of them. When white men remain silent it feels distinctly as if they're speaking of their superiority. I received a flurry of such looks as I sang She's So High. When black youth mess with me they often look a bit apologetic afterwards, and one can see in their eyes they're just having some fun - they see me as an equal. These dichotomous racial lines blur and nearly fade with increasing age, however. All the older passersby today treated me very kindly regardless of tipping, meeting me with smiles and thumbs ups - one elderly pair of women infected me with a bright, bright smile during Streets of London.

The exception are Asians. I experienced the most withering look I've had the misfortune to be on the receiving end of about forty minutes into my pitch, from a distinctly Cantonese-looking trio of a middle aged couple and a grandma. It amazes me still what they packed into that three second glare - shame, disgust, incredulity, horror... (I know I've missed many racial groups but these are the ones that stand out with distinct behaviors. Others and foreigners act in such a myriad of ways I can't stereotype them fairly.)

It being a weekend, the trains ran less often, giving me more down time between the crushes of people. Ben departed to study upstairs in the Barnes & Noble after just a few songs and I bid him farewell with There She Goes... a joke he didn't take too kindly too. I saved a particularly dry spell from destroying the pitch with a slew of "winners" : Mad World, Liberta, and Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Towards the end my voice flagged with the last drop of my little bottle of water. I wanted to wrap up with Landslide but at that moment a tall, cheerful black man (yup) stopped and happily tossed coins into my case from the opposite wall, one at a time, saying "Just keep playing!" brightly. He took the phone number I'd withheld from the bassist the previous day. Rodrick, as he introduced himself, was also a bass player who loved my voice and needed a singer. I couldn't let him depart in silence, so I sang precisely one more song.

Earnings: $11.72, 1 hour
Song of the Day: Landslide - Fleetwood Mac

Cheered in Chicago, Day 2

I opened the day (11.12.10) early to cook a simple breakfast for Tamiko before she headed to work. I intended to try a pitch around 2.30, but the entire tunnel was filled with clashing sounds. The keyboard player she'd warned me about was plunking away with a single finger to insipid backing tracks right in the middle. He told me he'd finish around six and had been there since seven in the morning. A rude djembe player banged noisily almost directly across, not respecting busking etiquette by doing so. An elderly asian couple screeched painful, out-of-rhythm tunes on an erhu and accordion on the red line platform. A man using heavy reverb and slowly shifting backing tracks to hide his unfamiliar guitar plucking dominated the soundspace of the blue line platform. Something I've noticed about Chicago buskers is they're universally terrible, which was quite the shock even after the decreased quality of New York buskers. (The New Yorkers have gone distinctly downhill since my first visit there six years ago, but they're still tolerable, by and large, and often quite good.) I'd no obligations anywhere so I used the time to rendezvous with my younger brother Brent, in town for job interviews. Characteristically, the first thing I did upon meeting him at his absurdly fancy hotel was iron his shirt. Helpless kid. In the best of ways.

Another benefit of the Jackson station is the Barnes & Noble situated directly above, where I sat to read and refill my one 500ml water bottle - I had two from Jen after the Madison Square Park pitch but that morning I gave one to a beggar who passed through the train I took into town. When I finally began the pitch at six, I felt strangely nervous. I'd stayed up late the previous night generally baring my soul to Tamiko and the aftermath left me feeling predictably vulnerable throughout the day. In hindsight, I think some of the highs and lows from the days pitches owe to passersby reading that sensitivity in me, probably on a subconscious level - and reacting in caring gestures or "kick em when they're down" actions.

I began with slow songs which suited the tunnel and my mood on the order of last night's Hello. I know why I end up delving into the brighter fare for many of my pitches but ones like this one make me wonder and wish why I ever have to at all. I simply do best singing songs I love with emotions I feel - makes sense, right? I suppose I pulled into myself a bit for the first few songs - which had the benefit of improving my music (perhaps) with recognition of tips and supplication of passersby not entering my head. I honestly don't recall any faces who passed in the beginning and after I came a bit back to myself I looked down to see a five dollar bill nestled happily among the fresh coins and singles sprinkled across my seed money. I vaguely remember a nice lady coming doubling back and telling me, earnest and shy, that she loved my voice as I was between two songs. I assume that must have been her generous donation. I hope I thanked her as earnestly. Not long after this a youngish broad black man asked me for my phone number and I instantly got protective - but it turned out he was a bassist in search of a guitarist/singer and just wanted to contact me later. I felt horrid for the reaction he must have read, for he placated me by explaining this hurriedly, complimenting my voice and asking for my myspace.

Because I was racially profiling. Throughout my short time busking in America I've been unnecessarily afraid of younger, more rambunctious black passersby. Take this day as an example for what these thoughts come from. Of the many people who passed me the groups of young black kids were always the most intentionally intimidating. I assume it's an attempt to feel cool or dominant, not unlike that Polish man in Wroclaw, but whatever it is I receive quite an education in it on the streets. Which is one of the reasons I think busking is the greatest teacher I've ever had. The groups in the tunnel had this assumed thuggishness that I could literally see them donning as they neared. At either end of the tunnel they'd act as any group of young friends might but on seeing me the tough guises and the punchings of each others shoulders came on. Their voices deepened. They walked slower, stared me down. After they'd pass a sufficient distance they'd relax and look at each other to share a laugh about my reaction, perhaps.

Many would mock me with fake tips, often accompanied by "you want it?". One, the straggler of a tamer group apparently stayed behind just to ask "Can I have a dollar?" I responded with "Sorry, man." and a smile, which he turned into an incredulous gape when he rejoined, "Just kidding." and slapped his friends on their shoulders, laughing maniacally. One group of three seemed very aware that at the time they were the only other people in the long tunnel. They muttered to each other in a not-so-convincing just audible set of voices about "beating him up" or "having some fun" eyeing me out of the corner of their actually gentle eyes - which gave their ruse away such that I felt no fear whatsoever, but was irked by their need to try and evoke it. Often, the first people off the trains and thus entering my tunnel were teenage black kids who'd decide race to the other end on seeing me, passing deliberately (or so I read) within inches of my case and shooting back "Na na na na na" looks like impetuous kids. These last interactions were the only that made me smile.

On the other end of the spectrum, this night I kept receiving heartfelt "You have a beautiful voice" comments from girls around my age, whose eyes spoke of their earnesty. One of these girls stopped for a long while to rifle through her purse, even though I was between songs. She denied my proffered request list in the kindest possible voice with "I just want to tip you" and a sweet smile. The song she tipped me after, Crazy also garnered me my second five dollar bill tip, from a young man who doubled back the entire tunnel to give it yet never met my eyes. An older Chinese woman broke from my learned expectations, too, and tipped me with a grateful sigh just before the girl, even hanging back to enjoy our interchange. Just-over-the-hill aged men gave their own version of that same encouragement with "Keep it up"s and "Don't give up"s. My favorite from these came from a svelte black man in all black with a black business carryon who added afterwards: "I'm a producer, I know what I'm talking about. You keep doing what you're doing."

There are too many beautiful interactions to do justice in a blog post. Most followed directly on the heels of some slight or sneer. After a set of workers scoffed at my bending over to get a drink of water (which they likely interpreted as a bow) a thirty something woman with gorgeously styled hair stopped pointedly to tip me, spending an entire chorus of Mrs. Robinson getting out her wallet. When I thanked her she told me "I had to, it's on my iPod right now." A group of hippie-types sang along in happy off key notes to Leaving on a Jet Plane. A young man smiled broadly the whole tunnel towards me and tipped me with a flourish as I sang High & Dry, telling me "That album saved my life, man." And I believed him.

With the song vibe I thrived in I found myself able to revisit songs I hadn't sung in a while. I knew I had to sing Hey There Delilah as Plain White T's hail from Chicago and it was met with a chorus of "Awwws" from a trio of attractive girls, who giggled when I noticed them. During the chorus of Gotta Have You some pothead types with their brightly colored blankets worn as garments, dreads and beads rejoined, "Whiskey?! I like whiskey!" Immediately before a reaction from a Chinese that said "We're ignoring you, but we want you to see that we're ignoring you, you disgrace." The entire hour pitch ran like this crazy pendulum, each tip dampened by a crude comment and each snub softened by a smile or a thumbs up.

Brent and I met up with Ben for dinner, to take advantage of the $25 dinner allowance offered Brent by the company hoping to acquire his services. (Not in South Beach, of course.) I was admittedly antsy the whole meal, eager to return to the fabulous pitch for a second go. A rather old food baby and calls to Tamiko delayed this pitch somewhat, however, and I didn't return until ten. On a side note, I noticed upon reviewing Dan's videos of me singing at 51st and Lexington how flamboyant I come off and today I noticed that my tips decreased after I took off my Trumbull hoodie to expose the deep-v t-shirt beneath - one that only just stretches past the tops of my white jeans and boasts a floral-inspired print on the top left.

My second pitch lasted significantly less time, as the horrid "musicians" on either platform chased me away as their sounds wafted into the passageway. I felt as if I was simply adding to the din. I continued in the same vein as before - the passersby thinned out and the reactions became generally friendlier, and slower yet somehow shyer (and thus less profitable. One guy stayed for the entire duration of Fake Plastic Trees. He cocked his head to give me a curious glance as he neared and then stood by the opposite wall, head down so I saw nothing more of his face beneath the shield of bowl cut golden-brown hair, bouncing a bit as he nodded in time. He waited till I finished before he moved on, without a tip or any further acknowledgement of my presence. Somewhat odd.

For whatever reason, most of my tips this short pitch consisted of dimes. Quite the difference from my previous two five dollar tips. I suppose the timing of my pitch (nearer bar-going time) provided for a different social demographic for the young women passing me - from the average income bracket coming from school or work to a slew of women whose clothing reeked of given money. Unsurprisingly, their tips corresponded inversely with the amount of makeup they wore. After one of my last songs a nice young man shared an eye roll with me after three haughty girls in heels holding their arms and hands at an angle that begged a lit cigarette a la the thirties and slightly open-mouthed expressions recalling old movie sultriness but evoking pretension instead.

Earnings: $27.21, 1.3 hours
Song of the Day: Crazy - Gnarls Barkley

Cheered in Chicago, Day 1

The train to Chicago, the Lake Shore Limited yielded a stunning sunset over the river - an early plunge into darkness, but a worthy one. I'd been planning to write and hone songs on the train but my plans were dashed in a number of ways. My entreaty to play in the dining car for my dinner (during dinner) got shot down since the traffic back and forth in that car for food and customers would be obstructed. Then I was told I couldn't play my guitar in the cafe/lounge car by an ornery ticket master because it was "dangerous." How, I'm not sure. Happily (but not changing the situation), the other members of the lounge car commisserated with me and tried to lobby the cafe car workers to let me play, saying they'd enjoyed the music "Whenever something's nice they have to take it away from us, don't they."







I arrived in Chicago at around ten in the morning and spent much of the day relaxing and talking with Tamiko, who I hadn't seen in many years. My hair's longer than hers now. To my delight, she acquiesced to playing together in the subway. I'd decided not to purchase a CTA permit on the recommendation of some CTA workers I'd chatted up earlier - apparently the same rule applies in Chicago as it does most anywhere: if you're good and not a hazard, no one's going to bother you. She knew of a perfect place to try a pitch, in a beautiful tunnel tiled underground barrel vault linking the red and blue lines at the Jackson stop.

We started with a random jam, trying to get comfortable with the space and with each other musically - her sensibilities and interests in jazz, romantic "classical" music, world music, found music and noise trying to mesh with my distinctly poppier leanings. I found the first half hour or so very difficult. Playing with another person made me at once more comfortable and less. I felt more aware of the passersby while ignoring them. I felt happier and more energized but thereby more worried and more obligated to give that energy and positivity to the passersby. In that first hour I juggled the task of building up Tamiko's energy and confidence while keeping some for the crowd and myself. It was rough. People respond to surety - they notice when they're engaged directly - this is the mark of a good busker, as opposed to those who stare resolutely at their feet or blankly into space.

We eventually settled on playing songs I know and having her solo over as she pleased, starting with familiar songs she liked by Simon & Garfunkel. Funnily we sounded best on songs in hard-to-play-on-the-violin keys, like Liberta, which I play in G sharp minor. She said it freed her to stop thinking about the key and just play the notes. One man looked enraptured for the solo section of that song, despite no tip. We obviously had to play Ue Wo Muite Arukou - twice, even. Happily for Chicago, the racist experiment indicated no preference for foreign songs. Ironically, the converse was true for us, as we were rather scared by a group of young black guys acting intimidating and like they wanted to demonstrate their power as they passed us.

I knew right away from this pitch that Chicago would feel entirely different from the Northeast. Everyone was simply nicer. We received thumbs up from many of the passersby - attuned as they were to our nervousness and uncertainty, and instead of looking down on us for that, trying to build us up. I'd sum up the essential difference as New Yorkers wanting me to fail and Chicagoans wanting me to succeed. Wanting to be won over. Another odd contributor to Chicago being more lucrative is the dearth of talent. New York buskers (in past years but not so much recently) tend to be excellent as a rule. Washington Square Park, Central Park, the subways burst with talent. Chicago buskers, however, are in Tamiko's words, "Homeless beggars with instruments." In two words: they suck. At one point Tamiko thought we'd do better if we looked more destitute. I think our selling point was our talent however, and I will not do gimmicks. I'll wear my H&M jacket and Express jeans and look immaculate, because that's honesty.

Speaking of gimmicks, I demonstrated how I know what works when I had Tamiko play a solo that I encouraged be flashy - and suddenly the tips started coming, even though she refrained from broken chords or arpeggios or fast runs and relied mostly on a D drone double stop. I then sang Hallelujah and Falling Slowly, Somewhere Over the Rainbow, and I'm Yours all to good tips. Now Milana asked me later about my antagonism towards playing flashy things or just the reliable songs if it's truly for the people, as I profess. I explained to her that what I look to enact is a true connection, not a basal response to speed and volume. I think playing a song for someone who really listens that connects with them can change their day and then a small bit of their life, but not a standby they've heard so many times before on the street, and certainly not showing off.

Tamiko left for a recording session and I carried on a few more minutes. At some point here someone stole $2.00 from my case. Right afterwards a beggar passing by asks insistently for some money, and gets truly offended when the worry shows on my face that he might steal. I felt guilty for it, but realized how impossible the situation was. I decided to end the pitch on my new winning song: Leaving on a Jet Plane. A pair of punk kids loved it, apologizing for their lack of money as they told me how good it sounded.

I took a nice, long break in the Barnes & Noble directly above the station, reading some pulp fantasy while I waited for Tamiko's rehearsal to finish. She called me hours later as she neared the end - neither of us had eaten anything since lunch and it was around nine in the evening then. As I sang my second pitch for the day I felt genuinely starved and slightly lightheaded - which somehow contributed to a beautiful session. I sang the songs that fit that out of sorts mood best, starting with Mad World, and these songs were perfect for the time and place. The crush of rush hour had died to a steady trickle. The air tasted nostalgic and mournful. Perhaps the passersby noticed my weakness as I got a surprising amount of gentle and encouraging "Keep it ups." The acoustics were otherworldly down there, freed of the din of stomping feet.

Most of my tips came from people doubling back. Tamiko came by towards the end and filmed me quite tastefully during a lull in the traffic - an interesting feature of the tunnel is the flow of traffic coming in rushes rather than a more steady influx, what with 100% of the users emerging off a train at the same time. Perfectly, the last song I played I Will Follow You Into the Dark garnered a tip.



Earnings: $17.33, 2.1 hours
Song of the Day: Leaving on a Jet Plane - John Denver

No Work, New York, Day 5

I decided to pass briefly through New York on the way to Chicago so I might rendezvous with Richard. An additional upshot of this was that I got to see Dan once again, at the 51st and Lexington station where we took up residence before. Dan even began to refer to that stretch of passageway as "our wall."

Right away things looked good. I felt quite strangely chipper despite seeing a certain person while in New Haven - in fact, I felt absolutely incredible. Some of my giddiness and enthusiasm and boundless energy returned. This attitude happily preserved me through yet another standardly New York working day - no tips and a surfeit of "you don't exist" glances. The beginning of the pitch also provided me with an initial burst of energy. A set of absolutely adorable girls locked eyes and waved at me for nearly a full minute, with the cutest repeated "Bye!"s. While this delayed the next song rather significantly, I'd much rather be waving at adorables than trying to entertain ingratiates.

I embraced the slow pitch by taking the opportunity to test some of my originals in the excellent acoustics, spurred by Dan's encouragement. I went through a gamut of emotional tones for him - from happy to sad to bitter to pensive... for the last, my song Stamsund I was at last rewarded by a generous old woman - who looked like she tipped two dollars but as Dan and I discerned later, it was just a single folded up very neatly. My voice felt great and I found myself able to really enjoy the acoustics there.

Now, as I've harped endlessly, one of the main reasons I'm continuing to busk owes to my mission to change the image of Asians. I hope I'm successful in some small way in that. I noted this day (11.9.10) that the youthful Asian passersby often seemed shocked. They'd leave with this look written in their eyes and faces like they'd been... enlightened? Sort of this "Oh!" which I hope to be (and therefore read as) "That's new, I never thought of that before." The older Asian passersby, however, tend to be my harshest critics, making it incredibly plain with their body language that they think of me as some sort of disgrace. Interesting stuff.

My train to Chicago was set to depart at 3:45 PM, so I gave myself twenty odd minutes from packing up my case and all. It should have been easily sufficient. As Dan put it, I managed to somehow break the transit system. Dan and I waited on the platform for the E train, which we noticed was rather uncharacteristically bursting with people. You know... suffice it to say that the E train in our particular section wasn't functional. One came at precisely the last minute for me to make my train, but on arriving in Penn Station I couldn't claim my ticket as the entire Amtrak system was down. The machines, the computers for those behind the desk - even when I called the 800 number, as the server outage or whatever it was affected the entire nation, apparently.

You are getting very sleepy...

After a fiasco of ticket haggling and such, Dan and I returned to "our wall." He declined my occasional impulses to take "that train! and see where it goes!" or "lets play here!" which was probably for the best. Upon returning to 51st and Lexington, we were greeted with an absolutely absurd crush of people - the aftermath of the earlier reroute. The volume and density reminded me of Hong Kong rush hour, without any of the smoothness or efficiency and the chaos of Edirne.

Naturally, I had to sing Mad World while Dan filmed. At the first chorus you can see the man who told me "I like that song!" brightly and tipping me.



The rest of the pitch consisted mostly of oldies, as for whatever reason the songs Dan picked for me ended up being from at least thirty years prior: Scarborough Fair, The Rose, Operator, Streets of London, Landslide... it felt like a good, continuous vibe for that stressed environment - a set of slow, folksy ballads to counter peoples' impatience - pressing against each other in front of closed elevator doors, crushing each other in a funnel to the escalator downwards. Most of those who looked in my direction gave me kindly smiles.

I love having someone around to help choose songs for me to sing, as it reminds of ones I happen to pass over in my glance at my repertoire list. Towards the end of the pitch a woman came by to tip me during a gap between songs when I was explaining something or other to Dan and she kindly asked me, "Are you going to sing me something?" In writing it's hard to convey how friendly and joshing the way she said it was - I had to oblige immediately. She declined making a request (here in America I've noticed no one "has time" to stop and make a request) and chose old out of my profferred old/new dichotomy. So I sang her The Boxer. To her. She sang along softly for the first two verses and chorus before walking off with that satisfied "Well, I didn't expect that/That was different" expression.

A quick note on how it feels to take advantage of the generosity of my friends. Because I do feel rather guilty for it - asking to be treated to meals or to raid the fridge because I simply can't make ends meet even without such costs. I went to dinner with Dan and Richard that night at a diner and the "Who'll cover Terrence" conversation at the end made me feel somewhat ashamed of my lack of capital. Someday, perhaps, I will either feel more comfortable accepting generosity or have a stable enough lifestyle to preclude it's necessity.

Earnings: $8.15, 2 hours
Song of the Day: The Boxer - Simon & Garfunkel

New Haven, New Haven, Day 2

I had a good feeling about the day (11.7.10), despite the fierce cold and wind. I headed out after a leisurely breakfast in time for one pitch before church, back at the same great spot in front of the British Art Center. For the first time in a good while I had a couple songs to debut on the street and this gave me that initial jolt of excited energy.

Upon arriving I wasted no time opening up and all. The cold had effectively thrown all my strings quite out of tune, however, so I stood there a minute or two tuning. During this time a young couple with a kindergartener waited patiently for me to start. They'd passed a dollar to their child and hugging told him in that endearing, encouraging parental tone, "We have to wait till he starts." Such displays of affection amidst the rushing to and fro of most passersby gives me much hope (and makes me want my own kid).

Even my seed money was noticed by a tall, unkempt man, who remarked, "Good idea!" I played a few slow songs. The child tipped me and they stayed for the end of the first song to clap and shuffle on. My tall companion stayed around the area for quite a while, obviously enjoying my music and later telling me I sounded great with the acoustics provided by the overhang (a natural amplification that made me audible even to passersby across the street, one of which was Kelvin). He went up to one lingering older couple emerging from the museum to tell them, "He's better than anyone I've heard around here." and other such platitudes to which they agreed. They tipped me. Having such a spontaneous ally kept me going despite the weather.

Now the weather was truly absurd. I ended stopping after about half an hour because my fingers were literally numb. The temperature was tolerable, but the awning which granted me the beautiful acoustics also created a strong wind tunnel effect. Between alternate songs I'd spend a few moments cupping my hands before my mouth to warm them a bit. Passersby responses to this action varied from a commiserating, "It's cold, huh" to an entirely unsympathetic and somewhat mocking, "Yeah, play me something."

This wind created a dilemma for the tips. I've wondered if the currency of America affects tips - as dollar bills are already bills and generally people are loath to part with paper currency. Regardless, the wind wreaked havoc with the tips and even blew my ten pound case about. One woman tipping me dropped the tip and the wind intercepted the bill and blew it a good twenty feet away before it landed on the street. She very kindly chased after it, coming back and telling me "Got it!" triumphantly. After that I devised a new stratagem to show the green. I clipped a couple bills in the middle pocket where I keep my capo where they'd be weighted down by the lid yet exposed enough to flutter attractively.

The previous day a group of high schoolers had wandered back and forth around the area, tipping me after they heard my Hey Ya - fascinated, perhaps with my youth? Today I was joined under the awning by a large, maybe twenty or so, group of Asian youth. They passed me as they met behind me, then passed again on their way out. I felt strangely proud to be there, then, and they reciprocated that intuition as many of them tipped me as they passed off, mostly coins accompanied by astonished gapes and awed smiles. I got the distinct impression they admired me for my bravery in busking. It felt good.

In periods of less wind people gathered shortly on the walls behind me, sitting or leaning against them as they listened. Some tipped, some didn't, I didn't mind. Towards the end I was joined by the "Shakespeare Lady," New Haven's self-professed street poet who quotes verse for tips. I didn't welcome her company, however, as she very loudly introduced herself at all the passersby and thereby chased them away from the both of us. Think about how you would deal with the situation - pursued by an aggressive street poet you'd run off quickly. If you wanted to tip the musician you'd feel put upon not tipping the poet so you'd tip neither. Etc.

I took a break when I couldn't feel my fingers any longer just inside the British Art Center. Sadly, I have to admit that this was my first time entering the place, art major notwithstanding. I still saw naught but the interior of the bathroom. On emerging I tried a pair of songs, with the Shakespeare Lady still roaming the grounds. She even tipped me a quarter for one, which dropped my resentment of her to a bit of shame (though I stand by my initial reaction). The temperature had dropped and twilight had genuinely fell - something about the taste of the air - so I moved on. On the way to Elm City Vineyard I passed a pair of women who'd smiled and paused encouragingly earlier. They apologized for having no cash as I passed them, telling me "great singing." I told them, honestly, that I didn't mind.

Cold with warm people

Earnings: $13.00, 35 minutes
Song of the Day: Leaving on a Jet Plane - John Denver