Friday, July 30, 2010

Sustained by Surplus, Sun, and Songs in Stamsund, Part IV

Over the next few days I continued to polish songs, write a little, etc. I've really started to warm to the idea of being a human jukebox - with a placard or something - but that would need more supplies than are easy to carry about.. but perhaps when I've traveled enough that I settle in a place more than a week. Every day new people come in, most of them stumbling upon this paradise that you can't book online, with no staff, that sustains itself entirely with human decency - Roar cant possibly run the whole thing (though he does his best, for sure) so those staying help out with sweeping, keeping the place immaculate - everyone makes their bed when they leave, even!

The hostel is the orange guy


My train cohorts left after one more night and I enjoyed the ensuing patches of silence. I continued to wake late and sleep late. I left the hostel only to draw, to write my letters or for walks. Though I felt a desire to see the white beaches and the Trollfjord, my way of traveling meant I felt just as happy simply relaxing where I was. One particularly gorgeous night, Roar told Russell, an incoming Australian photographer, that the light was bound to be gorgeous. Russell retired after being deterred by a general misty murk, but I perservered and around three or four in the morning...

From the hostel.

Everyone else: sleeping


It'd been a very rough time of faith for me, and I wandered around the mountain top praying and talking - sometimes it felt like I was talking to myself, sometimes not - but just before I went to sleep I got a little direct and asked for a response. How do I deal with the lack of community, the lack of fellowship, my loneliness, my feeling that I'm missing out on time that could be spent growing close to a someone, now I'm across the globe from those closest to me? Now ECV and the other groups I was in believed strongly that God speaks in many ways, and I firmly believe what happened next was an answer. It came so immediately (the instant I opened my eyes) and seemed so aligned... Well I'll just write it out and you tell me, hm?

Just before the birds...

Which flew across this.


From my journal: "A flock of birds headed right across my vision flying low, parallel to the sea, black against the burnt sky. Five of them, I think? One of them veers off at a right angle to fly away from me. Disappears into the mist. Two of the remaining birds pair up and fly on. The other two fall back and away from each other (one flying even lower, one soaring up) but continue on, albeit slower.

I blink and the one's re-emerged from the mist, flying fast and low after the others - I think of Jonathan Livingtson Seagull. The last of the flock is almost behind the mountains blocking my sight to my right.

I focus again and three more birds are closing, large and fast in the same direction. They gain on the one lonesome bird, join him just at the edge of the mountain... and that's it. No more birds. The air, which felt a strangely still and hushed - a little cooler, crisper yet muffled - moves again."

Not long after the birds disappeared.


I'm determined to come back here. Maybe if I end up teaching I'll take my summers here. After that gorgeous morning it rained without much pause for the rest of my stay. And still it was beautiful - the hostel never felt warmer. We had a lot of stragglers come stay to hide from the weather: a set of Brits from Cambridge I got along with very well, three Californians, three Italians. Now at first it felt odd being with Americans - somehow I felt they were invading my paradise, or something - but it went well.

It wasn't quite this dark... but close.


Best of all, I made the acquaintance of a masters student from Chile/Brasil, Pablo. He finished undergrad with a degree in composition and speaks fluent Spanish, Portuguese, English, French, Italian and understands German. Phenomenal. It's made me formulate a theory that musicians, by virtue of their highly attuned ears, are particularly adept at languages - Pontus in Sweden, Pablo, etc. We had an excellent time jamming together. There are two guitars and a mandolin that live at the hostel which we used to great effect - first with the two of us and one of the Brits, then the Americans, then the Italians. Most importantly, he'd brought his violin.

How I'd missed it! First I just soloed over some random chord progressions and songs with Pablo on guitar, but after he took a break I took his violin into the adjourning room and just went at it, making stuff up (sometimes starting with the Chaconne or Bruch or Ysaye or Butterfly Lover's or Erbarme Dich but quickly moving to improvisation) for over an hour. There's just something you can't do singing or playing guitar that only the violin can satisfy. Some of those deeper emotions, the ones you can't name and can't voice and sometimes that you're hardly aware of - those are what really need a violin. I played well. Better than I've played since I've played regularly, maybe because no one was around to judge.

When I returned to the kitchen/common room, the French lady who'd been staying a few nights was telling the Italians, who'd just checked in, "He's a musician," in a confiding tone of voice - like she was proud to be able to be acquianted with me. Stamsund was filled with these affirmations - made me think, maybe I could do music if I wanted to? The Americans encouraged me to try it as a job. Pablo complimented my ear. The Italians loved the beautiful sound of my guitar, which made up nicely for the snub it got in Oslo. We spent the rest of the night singing and playing - Francesco even taught me Nothing Else Matters.

And when I left the next morning I had a few minutes to pass before my bus, so I played a few songs in the adjourning room - and I'd hardly begun when two girls came in from the main room just to listen to me. I still feel awkward and undeserved of all the attention I get from females, but I sang them Libertà on discovering they were from France, and maybe it was the confidence or the the rest, or the rain, or the peace or the violin but I don't think I've ever sung stronger.

For those of you who made it this far, here's something funny to end on: people here peg me as much younger than I am. Leonard, in Edane (remember him?), pegged me at twelve. TWELVE. And the day before I left Stamsund a Bulgarian lady put me at "Fifteen... plus or minus three." Sigh. Is it the hair?

Song of the Day: Libertà - Pep's

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Sustained by Surplus, Sun, and Songs in Stamsund, Part III

As such, I woke past noon (7.15.10). I'll concede the sun was a little stronger then: all the people I'd met the night before were relaxing out on the picnic table outside the hostel - one woman had taken the same trains all the way from Bergen and amusedly noted that I slept a lot. I partook of some free muesli, eggs and milk and against insistent warnings from those at the table - as my only shoes are Sanüks, rather tractionless and it had just rained - and went for a quick hike up the opposing mountain.

Looks small but it's five hundred meters!


There were some sketchy bits, especially on the way down, but that made it all the more amusing. Unfortunately the batteries for Ragnvald's camera died when I reached the summit and I'd forgotten to bring water... I returned, took out the rowboat for a lazy jaunt about the harbor (with odd memories of crew) and took a nap. Yea. More sleep. I woke to familiar voices, looked out the window and was rather surprised to see my train companions eating outside. We had quite the hilarious - "You!" - reunion outside and they shared their ample dinner with me. Seeing as I'd rested quite well, we stayed up rather "late" once again.

We took my guitar to the top of the rocky hillock behind the hostel and played for rather a while. Good practice for me to try songs on demand. Olivier is quite the Jack Johnson fan, so I began teaching him Better Together, and Miran was entranced by Hey Ya. The mosquitoes were a touch annoying, but the scenery and company made up for it.

Olivier and Zebra

The four.

Et moi.


Song of the Day: Better Together - Jack Johnson

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Sustained by Surplus, Sun, and Songs in Stamsund, Part II

My plan on visiting the Lofoten Islands was simply to relax. Write some songs, maybe, polish covers, draw a little, write a little - but mostly to get the hell out of the city (because they all feel the bloody same after not so long) and just chill. I succeeded admirably. I hardly woke before noon (not like it mattered when the sun didn't set). I consider this the vacation portion of my journey. Why Stamsund, though? I'd met a German man in the Oslo Haraldsheim Hostel who told me I had to go there, as it was the best hostel he'd ever stayed at, and absolutely gorgeous. The ticket from Bergen wasn't horrific so I decided for it.

The German man was completely correct in his assessment. It's the best hostel. Ever. The whole thing is run by one man, who's been running it thirty years - his father was a fisherman and owned the place and the owner simply converted it into a Vandrerhjem. His name is Roar. Great name, eh? The strangest sense of humour - very acidic and sarcastic (he'd jibe that I wasn't behaving, or that people were complaining about me causing trouble) - incredibly laid back, the whole atmosphere of the hostel stems from him. It's something of a haven. Many travelers return again and again to the hostel - mostly Germans, some French. One man, Stefan, used to come and stay six weeks every summer. Another man comes every summer for many years.

These regulars create this wonderful ready-made community. The place feels warm (well one day it may have broken 20, but the rest were in the low teens...). There's a wood stove. A set of rowboats anyone can take out - to fish, to just row, whatever. Large dinners (usually by nationality). A shelf for leftover/free food. I lived off that shelf. For the six days I stayed at the hostel I spent 20 NOK - on a broccoli and some pølser. It was quite the well stocked shelf (though much less so when I left) - lots of rice, pasta, butter, onions, tinned vegetables, instant soups, tea, spices, the Scandinavian hard bread.

Now you'll be wondering where I got my protein. The night of my arrival proved prophetic for the rest of the days I spent. The bus dropped me off at the harbor, about a kilometer and a half from the hostel, and a couple that was headed there gave me a lift in their rental. We'd hardly set our things down - it was nearing midningt, met a couple of travelers from Australia and England when someone alerted us that there was a boy outside wondering if we wanted some fish. Free. None of us knew what to do with it, but the boy - around 14 - showed us it was already cleaned and gutted and told us how best to cook it. He even chopped it into manageable portions. There was enough fish, easily, for the five of us.

I'd been basically starving myself (rationing the sandwiches I'd prepared in Bergen) so I jumped on the rice, cooked some onions and garlic and happily ate alongside. It was excellent. We cooked outside as Roar told us the smell would be annoying to the sleepers and around one in the morning we ate our free feast. The sun didn't set of course, so it felt like a normal, if quiet, six in the evening meal.

Just behind the hostel around one am.


Stefan arrived the following day and he always caught more than fish than he could possibly consume himself. At night he'd even fry up the extra fish for the rest of the guests and give it away before making the portion for his own family. So that was my protein :). And seeing as I'd slept so much over my forty odd hours of traveling, I stayed up far past anyone else - I figured, hey, it's all the same, why sleep when the clock reads some arbitrary number, eh?

Just before sleep.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Sustained by Surplus, Sun, and Songs in Stamsund, Part I

The morning I left Bergen (7.13.10), it was pouring. I stayed up the whole night getting things in order, writing some posts, watching Stardust and I managed to pack a couple of sandwiches and some crackers. The bus was to stop outside at 7:10, so I planned to head out to be at the stop at 7:05. I was set to reach the stop with time to spare but just as I was walking up to the shelter, the bus sped by. Ragnvald had told me earlier that if I missed this one I was screwed - it was the only one that would ensure I made my 7:55 train. I tried hitching - and was patently ignored - but happily, once I'd given up around 7:25, I saw an old lady emerge and sit at the next bus stop (where I'd wandered to by then). A minute or so later a young man and then a young lady joined us and I calmed down. I ended up having to do a quick transfer but I made it with time to spare.

Having seen the trainride to Oslo on the way to Bergen, I took the six hours to sleep. I figured I'd see nothing anyways as it was raining quite drearily. I sent some letters off in Oslo and then jumped onto the train to Trondheim. Again I slept for over half the journey, though I'd intended to stay awake: rain and grey days do something to me such that I lose all my energy. What I was awake to witness was largely the same: lakes and mountains in the distance that would have been epic, I'm sure, if I could have seen then through the mist.

I had an hour in Trondheim and I wandered a bit before bringing out my guitar to while away the time. A set of girls and guys stopped and listened while I played and invited me to join their cabin later as they were also traveling to Bodø. After checking with the controller, I joined them.

We'd found quite a nice, unoccupied cabin for ourselves and set about with a speaker set, some food, etc. I took out my guitar and we sang Save Tonight: an appropriate song in retrospect, because as soon as I finished the controller came by and insisted we move to Car No. 5. This was to become a theme. Everyone in Car 5 was asleep (and smelling horribly) and it would of course be impossible to sit and chat there - so we returned to the cabin, having moved our things to the other car in hopes that it would placate the controller. It didn't. He ushered us out, angrily, so we wandered the train until we found refuge at the very rear of the car, in one of those inbetween sections by the exit doors. Sandwiches were made, alchohol passed around (I did not partake due to my absurdly low tolerance), conversation flowed, and the tension abated.

Until the controller found us, by this time extremely irate. This time, though, I think I discovered the reason for his frustration. He simply repeated Car No. 5 over and over again, offering us no alternative or listening to our explanations, and it occured to me perhaps his English wasn't so good. Here a side note: The girls came from Zürich and the guys from Paris, but despite having French as a common language spoke English among themselves and German/French in pairs. This suited me fine :). We had nowhere to go so we remained - the others even having the audacity to go to another between car space and smoke.

The controller returned again and threatened to throw us off the train at the next stop. He started to pull at Olivier and Miran's arms and looked absolutely flustered. I'd just emerged from the bathroom and somehow I managed to take the controller aside (the conversation had reached nearly shouting levels, comical really, with the controller screaming "I am the chief" and Miran telling him - half amused and half annoyed - that he wasn't the chief of us, of our persons). I spoke very calmly and slowly to him, explaining and repeating myself multiple times to make sure he understood, and asked if we could situate ourselves between a different set of cars. He brightened instantly, I'm supposing all the quick exchanges had simply made him feel like the situation was spiraling out of his control, and acquiesced. He even made it seem like it was his idea.

At this point (around four in the morning) we sat between Car 5 and 6, barely fitting all of us in the tiny space and played what seems to be an international card game: Asshole. Every time someone needed to go to the loo we had to stand up as a body - Miran was amused by this and acted like an usher of sorts, motioning with his hands and bowing towards the goer. I got sleepy all of a sudden shortly after and woke in grey and rainy Bodø. We parted ways here: I headed to the library and in the afternoon to the ferry.

Mercifully, the ferry crossing was greeted by significantly brighter weather. I was well north of the Arctic circle at this point and after a two hour nap (yes, a lot of sleep: I'd spent half of the past 36 hours of traveling asleep) enjoyed the jagged spikes of the Lofoten slowly gaining detail before us. They're an unfathomable lot, those islands, mountains growing directly out of the sea, jagged as the tops of the rockies but covered in green, with beautiful harbors and tiny fishing villiages strewn all about. Due to the rain the ferry was a couple hours behind schedule and thus skipped my stop, Stamsund, but this was a happy accident. I got a free bus ride from Svolvær from it. I've never wanted to try big wall or alpine as much as on that short ride, and though I knew every millimeter of those peaks had probably been traversed (a roadside boulder we passed even had chalk on the holds), they still gave off this aura of mystery and explorability. A magnificent ride.

The light phenomena I've only seen in Norway

Lofoten Looming


Song of the Day: Save Tonight - Eagle Eye Cherry

Edane Update

I updated the blog with three posts on my time in Edane Sweden, which happened in the middle of my time in Oslo. http://fromdawntobusk.blogspot.com/2010/07/edane-interlude-part-i.html Don't read part II if you're related to me.
cheers,
t

Thursday, July 22, 2010

What, I write songs too? Part I

Exciting news! After much, much struggling here at the Copenhagen Royal Library, I've figured out how to remotely host sound files! So check back through the older posts.

I've uploaded:

I'm Yours
Sunday Morning
To Be Alone With You
Gotta Have You
Fly Me to the Moon
Here Comes the Sun
Hey Ya
Relax, Take it Easy
Your Song
The Boxer
Ue Wo Muite Arukou

Please excuse the sound quality and the occasional offness of my voice and guitar (and the up and down tempo...) these are all done in single takes when I had a chance... and you'd be surprised how much more difficult it is to sing to a recorder.

So in the spirit of this blog I'm also uploading the first song I ever wrote, almost exactly a year ago. I'll be uploading the other ones as I record them. Have pity on this one, too. It was the first, after all, hm? Lyrics below, link here.

Now with You

I'd wondered if my loneliness,
Was fate as much as choice.
Then I found you, and hope returned,
With the crystal of your voice.

I want to keep this rush alive,
But it comes and goes so fast.
When I'm with you, it takes me whole,
So I'll revel in it while it lasts.

CHORUS
I know that things might be complex,
But I'm willing to see them through.
We can talk forever about whenever,
But I just want now with you.

We could cook a meal, go out to eat,
Or sit and chat with tea.
If we see the movies or the stars,
It's the same if you're with me.

CHORUS

If I could write a simple song,
I'd write it sweet and true.
And save it for a lazy day,
Just to sing to you.

Cheers!
t

A Handsome Bergen for a Busker, Day 5

I've been living in a very Blanche Dubois style: off the kindness of strangers. In Oslo I depended on Bengt and Tone's kindness - they even gave me sheets and a new journal before I left. Bergen has been no different. I had an excellent second pitch and perhaps should have remained for the cashflow, but my spontaneity netted me a watch. And Ragnvald insisted on bequeathing me his spare camera, as mine had given up long ago and he thought it quite a travesty to travel the world without a camera.

Let's start with the first pitch of the day (7.12.10). Total fail. I didn't get out till the afternoon as I missed two busses in a row (typing up blog posts) and by the time I reached the magical tunnel I found it taken. The man spoke only Romanian but I was able to communicate haltingly with Spanish. He was not a very amiable man. I arrived at around 1400 and he indicated he'd remain until 1800. When I told him he needed 1. a permit to play and 2. had to move on after an hour, by law, he just shrugged as if to say, sucks to be you. To top it all off, he was absolutely terrible. I passed by a few times because I used the tunnel to get to the bookstore within Bergen Stor Sentral, and everytime he was playing a particularly lousy rendition of the Chicken Dance. Everything in his demeanor and playing felt lazy and impositional. Pissed me off and I didnt quite recover till much later.

As such I was forced to the Marken pitch, which hadnt looked promising. I played for only twenty minutes before moving on: I got only two real tips - one from an young Asian (Californian from the style) couple and one from a mother with a insistent child. I returned at 1750 to find the Romanian gone and a young Didgeridoo player in his place. This guy was much friendlier and happily gave up his spot after five minutes. I recommended him a few spots and we had a good chat. He played well, with a strange style that included whooping shrieks he made during his circular breathing.

It was a particularly cold pitch, with the outside temperature dipping into single digits (I'd guess) and a healthy breeze blowing through the tunnel. I fidgetted a lot to stay warm. There was an odd vibe such that every time someone tipped me today, I was ending a song. This came to a head when I was finishing up Country Roads. A pair of friends was passing at that moment and the girl remarked caustically to the guy "It's just 'Take me home' over and over." I finished when they were dead ahead of me and told them that no, it wasn't, but they happened to pass at the very end. I think they were surprised I heard and responded (a live busker!) and stopped, suspiciously defending themselves with "Well that's what we heard, we're listening now." I decided to go one further and offered that they choose a song from my list - and here is where the interaction became suddenly warm.

"Sunday Morning! Oh my God he know's Sunday Morning. We kind of have to tip him if he's singing us Sunday Morning!" Then I sang them Flume. Then Here Comes the Sun. They wished me the best of luck and told me my list was brilliant but sorely missing: Bright Eyes, Neutral Milk Hotel, Dresden Dolls. (You can get a picture of their taste, here, rather similar to Ben's or Darell's - hi!) A little later the young man who'd passed me many times before came by once again, and this time happily tipped me. Then the same girl who'd passed before - blushing a little less and smiling a little more. Even Hotel California went over well with a stodgy looking couple.

I was interrupted after about forty minutes by the return of the girl who'd requested Sunday Morning. She invited me to a nearby bar to have some free wine with her and some friends - noting that I looked like I could use some warmth - and I acquiesced. I was freezing. I ended up staying for the better part of three hours. It was a fun bunch and very entertaining for me, though I was, of course, a bit taciturn. Mostly I enjoyed listening to the philosophies and beliefs and bohemian-ness they were espousing, and on asking their age finding out they were all younger than me.

I found it a very strange experience - like listening to bits of my past selves just talk without restraint about how age doesn't mean anything, or how taking photos of graffiti kills the beauty of its transience (they were all artists), or how they believe in free love, or in the telling of tales of squatting and destitution, or in the proclamation that Denmark is the Scandinavian country with the best future because there's a revolution there! The two girls, chiefly, went at it for most the time and I felt warm and happy just observing. Near the end, one of the guys gave me his watch (as I had asked the time and admitted I had no way to tell it). I felt strangely (and probably falsely) knowing or mature when I left, sort of that infuriating "you're so young but you'll see" that I used to get so often. I quenched it as best I could but when I returned to Ragnvald's I couldn't myself from a short rant. That night I stayed up typing more blog posts and rewatching Stardust.

Earnings: 189 NOK + a watch + a camera, 1 hour
Song of the Day: Sunday Morning - Velvet Underground

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

A Handsome Bergen for a Busker, Day 4

It will be hard to top today's pitch. The money wasn't so good (perhaps because it was a Sunday? I don't know), but today (7.11.10), unlike any other day, I had an audience. And what an audience. Lina, Ranveig and Frances decided to walk with me to the wonderful tunnel and upon arriving decided they'd stay a bit. It's a comfy space, after all å) <-Norwegian winking face. They ended up staying the whole time (except Lina, who had to leave for work two songs before I wanted a rest).

Now I have no idea how having an audience helps or hurts tippage: on the one hand it demonstrates to passersby that it's ok to sit and watch, and that other people are enjoying the music (and so, by extension, should they). Busking psychology is strange - some people rely on others' opinions to gauge how good the performer is (in Sweden, for instance, if they saw a 20 SEK note, they'd be more likely to give one). On the other hand an audience makes passersby feel like they're intruding, or that this is a nice group of friends who don't need the money. So it depends. Honestly, I don't particularly care about the monetary effect. What I know is that having an audience made me feel wonderful, made the space feel warmer and smaller, made the passersby feel less suspicious, made me sing better... When one kid decided to linger about, I sang him I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends.

Not long after I started, a skater guy stopped nearby and lingered at my peripheral for quite a few songs. Shortly after that (while I was singing Yellow), a very nice Chinese girl, Amy, plopped down beside Frances. Maybe they were standing at this point... I forget. I do remember that by the time I got to Stand By Me my audience was happily sitting, a fact that a passerby happily noted the irony of. I guess the skater guy took Amy's joining as a sign that it was ok to join the group, so he joined the other side, though he kept his distance just a little with his skateboard. He stayed nearly the whole time and didn't tip, but I didn't mind. The best thing about the audience is that it totally negates the awkward between song phase - with clapping, or chatter. I gave them my repertoire list and that made it much, much easier to choose my next song - I didn't have to.

Ranveig requested that I sing Hallelujah while she tried to film with her camera (from where all the Bergen photos come). The camera didn't have sufficient memory space. Regardless, this was the most memorable performance I've had in these past two months. I hadn't sung it in a few days, so it felt fresh: those of you who've heard me sing it know I throw a lot of emotion into it. I focused on the music and only looked up at the end of the first verse and into the chorus - and there was Frances, wiping at tears. By the second verse she was positively weeping. Amy (who hadn't introduced herself yet) ruffled through her bag for tissues, which Frances used to cover her face. Ranveig and Lina looked at each other surprised. And from all this I sang at my absolute best. It was a magical moment I'll probably never forget. The soft gray light of cloudy Bergen made slightly blue by the redness of the passage, the ethereal way the sound echoed around the tunnel, the moments of stillness between verses, the camraderie in the girls, who'd mostly just met, before me...

My wonderful audience æ) <-Norwegian happy face


They loved Hey Ya and at one point Ranveig's best friend even came down the tunnel and requested Yellow. Unfortunately I didn't know any Chinese songs (working on it!) but Amy still lit up and clapped enthusiastically after I sang Ue Wo Muite Arukou. In fact, I sort of had a compass on her thought-line as I knew her requests before she asked: Let it Be, Tears in Heaven, Country Roads. The atmosphere was so amiable I felt only amused when I forgot the lyrics to New Slang. I even gave Liberta a shot. Having an audience meant I could take short breaks to talk, to get feedback or requests, or surprise them (Mario Kart Love Song). When I finally finished I walked back to Amy's hostel with her in the hope of internet. Happily I found a piano instead and I plunked amateurly away at that (to an audience again, embarrasing).

I returned to the tunnel after a few hours to a much slower pitch. Im supposing people were all cozied up wherever they were to watch the World Cup Final. I was quite annoyed, for instance, when a group of five obnoxious twenty somethings paraded through the tunnel in bright Holland orange and tooted their vuvuzelas right at me, even after I wished their team luck. Happily, the tulips lost. It was a very chill pitch - literally and figuratively. I had long dry spells so I walked about the tunnel while playing sometimes, to stay warm, practicing songs I hadn't played in a while. I was pleasantly surprised when a group of goth rockers covered with bits of metal tipped me. One mother stared at me intensely, as if trying to understand me while her daughter dropped a single kroner coin from her dad's shoulders. I also got a very nice "Good Luck" from a set of highschool ish girls towards the end.


Bye, Tunnel ø( <-Norwegian sad face. also a cyclops.


I'd arranged to meet up with Ranveig, Frances, Amy, and Ragnvald at the Bryggen Piano Bar to watch the World Cup and transfer couchsurf location from Ranveig to her brother. I went back to Ranveig's first and got distracted: I decided to watch the entirety of Enchanted again while I ate dinner and only made the end. Well, I didnt miss much :). After a set of beautiful farewells exchanged as though among long acquainted friends (I remember thinking at that moment "I love traveling"), Ragnvald drove me back to his place and we watched Monsters, Inc. before bed.

Earnings: 217.1 NOK + $1.05, 2.3 hours
Song of the Day: Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen

A Handome Bergen for a Busker, Day 3

You might know the story of the poor widow who gave two coins, all she had, to the temple offering and how Jesus said she had given more than all the other rich folk. I experienced the truth of that first hand today (7.10.10). I headed straight for the tunnel, once again, but found it occupied by a kind middle aged singer in a beret, who had a nice chat with me and suggested I try Marken, a small pedestrian street leading from the train station as he was going to stay till two thirty and a Romanian guy was taking over from then untill five.

The day was uncharacteristically bright for Bergen, and my passersby and tippers were also non-standard: they were mostly young men. I started with House of God, Forever, keeping it slow and calm before moving on to Gotta Have You. In the middle of the first chorus, a scraggly looking young man - homeless yet strikingly handsome - emerged from the small side street across from my pitch, eyes shining with his hand over the strange ruglike shawl he wore, over his heart. I dont know quite how to convey the depth of emotion that came from his eyes - I could hardly stand to look at them for fear of crying, myself. He stood there, one foot halfway in the alley from where he'd emerged and put his hands together, almost like a prayer, telling me "It's Beautiful." He stayed for the rest of the song, indicated with his hand and facial expressions how much he wished he could tip me, bowed a few times, blew me a kiss, replaced his hand on his heart and whirled away at the last chorus.

After that, I felt, it didnt matter what other experiences or what tips came my way. He affected me profoundly. Two other times that pitch, distinctly homeless looking young men came by and tipped me - clutching their bags full of retrieved plastic bottles in their other hands or stratching absently at their long unshaven faces. Maybe it was the sun, maybe it was my prayer, but whatever it was the pitch was marked by such kindness. A woman dragging her luggage behind her upon the cobblestones lifted it and smiled at me upon hearing me so as not to disturb the sound. A mother with two young boys stayed a while and promised me she'd return before ducking into a store for change, which she sent back with her running youngsters. A redheaded waitress in white sat outside with a book while the business was slow and cast me smiles.

I took a long rest afterwards in wait of the free five o'clock spot in the tunnel. It was a windier night than previously, and just like Phelps Gate at Yale this tunnel channeled wind quite effectively, so I lasted only forty five minutes before decided I ought to stop freezing my ass off. At the beginning of my pitch a shop worker came and asked if I was registered and took me on my word that I was. Such Great Heights went wonderfully this time, it was the fourth song I sang after some more melancholy ones and I hit my stride with it.

The wonderful tunnel.


A lot of young men tipped me here also. One of these was the one who'd passed endlessly the previous day. That made me very very happy. Another told me "Keep it up, mate" as I sang Crazy. A girl I'd peg at my age seemed surprised and blushed when I smiled back at her and a few minutes later came dashing back, breathlessly, with a tip and a very wide smile. One woman asked me for my information, which I found utterly flattering - she'd seen me earlier at Marken and asked in a way that suggested - where did you come from and where can I hear more? The only amusing almost negative part was when a businesswoman passed me, stopped to turn on a recorder or something on her phone and held it behind her, back towards me but recorder very obviously in my direction while I sang Let it Be before departing briskly on the conclusion of the song. Quite funny really.

Frances and I at Ranveig's


Earnings: 377.5 NOK, 2.4 hours
Song of the Day: Gotta Have You - The Weepies

A Handsome Bergen for a Busker, Day 2

I woke a touch later than I intended, but Ranveig and I set out on a hike up Stoltzekleiven - a hike rather reminiscent of the one up the Squamish Chief, but not quite so long or convuluted, better paved and with less foliage. More like a marriage of that hike and East Rock. Strange, yes. It's a rise of three hundred meters and change with the tall rock steps of East Rocks and the switchbacks of the base of the Chief. Not particularly arduous, mostly great fun. For whatever reason, I had an insane amount of energy that afternoon, and I dashed ahead most of the time in wait for Ranveig, who like a good hiker was taking the path steadily. I had the same problem in Yosemite where I would dash ahead, take photos, dash ahead, all the way up the 4 mile hike while an old man steadily made the exact same progress I did. I ran the last few meters for good measure. At the summit, I decided I wanted to go... that way! So we did. The clouds began looking ominous so we about faced towards Fløyen, quite the tourist magnet (though with inferior views to where we'd just been, I'd say) where we ate some ice cream before a happy jaunt back down.


Top of Stoltzekleiven.


Let's go.. That Way!


I returned to the tunnel today (7.9.10), to great success. I really need to find places like this wherever I go - they're so much better for me than just the street. On this minor revelation I emailed Michal (the guy I sang Im Yours with) suggesting that he find some subway station in Oslo, where he will remain for the summer. He emailed back with quite a few song suggestions, one of which will put Maria in raptures: It's My Life, Bon Jovi. If only all my interactions with other buskers were so positive!

Again I set out to sing almost exclusively the songs I havent touched in a while, taking advantage of the excellent acoustics to sing some of the quieter ones, like Such Great Heights. Since I have a repertoire of around a hundred and twenty songs (and hopefully Ill have time at some point to grow that small number) I can go a few days without repeating anything. Another thing I was sure to do was to start with a worship song - this time Sufjan Steven's To Be Alone With You, which just felt perfect for the space. Apparently the passersby agreed and I started off the pitch with two tips in one song.

The tunnel isn't the busiest of places but just like Iso Roobertinkatu in Helsinki, a higher percentage tip. There were too many good interactions to truly relate them all. I stood in the middle of the tunnel, a brick affair with large, beautiful graffite all along the sides, and didnt mind closing my eyes every now and again to really get into the music. Of course skateboarders and mocking youngsters occasionally made rather a row, but these were isolated instances, and quite brief. Almost everyone else who passed slowed down, smiled, gave thumbs up, cast me shy approving glances, tipped, blushed, contemplated me thoughtfully. Only the old businessmen and the haughtily attractive girls with iPods lodged in their ears stormed by.

My super chilled out version of Crazy (which many of you agree with) really set the tone for the whole pitch - I hardly played any oldies and stuck to what I think is my forte - ballads and melancholy or haunting tunes. There was some Priscilla Ahn, some Joshua Radin, some Radiohead... Well that last was probably not so good of an idea, as it forced me to take a rather longer rest than normal. There There takes a lot out of me, as its loud, energetic, mournful and very, very high pitched. But so fun. Even at my last song of the pitch a nice girl sang along to the Lai la Lais of The Boxer, trying to place it, and tipped me even though I was packing up.

One young man crossed through the tunnel maybe five or six times during my two pitches, sheepishly smiling at me through messy blond hair each time, except the last when he smiled broadly, head up, and waved. I spent the interim in the Norli bookstore in the mall upstairs, where the same girl was manning the front desk and told me she didn't mind me sitting and reading (and not paying) and that it was actually rather nice.

When I returned it was a much slower pitch as the already light traffic of passersby had slowed to a trickle. Rain had begun to fall outside - the light spitting piss I like to call dishonest rain - and that lent a soft light and general hush to the tunnel. While the earlier pitch had been characterized by younger folk, this one was marked by young parents and their preschoolers. Have I mentioned I love preschoolers? Even if they have boring ass parents, I can make faces at them or sing to them or just tilt my head at them and take some strength from their reactions. One adorable girl ran ahead of her parents with a tip and dropped it in my case before hopping up and down in front of me waiting for them to catch her up. A little boy about as high as my knee took five minutes of coaxing, with a sublimely confused look on his chubby face to drop the coins he'd been handed (one at a time) into the case.

Three (maybe high school?) girls actually stopped and listened for a few songs against the opposite wall and another group of three passed by, lingered, went to a shop for change and tipped me. I'd decided this time to cut down on my eye contact a bit, as I thought maybe I could be intimidating with it. Whether this was the cause or not, quite a few (one old woman, a twenty something girl who came running back) stopped and rooted in their purses for a while while I focused my attention elsewhere. Something about rain, too, makes the sound very different - not quite hushed, but something like the texture of an old record.

I ambled about the inside debating a bus, but eventually decided to walk the 3.5 km back to Ranveig's to save myself the exorbitant 25 NOK bus fare. No one was home yet, so I cooked my standard spaghetti, broccoli, salami, egg and salmon dinner and popped in a random film from Ranveig's collection. By the middle I had a new favorite film. Sitting alone in someone else's living room in a city in Norway up near the mountains watching Enchanted... I couldn't stop squealing and clapping my hands and reacting rather loudly to everything. Excellent film.

Note: Photos in Bergen are from Ranveig :).

Earnings: 286.5 NOK + €2.50, 2.4 hours
Song of the Day: To Be Alone With You - Sufjan Stevens

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

A Handsome Bergen for a Busker, Day 1

The train ride to Bergen from Oslo was billed as one of the most spectacular in Europe and while I have little to compare it to, it certainly didnt disappoint. I took a nap for the first three hours on Bengt's assurances that I'd miss nothing and became alert just in time to see 4 hours of epic. Or as Sam might say, super dish towel. Norway seems a whole country of Yosemite, the granite rises on either end side of the tracks strongly reminiscent of half dome or the squamish chief, except multiplied endlessly. Most of the faces were quite sheer - strong evidence of glacial activity - and a profusion of deep green trees of a variety that if Brent read this blog he could identify blanketing all the more level bits. The train often followed streams or rivers or mesatop like stretches and took long stops (5 to 10 minutes) along the way. I froze my ass off whenever I stepped out (which worries me for the immediate future a bit) but it was certainly worth it. Though the sky was entirely clouded over in an immutable grey, the blanket was thin enough that this rather lent the day a strange, ethereal glow. Not unlike the morning I spent with Ben at the Lost Rocks in California. And the taste of the air was truly wonderful.

Upon arriving I walked through the rain (the prediction "You're going to Bergen? Bring and umbrella!" proving quite true) to Madame Felle and met with my couchsurfing host, Ranveig, who Id messaged only two nights previously. We sat about in her living room while I relearned songs and generally relaxed before heading off to watch Spain dominate Germany at her brother's place across the harbor. On a happy coincidence he had just signed up for couchsurfing and so I managed to snipe him for the rest of my planned stay in Bergen.


A beautiful ring of light on the harbor.


So today (7.8.10) I headed straight for the pedestrian plaza, Torgallmenningen, in the center of town. I found the place sonically dominated by an abyssmal brass band who had quite a crowd and at the other end two female violinists who played at about a Suzuki 4 level. Yes Im being disparaging and elitist but meh. I asked this pair about busking rules and they directed me to the nearby police office, where I registered to busk for three months, anywhere in Bergen, one hour max in any one location. When I returned to Torgallmenningen the Brass band was mercifully taking a break and the girls had vanished. I set up my pitch near the harbour.

Owing to the previous day's relaxation and practice I was able to sing quite a few songs that were heretofore rusty. I knew instantly that Bergen was going to be much better than Oslo when two somewhat heavyset girls tipped me (both of them!) before finding seats across from me to listen. The vibe was completely different. When I smiled at the parents of lingering children, theyd usually give some small tip to the child to toss in my case. I decided to sing exclusively happy, fast music to test my theories on mood. By the end of the day I determined that its better that I like my music because people can tell, somehow, and since I dont like happy music, in general, its not a particularly wholesome marriage. The other memorable moments from the pitch: a middle aged black man who reminded me strikingly of Junebug in his dress and demeanor passed back and forth and tipping his immaculate white hat at me, a tour group that passed a few times gave me all of €0.50, a couple alternated between making out and watching for most of the set, a kind eyed young man stayed and smiled. At this pitch I also decided to debut High and Dry, to a very warm reception.

After a longish break during which my sinuses obstinately reminded me of their existence, I played a short pitch in a tunnel leading to the bus station. Like Kaisaniemi in Helsinki, this was a perfect pitch for me. I knew this as soon as I started the rather appropriate Sound of Silence and was tipped generously by a group of high school girls. The acoustics in there are excellent. The one downfall of the space is that it seems favored by skateboarders and cyclists, who make quite a racket. My scratchy throat only lasted about twenty minutes but that was enough to do reasonably well - as in Helsinki the tips werent often but large when they came - one nice man cut through a surge of bikes passing by to tip me and a couple sent their child running back to tip me after I finished Hey There Delilah.

My final pitch was largely a fail. I tried once more at Torgallmenningen, but the wind and cold largely prevented me from having any success. When I arrived I had to wait out this terrible terrible flautist who breathed in all the wrong places, played almost everything staccatto and most high notes a touch flat - the simple melodies of Fly Me to the Moon, etc. Poor thing. After my first song, a girl came out of the shop behind me and asked "Not to be rude, youre very good! but its very confusing in the shop with our music and you... could you move down a little." How could I not be super obliging after such graciousness? I wandered about a bit trying to decide where to set up and a set of girls made the decision for me. They requested me to "sing them something," settled on How Great is Our God, laughing away as if it was rather ironic, but I silenced them very satisfactorily when I started singing. They didnt tip as they walked sheepishly off and I perservered to very slow tips for forty minutes (one of these tips coming from a set of Japanese girls Id met on the train).

On my return to Ranveig's flat I inhaled a mountain of pasta and watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (one of her mind bogglingly bigger than David's collection of DVDs) as I ate and she dozed off on the other couch - quite curiously the exact model that Im rather familar sleeping on - the loveseat from Ikea that I retained from the senior suite.

Earnings: 188 Nok + €0.50, 2.2 hours
Song of the Day: Torn - Natalie Imbruglia

Oh So Slow in Oslo, Day 3

I decided on my return to Oslo to consider this phase of my journey as my graduation vacation. Its the only way I can enjoy it.

Vigelandsparken looked astounding, yesterday. It felt like Central Park done right. That is, without the oppressive city around it. Theres no real reason to go there except to just relax. You know, Central Park is a bad comparison. Its more like the perfect marriage of the Musée Rodin and the Po Lin Monastery in Hong Kong. Hard to describe. The park is immaculately planned in a way that reminded me of the grounds of the Taj Mahal I studied a few years back, each thoroughfare and line of sight carefully managed and spilling out from a central point and radiating out along two axes. The paths are lined with figural sculptures by Vigeland - some hilarious, some agonizing, some puzzling, some rather sexually charged...

I spent much of the rest of that day wandering around the bookstores and the library (where I gleaned from a placard why I was seeing "Christiania" everywhere - Oslo was once called Christiania - which helped to relieve my feelings of, well, if you know you do and if you dont, too bad) and taking the tram in random directions. At the first bookstore, Tronsmo, I bought Murakami's Norwegian Wood for the lovely Norwegian couple.

And today (7.6.10) Bengt (the male half of that couple) took me about to see the bits Id previously missed. Its amazing how much swifter one can travel by car. We had a look at the hillside which inspired Munch's The Scream, had a walk on the Opera building and finally made our way to the museum peninsula, where we parted ways and I spent the next three and a half hours marvelling at everything inside the Kon-Tiki museum. I remember as a child I loved the book and wanted to be a scientist-adventurer just like Thor Heyerdahl, and the museum more than revived that desire. Naturally as a museum devoted to his exploits I inevitably was pulled to a reverence of his life - the facts of what he accomplished and the way he went about it... just the inspiration for an aimless wandering sod like myself.

I took the ferry back into town when after much debate I decided I ought to busk one last time, just for fun. As soon as I reached Karl Johans Gate, I saw the nice blond man whod been so encouraging the day before set up with a guitar, a bass drum an amp and a bright blue hat right in the best spot. He came from Copenhagen and said itd been an appalingly slow day for him. We had a wonderful chat and I wished him luck before moving on. Id met a nice Slovenian guy busking the previous evening so I set off to find him and sing with him. Seeing as he was in almost the same spot, precisely, that took no time whatsoever. We had a brief chat about busking and Oslo's failings, wondered about this one electric violinist who seemed to know just one song but played only 15 minutes at a time and seemed to be making a killing, and a nice semi long chat where we abused the Romanian buskers before setting up a pitch on the upper end of Karl Johans Gate.

We decided to sing those songs we both knew - of which there was quite a lot of overlap. It was truly, truly excellent. Like the time in Stockholm, playing with Michal reminded me how much more fun and how much more sustainable having a partner can be. We launched immediately into Im Yours and the energy we had was huge. The entire street for many meters either way noticed immediately. Here with someone else to match and focus on we could focus on the music. During just that one song we gathered a small crowd on the various doorsteps before us and had our photos taken maybe ten times. He harmonized very well, albeit softly (for he doesnt sing nearly as loud or high as I do) and I returned the favor on our next number, Country Roads.

It was a very relaxed pitch as we spent the between song interim chatting briefly about which songs were our most successful - Lemon Tree for him, Sound of Silence, Let it Be and Hallelujah for me and teaching them to each other as we went (he's quite talented and it took us hardly fifteen seconds to break from the standard chord strumming and start soloing or comping over). Throughout we hardly got tipped - the only time I noticed someone tipping was when a pretty Asian girl bent down to gently set down a bunch of one kroner and fifty ore coins. We played the most energetic things and I quickly excused myself after a short while and getting his contact information so as not to be late for dinner with Tone, Bengt and Tone's son and his wife.

Earnings: 44.5 NOK (divided by two), 0.6 ish hours
Song of the Day: I'm Yours - Jason Mraz (again, I know)

Oh So Slow in Oslo, Day 2

Im currently trying to write out the experiences I had in the weekend prior to my return to Oslo but Im finding it very wearying to even relive it all. It will appear at some point, of course, but it may not be for the faint of heart. To assuage the dearth of postings and the fact that ill be completely off the grid for the next week Ill quickly type up as many of what are feeling sadly formulaic (tell me if they are) posts as I can in the next few hours.

I had a short go at a promising pitch in the main tourist attraction in Oslo - Vigelandsparken, but was moved on after only a few songs. Essentially today (7.5.10) was an even more thoroughly depressing confirmation of Oslo's stinginess. Last night when I checked into the hostel and I offhandly mentioned this to the girl working the desk, however, I learnt the reason behind the pittances I amass. She told me no one gives money to foreign buskers because most of them are organized - this is something Ive noticed walking about at night, as all the statues commune and give their earnings to some bosslike guy, muttering away in Romanian.

This revelation has me very incensed. First off, the Romanian buskers I've seen strewn about the city are universally horrid. They slump about with obnoxiously loud instruments, playing the Theme from the Godfather over and over with no sense of cadence or really any semblance of musicality at the best spots for hours and hours on end. So beyond giving busking a bad name, beyond being eye and ear sores, they also shut down us other buskers. Pisses the hell out of me. And I havent even started on about the living statues - in Oslo they all wear masks and full suits - and they dont even stand still successfully. They make a killing. I should stop ranting here.

I had one good experience. A nice, weathered looking man in his late twenties - burnt skin, kindness wrinkles already forming, shockingly blond, longish hair - stayed for the entirety of Hey Ya, smiling appreciatively and came up to me at the end with a kroner and a "nice song."

The main problem is that I know people like my music. I got tons of applause today during my short pitch. One young mother and her child at the start of my set lingered near and applauded each song for a good three or four songs before waddling off, looking happy, no tip. Two men walking in opposite directions stopped abruptly on hearing Mrs. Robinson, raised their eyebrows in a "Whoa, he's actually good" sort of way at each other, stayed till the end and clapped heartily. And if yesterday the filming was annoying, today it was practically unbearable. Its gotten so that I can generallly identify the reaction from the look of the group. Groups of boys laugh derisively, mock me or roll their eyes when they pass. Girls will giggle, point, look at each other and "sneak" peeks back after theyre past. Asian tourists will stop and chatter loudly to each other, smile surprisedly, retrive enormous cameras and snap endless photos. Young parents will dance with their kids (on their shoulders or holding their hands on the street) and stay for a long time. Older males will linger at my peripheral and often videotape me on point and shoots. Older women will cast me kind glances. But one thing they have in common. Tight fists.

Earnings: 54.4 NOK, 1 hour
Song of the Day: Hey Ya - Outkast

Edane Interlude, Part III

Let this conclude the story because it's very very trying for me even to recall it. Simply too intense.

That night when Tom returned he kept talking to me knowingly, like I was some kind of god - asking why he gave me "this task" (I imagined everything from travel to solitude to suicide to murder to rape) - a "simple one" for all of humanity. He referred to me by many names (Imagine John, Ko, Alia... Paul) saying I was everyone, that I was too smart (he'd complimented me when we met, but never so much), suggesting that I understood the Norwegian he was speaking to Bengt. He repeated his accusation that I was chameleonic. Thankfully, I slept without incident.

The following day the four of us travelled to Gammelvala for a little crafts fair in a place that reminded of Morningside - rustic and woodsy. Tom bought the first thing he saw - a foot bath, and would have bought much more had we not prevented him (as it was he came away with Jam, cheesecake, the foot bath, and some other things). I felt very odd there, very ill at ease and somewhat duplicitious, like I was betraying Tom by hiding in the company of Tone and Bengt, hardly talking to him. There was the added strangeness of memory of first love - "Amor Vincit Omnia" on a elegant sign - and of recent love - Bengt humming "Oh, What A Beautiful Morning."

We found Tom a hostel, but an altercation just before we left caused him to depart without bidding anyone goodbye. Bengt, Tone and I drove back to Oslo, where I'd stay with them two of the next three nights. I am eternally grateful to them and I continue to worry about Tom, who only ever meant well but simply doesn't understand he's sick. He's now in the hospital.

Song of the Day: Bus Stop - The Hollies

Edane Interlude, Part II

If you are related to me you shall not read this. Not for the faint of heart. You have been warned.

I spent my next few hours in that gorgeous place in rather a whirlwind of activity. I was overcome with gratitude for Bengt and Tone's hospitality, who showed their gorgeous house, recommended me a walk and a swim, fed me, and shared great music and conversation with me. Because it was so... I'll just share the snatches I wrote that evening (which may or may not become a song):

"Chopin, even played badly
Moves like nothing else.

As the middle aged talk
Quick Norwegian flowing over a gushing brook.
And the sun dips below the horizon for an hour or two,
And the stars struggle and fail to shine through the indigo sky,
The water sparkles like rustling tinfoil and the feel of satin.

A cold shock and I am dizzy. I am scared.
Are my ears going? Why am I here?

And Chopin still goes. The pain in every key
Stroke - resounding in each note fumbled uncertain
Or pounded too hard.

A roaring fire on a cold summer night,
Snapping at the mosquitoes resting in my hair.
White wine in hand, cardamom and hibiscus,
Hot tea before me.

The guitar strings won't stay in tune.
Just replaced on Alia's admonition.
Leonard Cohen implores me to take Berlin and I think
Yes. New York is done.

Now tears squeeze at the rims of my eyes.
Though the conductor mangles Chopin -
Too march-like and the pianist melodramatic,
And rows of discs remind me how little I know,
In a hundred year old home filled with memories
(That aren't mine) left by a man suddenly passed.

My mind drifts unbidden to who I miss though
I know I miss an idea only.
And I clutch at the pages. Allegro now.

A freight train trundles by.
The light soft from candles and dim lights.
Hearing going in and out with the lake waves like static fuzz.

Where is a one to share the french lyrics on the table.
The disappointment on the streets,
The confusion and unease at the fire,
The bad Chopin."

I wrote that in a quiet time between letters in a cozy little alcove inside just before bed. Tom and I were to share a bed (since the couple couldnt have expected me) and I turned in first. I dont know how long I'd been asleep when I woke rather groggily to the feel of dull metal sliding across my cheek and the sound of Brahms. Tom was peering curiously at me - in just the curious way that made me instantly terrified. He muttered - to himself and half to me, maybe - saying he was sorry that we woke me, about how strange that life can be instantly snuffed out (the metal still dragging over my cheek was in fact a candle snuffer), how nice the radio was... Then it got odder. He asked me who I was and didn't believe when I insisted I was Terrence. He told me I was like the painting in the bathroom - sometimes it looks like a boy, sometimes a girl. He set the snuffer down and wondered to himself why some things are called sin - it's not really a sin, is it? It's a good time to try new things, right? The strangest thing was that I felt most scared that he would do something that he would regret - I honestly don't recall worrying about my safety. There was this strange, demonically posessed but naive gentleness about him and he muttered confusedly. I managed to placate him with insistences that he needed sleep (he hadn't slept more than two hours for the past few nights) and he went off for a walk.Somehow, I must have been truly exhausted, I fell asleep instantly afterwards.

That marked a turning point. After that night I started to believe Tom's "oppressors" opinions that he was sick. He began to buy everything he saw - a boat, a camper van, a speaker set, a grocery bag full of cds, random foods. He went off to a nearby town to find the girl we'd met on the train, saying he was to marry her. He was gone most the next day and I took the opportunity to travel to Arvika with Bent and Tone - a very, very strange town that felt like traveling to 1950s Texas. All the cars were from that time (it was apparently something the locals loved) and the main square downtown featured about twenty Swedes dressed in black T-shirts jeans, cowboy boots and hats all dancing in a metered square dancish way (yet all facing the same direction, moving in a tiny circle, touching their hand to their raised boot behind them, etc.) to a hilariously ironic song. The lyrics included the refrain: "I'm a country boy, I'm as country as a boy can be... I mash up my own taters and I snap me a mean green bean..." It was a strange place. There was even a ski lift into the water where people would rush down and splat into the the water beside a boat teeming with barely clothed twenty somethings just off the dock.

As for that afternoon: again here's a sketch of a couple hours with Bengt and Leonard, who we met passing down the street and invited to sit with us.

"A squat man, rotund with a great beer gut. Skin mottled and weathered but tan; thick legs, body threatening to spill out of his clothes - a too small t-shirt and daisy dukes, ripped himself it would seem, the pocket of the original jeans peeking out at the edge of the woefully short leg. Short stubbly hair around a bald patch - the fairest blonde turning grey. Leaning back, drinking a tall golden Pilsner, hands alternating between a perch behind his neck and his meaty thighs. On a newly painted, woefully old stodgy wooden deck chair, padded doubly with bright yellow cushions and white trim. Speaking Swinglish - to me, to the man across the red wooden slat table.

A man with the pale blotched skin, intense blue eyes, creased forehead and thing wisps of greased back hair that come with age and chemotherapy. No shirt covering the sagging flesh, the scars from surgical intrusions - even armpit and chest hair thin and woven into long matted ropes by sweat, stomach spilling over the front of beige shorts and belt - answering in enthusiastic, hand-accentuated round English. Short vowels swallowed, long ones stretched forever. Knobbly legs crossed over at the knee, silvery and ending in the smooth bare feet of a child. Movements sometimes wild and always laughing, shoulders heaving.

I sit picking at my calloused over heels just dipped in the still cold lake resting from the burden of comprehension in the bouts of Swedish, speaking mostly in the language of eyes."

Leonard thought I was twelve when he met me.

Song of the Day: Piano Concerto No. 1 in Em - Frédéric Chopin

Edane Interlude, Part I

Im not quite sure how to summarize the very bizarre weekend I spent in Sweden. In addition with the slowness of Oslo, the guy I was to couchsurf with cancelled the night immediately leading up to my arrival and so I had to stay at a hostel - and a last minute hostel in Oslo is not precisely inexpensive. suffice it to say that my earnings yesterday would have to have nearly tripled for me to cover the cost of a single night. I was rather low when I returned to the hostel for the second night. The things that kept my spirits up both nights were the meeting of a couple very nice people. The first night i cooked alltogether too much (.3kg salmon, half a nappa cabbage, .5kg spaghetti, 2 eggs) for dinner and therefore hung outside to invite the next hungry customer for some free food and company. Thats how I met a gently kind Taiwanese girl studying in Germany and on a brief vacation, who later invited me to stay with her in Heidelberg should I pass through. I just might.

At around one in the morning I crept into my room, trying not to wake up my one neighbor, but it turns out he wasnt really sleeping. He introduced himself as Tom, a very friendly forty-six year old Norwegian man, and we proceeded to have a two hour conversation on a great deal of things. We talked on religion, on his present situation (he was very forthcoming and I didnt feel I had any polite way of excusing myself for some sleep) - he showed me photos of his new house, told me about his plans to go to France, insisted I listen to the Eagles' The Last Resort, etc. When I finally took an opportunity to beg a few hours of sleep, he left to take a walk. The next day was my normal horrid day in Oslo. I returned late, cooked leisurely and checked my email to find that my failed couchsurfer had messaged me saying he'd wait for me at a certain metro stop at 22h. It was already 23h. I called him frantically on the payphone, but I couldnt understand the message it was giving me (it being in Norwegian). I'd been moved to a different room but I ran up to the old room in search of Tom. He came back right after I'd acquired the phone of his new roommate - and translated the message as the number not being in service. (Note: In Norway they tend to have males doing generic voices (the tram, automatic answers, etc.) more often than females, which is different, nice - but it confused me.) We had a brief talk where I bemoaned the horridness of Oslo, and he suggested that I come with him to Sweden to visit his friends - that would get me out of the hostel (and it's absurd 220 NOK/a night cost) at least and into the country.

Now, most of you know how spontaneous I can be. And how naive. Obviously I agreed: we'd meet the following day at the train station (by the tiger) just past noon. He assured me he'd call them the next morning and if they weren't ok with it, I'd be fine with going into the city to busk instead. We even made further plans that I'd go with him in a week to France - a free ride! I thought - all the way to France. Score!

The next day I showed up and he was rather late. I whiled away the time by playing on this wonderful public artwork: someone had noticed that the steps from the upper to lower plazas outside of the train station numbered 8 to a tier and had installed a set of thin, rainbow colored cushy pads linked to a speaker system upon the top tier. I think it was a Cmaj scale (not entirely positive, and I think it sounded a little sharp). Regardless, most people avoided it or were surprised by it when they rushed over it. Kids were delighted and just ran up and down (this was how I discovered the installation: how annoying, I thought, someone's brought out a keyboard and an amp and is playing scales with no sense of time). As these steps were just above the tiger statue, I set my things down and proceeded to play around. I'd brainstorm a song entirely in one octave, easily recognizable and all in major and try to play it. It was rather a workout on this unusually hot day and the keys were not quite as sensitive as I liked but I perservered.

I think I started with Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Then Three Blind Mice. Then Mary Had A Little Lamb. These were easy - all the intervals were quite close. Then I got a little more ambitious Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. I was more warmed up and had the positions of the steps better gauged so I could vault the fifth at the beginning of the song quite comfortably. I can't remember what came after that, but after a little rest I decided to have a go at some Beethoven: the Ode to Joy part of his 9th Symphony. Took me a couple goes but I got it :) - there was one rather large jump down in it. After Beethoven I felt very pleased with myself and decided I'd finish up with Sound of Music, so I jumped about for Do-Re-Mi. Crap it was difficult. "Do a dear" till "far a long long way to run" was alright but once I got So La Ti and especially the run at the end.. oh that was a nightmare. Jumping down fifths and then navigating thirds and an arpeggio down - but I got it on go three! I think I could have stayed there all day. Passersby were wildly entertained by my antics and when I played Ode to Joy people stopped and clapped. I even drew a crowd - maybe I should play the stairs instead of the guitar...

Tom finally arrived, riding his bike without a shirt and looking rather manic and we whisked through the the station and directly onto the train - he assured me we'd be able to pay on board (I made sure to check with the controller) and chatted her up to get us discounts. We talked most of the way in until I decided to get seats further up and write some letters. He hung back and told me he needed to call his friend. I was appalled - what would happen if his friend refused and I arrived in the middle of nowhere Sweden? He disappeared for quite a while on the phone and when I went to look for him he'd been chatting up a twenty year old girl about tattoos. He said he wanted an orange dolphin. I thought it very strange that we was using English almost exclusively but we got off without further incident by a gorgeous lake in Edane, Sweden - population 709. Happily his friend had acquiesced and I saw them waving at us from the station. They - Bengt and Tone - would be a lifeline I clung to in the following days.

Song of the Day: Do-Re-Mi - Sound of Music Soundtrack

Monday, July 12, 2010

Oh So Slow in Oslo, Day 1

After all the hope I held out for Norway, it looks like Ill be bleeding kroner like crazy. The currency here has an appaling relation to the euro and an even more terrifying exchange with the dollar. Even beyond that everything manages to amaze me in price. Id been warned over and over when I told others Id be headed to Norway of its priciness, but I was rather looking forward to it. Thought I, "Hey, people will give me about the same, so Ill net more money once I exchange on the continent." Everyone told me the Norwegians are especially friendly, too.

Little did I know that the friendliness comes almost exclusively in thumbs up and smiles. I got those in spades today (7.1.10). I tried to combine sightseeing and busking but the very slow cash flow depressed the hell out of me. I went about the day the right way, too - waking relatively early to scope out possible pitches, consulting a couple policemen before setting up my pitch, etc.

My first pitch was at the base of Karl Johans Gate near the train station. I set up first at the middle of the slope on the sunny side but the sun impinged my ability to make eye contact so I moved along shortly, down the hill to the very base, across from a curious tourist shop which featured a large troll in norwegian dress, stands of postcards, sunglasses and viking helmets, and manned by two middle eastern looking folks. One of these brightened instantly once I started playing. Throughout the pitch hed take any pause to watch me. Towards the end, he had some customers snap a photo of him with me behind.

Unfortunately, these were the only kind of tips I got. I had fun smiling back and bowing my head towards the passersby for a while, but after about half an hour I got rather annoyed. A gaggle of four high school girls snapped some photos from that same shop, giggling away. I finished a song and proceeded to sing them something sweet, I forget what exactly, which precipitated in a fresh giggling fit. They snapped endless photographs, some with them in front of the camera also, and one memorable (and mortifying) one when one of them used her hands to frame me in a heart. Of course, once I finished they moved lazily on, giggling and sneaking obvious glances my way.

When I finished I had a chat with the shop owners who told me to walk up the hill a ways for a better spot. I had a look about but didnt like any of the places and decided to take a rest. The park about the castle helped recharge me - and I was most amused to see some absurdly tanned Norwegian girls lying on the grass while a huddle of Asian tourists crowded each other under a few umbrellas. I wandered up to Aker Brygge next and saw a lovely plaza which reminded me strongly of Maya Lin - bricks waving up to form hillocks backed by steps and fountains.

At Aker Brygge I asked a waitress at the ubiquitous TGIF if I could play across from the restaurant and she smiled her approval. But after just one song security came around and told me I had to play elsewhere, outside of Aker Brygge proper. The best spot was dominated by a horrid, slumping gypsy accordian player and two statues so I walked on, back towards Karl Johans Gate.

I was stopped by a trio who were selling necklaces at a bottleneck on the thoroughfare from the dock to the main drag, who liked my guitar. We decided I should play next to them. I had a hard time navigating their accents, but managed alright, settling on a decidely neutral Spanish to keep myself going crazy trying to decide whether to appease the Spanish girl with the soft "c" or the Argentian with some "sh"s or the Colombian who just wanted to speak in English. That was a time that saved the day. I got hardly anything but it was nice to have someone to talk to and share in the misery of tight fisted passersby. I lent my guitar to the Argentian a few times and considered joining him the following day to watch the match against Germany.

At the very end of the pitch an Iraqi man came by and borrowed my guitar to sing "Bandolero," quite well. He managed to get the tips I didnt :). You know, seven kroner or so. After handing me back the guitar he made some disparaging comments about its lack of "boom," while also complimenting my voice: "It doesnt matter if you have a good voice. You have to reach the people with your guitar, too." He then pulled out his drum to demonstrate and we played a few songs together. First he and the Argentinian, then he and I (Relax, Take it Easy). The spanish speakers packed up to move to Karl Johans gate and I walked there with them and parting with the Iraqi man before finally deciding to part with the others as well and head home for the day.

Earnings: 79 NOK, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: Your Song - Elton John

Regarding photos and recordings

Yea... I havent a camera but I have made friends along the way so Ill post some at some point! Recordings have also been... difficult. I tend to dislike the sound of them when I review them.

Please keep commenting - give me pointers on my style, if something occurs to you on what I can do better (on the street or in writing or in life) or just the occasional "Hi Im reading!" And give me your addresses if you want letters.

ttfn,
t

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Lax, Stockholm, and Two Smoking Buskers, Day 5

My final pitch in Stockholm. I didn't have a ton of time today (6.29.10) so I settled what had become my standard pitch - 7/11. I'd walked down from T-Centralen passing rubbish spots and rubbish buskers all the way down and that was the only free, promising spot. It was precisely a week (a little later in the day) from my first pitch in Stockholm and the same girl was working the fur store across from me. Further west on the road a decently talented pair of guys were singing Stayin' Alive and hawking their 50 SEK CDs.

I was determined to avoid the songs Id tired out a bit and wrote a short list of the neglected ones in my repertoire. It felt like a slow pitch but turned out rather better than expected, especially considering I played sparingly little of the oldies. Naturally, though, Fly Me to the Moon was the people noticed and tipped for - so after that I played Country Roads just to keep those tippers happy. I sang well despite a protesting throat, finding lower harmonies to preserve my voice much like many artists do live (like Sting did oh so disappointingly when I saw the Police in Cleveland).

A sunny day marked by a different crowd - almost universally forty or fifty somethings, many in package tours and most in largish groups. I've found that such groups are not prime for tips. Nothing truly memorable occurred aside from a few youngsters successfully eliciting compassion from their parents. At the end of my set precisely, the manager of the fur shop asked me kindly but sternly to move down the road. Of course, I took refuge in the bookstore.

On my way back (I decided to walk back to Pontus' to avoid paying the fare) I ran into the waiter from the other night on Drottninggatan. He clapped me on the back, shook my hand, smiled very broadly and wished me all the best of luck. I got back just in time to head off to have dinner with Pontus' wonderful mother at a charming little house on the French Island. Gorgeous food, wonderful weather sitting outside, the absolute best of company.

Earnings: 155 SEK + €2.60 + 5 DKK, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: Fly Me to the Moon - Frank Sinatra

Lax, Stockholm, and Two Smoking Buskers, Day 4

It's funny how thin skinned I am. How one nasty experience can mar an entire pitch.

I took up the pitch by the 7/11 once again today (6.28.10), hoping to replicate my results from the first day. Making sure to sing softer songs in the more comfortable bit of my range (never wandering above an E4, rarely above D4) I set up a mostly comfortable pitch to an increasingly appreciative audience. As the pitch wore on I got more happy looks and more tips, but people were generally tightfisted.

One guy leaned against a doorway across and to my left for more than half my set, having his friends stand and listen with him before departing without looking at me. Another young man sat himself on a step nearby with similar results. My tippers were once again 80% female, with quite a few taking notice when I sang I Will Follow You Into the Dark. One brace squealed, "That's so sweet!" at each other.

But just as the pitch was starting to warm up and I was hoping to milk it for another half hour, disaster struck. It had been otherwise an average pitch with the usual successes and such but I could feel the place warming to me as the day grew longer and the sun started to etch into more of the street - an occasion I greeted with Here Comes the Sun, of course. People were smiling more, stopping more - by my second to last song, Mrs. Robinson, I had a small audience of seven or so - no tips but things were looking up.

A pair of very young musicians had passed earlier and I'd smiled and nodded at them as I always do when I see a fellow musicians. They kept their heads down and hurried on by. Moments later, halfway through a song, I heard a very loud, very badly played saxophone filling the street. There was no way I could be heard over that. Irritated and crestfallen I looked beseeching at my small audience, one forty something man saying "That's extremely rude." and echoed with anothers, "Bad form." I'm afraid I took this opportunity to abuse them, and all no talent "performers" quite hotly - the saxophonist was playing halting, offtune scales with no sense of rhythm while his guitarist friend looked at him stupidly, hand slack on the top of his guitar. My audience comisserated with me briefly, I thanked them for that, they didnt tip me, and I strode up to the offending pair after packing up.

I told them off for a good two minutes. They looked terrified of me, saying they weren't aware they were infringing on my space. I explained as kindly as I could in my rage that the saxophone is a very loud instrument and if you can hear me I can definitely hear you - especially as they'd set up not 15 meters down the street. I told them how things should be done - you ask for the pitch and I'll be glad to give it to you in a few minutes. You make friends. You respect others, even if you don't agree with their music. Etc. It didn't make me feel any better, but reading a book in the Science Fiction store in silence afterwards did.


Nerd Paradise. The last, appropriately shitty photo my camera ever took.


Earnings: 66 SEK + €2.30, 1 hour
Song of the Day: I Will Follow You Into the Dark - Death Cab for Cutie

Lax, Stockholm, and Two Smoking Buskers, Day 3

There's something yucky and scratchy in my throat, even though I've rested it for nearly two days. It feels like allergies but it's not varying like those normally do. Just lingering and a nuisance. Another rubbish pitch tonight (6.27.10), have I run out of luck? If Helsinki is to be a measuring stick I do best on the first night and the last, but it's hardly scientific to use a sample size of one. It's a Sunday at the conclusion of Midsommar so I figured people would be lazing about and walking the streets. I guess not.

I set up on Drottninggatan near the crossing to Parliament island around 19:00. After a short pitch facing perpendicular to the street in the middle I moved to another pitch across from a nice cafe, after checking with the waitstaff. The first pitch was hard to manage with people going every which way. A bit overwhelming. One man starting dancing in a silly fashion behind me while I played I'm Yours as his girlfriend watched on, giggling. Needless to say, no tip.

The second pitch was much more comfortable. The money was no good but the audience showed their appreciation in glances and smiles - especially the waitstaff. They'd asked if I was any good before I started and I said I was alright. As soon as I started Sound of Silence both waiters looked up and smiled broadly at me, probably surprised by my voice. I think they also sensed how little I was earning and kept giving me kind, encouraging glances throughout the hour.

Again I had my things with me as I was between Cristophe's and surfing with Pontus again. I'd hoped the cafe would be a good spot, what with a captive audience and a narrowing of the street. The cafegoers universally liked my music - no dirty looks, lots of nostalgic spacing out in my direction, lots of surprised and appreciative "oh"s. They stayed æeons at the place but when they left hardly any of them tipped me. Just this one German man after I'd finished, packed up and sat writing on the bench, saying "Thank you for the music" before rushing off to join his family. Of particular annoyance were two girls who I could tell were staying for my music. They had a reaction after every song, stayed long after their food was finished and only left once I'd tired and packed up, after which they left promptly. Surely this was no coincidence.

One man sang along to Let it Be as he passed and another sang along some minutes later to In My Life. The evening seems a good time for me as its an appropriate time for my generally slower fare. As ever, youngsters mocked me as I sang Hallelujah and Hello. Buggers. One nice young Swede sat down on hearing me, showing his appreciation in spades with smiles and by closing his eyes to listen while I sang Scarborough Fair and Ue Wo Muite Arukou. A small tip but I appreciated it - a small tip from a poor man who smiles at me is worth so much more than a large one from a sneering one. People stopped and seemed sent back into the past with Mrs. Robinson and Over the Rainbow, especially. And Falling Slowly again got impressed looks. A lot of children lingered but their parents were unusually tightfisted. All in all a rather dispiriting outing, especially as I felt I sang quite well.

Earnings: 78 SEK, 1.2 hours
Song of the Day: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole