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

New Haven, New Haven, Day 1

I spent the majority of the past five years living in New Haven. Not once did I try busking. Funny that the best pitch I've yet found in the States should be here, no? Around the late afternoon (11.6.10) on the first day of my stay without New Haven's famously dreary rain I claimed the pitch by the British Art Center, under the very Le Corbusier inspired piloti-ed open space at the corner of High and Chapel Streets. This pitch is normally manned by an elder gentleman, seated in a lawn chair and playing a neck mounted harmonica along to folksy guitar strumming. Despite being warned earlier by Jackie that there were tons of buskers in the city these days, I didn't see another busker during my five day stint.

Margaret accompanied me to the spot and alternately sang along or watched me or hte passersby awkwardly with my stack of lyrics in her hand. Like most times I've had a companion, this made the pitch incredibly fun, but also less lucrative. (I would discover this the following day).) A few meters down the street, a pair of Hopkins kids solicited donations (to which I snorted a bit) and just across the intersection a hawker sold some cheap jewelry. I believe it was in the low fifties outside, but the wind was light enough that I could sing and play decently despite it. Margaret chose our first many songs - all happy energetic ones - and perhaps due to that or the initial energy or the time of day we got a rush of tips in the first fifteen or twenty minutes. After that they dried up entirely. Perhaps another factor was the hastily dropping temperature.

Singing in New Haven was less awkward than I expected. I saw plenty of people I recognized, but only one of them, Charlie, recognized me, and it took him a second to figure out the long hair and get over the shock of seeing me singing on the street. I was singing Hey Ya, his favorite cover of mine. The passersby by seemed gathered about opposite ends of the age spectrum - high-schoolers and twenty somethings or fifty somethings. They were equally generous groups. I wonder, now, if the location (outside an art museum) was a large factor.

I suppose the most memorable part of the pitch occurred when a pair of young New Havenites lingered against traffic sign, smiling and watching me sing and clearly impressed. The young man invited me to sing at an acoustic show on 1175 Chapel that night at 9:30. I stayed with Jook Songs afterwards, however, which precluded my contributing there - but now I wish a little that I'd gone.

Earnings: $8.50, 50 minutes
Song of the Day: Hey Ya - OutKast

What, I write songs too? Part VIII

The last months have been a bit thick with the song posts, but I think that's alright, hm?

I've uploaded:

Fast Car
Tears in Heaven
Sound of Silence
Falling Slowly
Hallelujah
Brighter than Sunshine
Somewhere Over the Rainbow

I started this song last May but only finished it a few days back. The melody and initial verses came from a dream I had and were stuck in my head rather a while. As such, I'm hoping they're actually mine... There's actually a message in the lyrics (not a code but they allude to something) - so I wonder what you think they're directed at. Link here.

Squirrel Song

I see a little girl,
And in her lonely eyes,
There is a little world,
With clearer brighter skies.

And I hear a little bird,
And he's singing me to sleep.
A love song without words,
That he's singing me to keep.

CHORUS
Singin' La la la la la. La la la la la la.
La la la la la. La la la la la la.

Now perhaps it sounds absurd,
But in that melody,
I chanced upon a verse,
That I joined in harmony.

When a creature small and furred,
Added lyrics right in time,
Spitting diction seldom heard,
Steeped in reasoned, witty rhyme.

CHORUS

Well we rambled o'er the earth,
In sickness and in health.
Spreading laughter, spreading mirth,
To those of little wealth.

Our dragon's wings unfurled,
And flew us to the moon,
Where a cowboy tall and spurred,
Hummed to our merry tune.

CHORUS

Now a large part of me yearned,
To stay forever there,
Where no one would be spurned,
For the color of their hair.

Then something in me stirred,
As I gazed around the scene,
So I smiled until the birds,
Came and roused me from my dream.

CHORUS

No Work, New York, Day 4.5

It's as good a time as any to jot a few thoughts on hospitality, precipitated by being "voted off the island" as Dan put it at a recent stay. Now, I've always tried to be the best guest: I wash all the dishes, cook for my hosts, return early, clean the kitchen or the bathroom should it need to be, etc. This endeared me to my European hosts. When I'm hosted by an individual living within a suite, I try to acquaint myself with the suitemates. Find some common ground to talk about, watch a show together, whatever.

I had a wonderful conversation about the meaning of hospitality with Fatih, my host in Bursa. For him (and for my hosts in Poland and Turkey), his home is my home. Hospitality isn't sharing food, or providing blankets or giving a map - it's taking his guests into town and showing them around, leading them about and illuminating specific points of interest, going out of his way to make the stay more special. The basics are so obvious in the East, that Murat, my host in Istanbul, was completely surprised that I bought groceries - saying, "Eat everything in the fridge!" The feeling of hosting is that of sharing. I'm not "taking" their food or their space or their time. We're sharing it.

I've noticed the ironic trend that the more someone has, the less generous they tend to be. I don't get tips from people in suits. Or women who wear designer brands. I get tips consistently from the shabbily dressed, other buskers, the poor and homeless, the lower working class. The same holds for hospitality. My hosts in Poland and Turkey weren't poor, but certainly not so well off as an average New Yorker. And yet a group of medical students living on the upper east side are loathe to share even a bottle of milk. Naturally it's partly a result of experience. Never having had to work or having been in a position where the cost of food is a constant dilemma they cannot sympathize. But I think the greater reason for this attitude is a consequence of consumerism. It's the logical extent of that cultural notion.

Because you can't profit off other peoples selflessness or kindness. People hosting each other - there's no money in that, but there is in hotels, and thus we have this huge fear of "crazy people." That's the single most common query I get in the States about my use of couchsurfing abroad - questions about the safety or whether I ever encountered anything sketchy or murderous or rape-intending. Never a question if I met someone wonderful, or clicked deeply with them regardless of cultural differences or perhaps because of them. There's no profit to be had from hitchhiking. There's little profit to be had from sharing music on the street. There's none for sharing food.

And thus the culture of excess. Where in America we have this scene played out after every meal - a haggling over the bill that takes agonizing minutes. Each person trying to undercut their portion as deftly as possible. The total always coming up too small. Arguments erupting over who spent more on their food. While in Eastern cultures someone usually takes the whole bill in the understanding that the next time someone else will. Arguments erupt around my family gathering's dinners not in competition to spend less but to spend more. And if ever the bill is split, it's done evenly.

So Busking is bound to fail in the northeast. A place where time is money and might makes right. Where beggars make more than buskers (and they certainly do). Where the bystander effect predominates so strongly. New York buskers have to wrangle for their money - a whole new dimension to the art - and that's sad to me. On the 6 train to grand central station a bongo/guitar duo introduced themselves for two minutes or so, getting people attentions and soliciting responses from the reluctant car before playing a two minute song. They wouldn't have received a single tip had they not gone person to person asking for one, which took over three minutes. I'm not knocking this - not like I look down on the gypsies playing in Oslo - it takes bravery and a certain kind of charisma to engage the audience so directly. And I think they really did make people's days better. They didn't ask for tips specifically, but simply if their target enjoyed the music: the song Three Little Birds by Bob Marley, with the refrain "Every little thing gonna be alright". All smiles and positive energy.

I'm not cut out for that. Maybe I lack humility, maybe I have too much "artistic integrity." Either way, this culture is why New York is not the place for me.

Reservoir in Central Park.

Uptown.

Central Park on Halloween.

Zebra at American Apparel.

No Work, New York, Day 4 by Dan Archer

This post will be a tad different. At Kirk's party last weekend I met a man after my own heart - who wrote a children's novel and is in New York to get it published. Naturally, we connected immediately... I think it's meeting people like that (Pontus, Gosia, Larry, Mathias, Pawel) which is the reason I love travelling about so much. At any rate, I invited him to write a post for me about my pitch on 11.2.10 as a guest writer, to see what the pitch was like through another's eyes, someone not so jaded from doing it day in and out. The following is that post. Cheers, Dan.

Whenever I find myself confronted by a person of unbridled ambition, I make a point of trying to understand what drives their spirit engine, what mantras they must repeat under their breath to keep their crimson-eyed doubts at bay. I wish I could say that it's out of a greater desire to understand the person on some level (and sometimes, it is), but it's usually because I hope that whatever method they use is something that can be learned, that can be mimicked. That they know the secret places where the ley lines converge, and finding your strength is as simple as knowing where to stand. Terrence Hou is one such person.

We met in the subway station at 51st and Lexington, and immediately set out to find the most effective spot for acoustics, aesthetics, and volume of passers-by. I never would have guessed that so much calculation goes into staking a claim; I gestured at many a wall, proclaiming “This place looks nice. I, um, like the wall thing.” Terrence would point out that the subway passengers walking through that stretch were in a rush, and that meant a lesser chance of tips. Eventually, we settled on a corridor that didn't have the most people, but the acoustics were excellent, and it certainly had an attractive mosaic wall thing to stand in front of. And I am nothing if not a connoisseur of wall things.

As Terrence began, I was at first reluctant to make eye contact with spectators, so I idly leafed through Terrence's playlist. I suggested that he borrow my jacket and jeans, since both were much more threadbare than his own. But for Terrence, such a contrivance is tantamount to sin. Acts, angles, gimmicks, pity-invokers, and other assorted image enhancers are hollow trickery, for turning a profit is a secondary objective to sharing his music with the world. “If they want to give me money, they'll give it,” he reasons. I'm impressed.

Singing along on some songs (the ones I pseudo-knew) finally gave me an excuse to gaze upon our split-second onlookers, since singing while reading from a sheet made me feel, in a word, lame. If nothing else, it's a fascinating anthropological study, gauging people's reactions. Most people walked on by, making determined efforts to ignore our presence. Some faced us momentarily and nodded in silent approval. One elderly Asian woman smiled sweetly at Terrence as she walked by. I'm no interpreter of smiles (there's a tough job), but it looked to me as if Terrence reminded her of someone, perhaps a son or a husband that had walked a path like his. Or maybe she just thought Terrence was kinda cute. The possibilities are dizzying.

After a less-than-stellar income for a while, we decided to change venues. We moved deeper into the station itself, in a corner that faced towards where escalators began. The mob mentality there was relentless, everyone's eyes facing forward, like a school of fish. But here I go, calling people “fish”, when I know I would have acted exactly the same. Crowded places make pack animals of us all, I guess. We were buffeted by the subway's cold, metal breath for all of two or three songs before we discovered not only was the money there dismal, but we liked the other wall thing better.

I video-taped his last few songs, and watching through the camera made me realize what the hardest part of this whole process was: keeping up the smile. There are lots of singers, lots of guitarists, and lots of people who can do both, but how many people can radiate a corona of warmth for so long when nary a dime falls into their guitar case? I struggle with keeping my happy mask fastened long enough to last a phone call, and street performers aren't allowed to drop it for a second. I mean, okay, there might be some mimes who get away with a sad act. But that's a pretty discrete population right there.


Relax, Take it Easy - Mika


Hey Ya - Outkast

I've concluded that Terrence doesn't use any mantras, and as far as I can tell, he doesn't know where the ley lines crawl. He knows exactly what he wants out of life, he has the means to get it, and he lets nothing else stand in his way. Can that attitude be learned?

Honestly, I don't know. If I'm not sure that I can be trained, I'll just have to settle for being inspired.
                                                                                        - DSA

Earnings: $6.55, 1.6 hours
Song of the Day: I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You - Colin Hay

What, I write songs too? Part VII

My apologies for yet another unaccompanied original post. That's what happens when your writer has a dry throat and doesn't feel terribly well in other regards, either. On the brighter end, I'm back up to a good chubby 125 pounds, though the flab is starting to disconcert my inflated self-image. It's high time I began exercising again.

I wrote this song during my first visit to Copenhagen. An escape of sorts from a place rife with memory which turned into a strange descent into an odd state of mind. Living in reminders. Naturally the lyrics won't make so much sense to anyone else, but... I'm rather pleased with them. Maria's had a lightbulb to use some strings on this pensive beast.

Link here.

A Thousand Post-Its

That perfect shade of green,
The checklists sewn between,
Pillows - soft corduroy:
Thrones for missing toys.

Post-its, broken leaves,
Of grass, Gymnopedie.
Fierce eyes, wavy bangs,
Not quite an octave hands.

CHORUS
Your light across the street,
Head bowed to hurried feet,
The courtyard never sleeps,
When Iron & Wine sing.

Calendars of Moby Dick,
Lemon tea when I'm sick,
Massages in fluid french,
Italian songs. I flinch.

Overwhelmed with empathy,
Sing my song for you so quietly.
Wrinkled nose, thoughtful lips,
Kissing every fingertip.

CHORUS

Scented candles, halting pens,
Woven thick with arrogance,
Writing Cambria on patterned quilts,
Of piano keys that strum their guilt.

The meaning of a name,
No one is the same.
Bridge the gap with compliments,
Hold the dark in longing silence.

CHORUS