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

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

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

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

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

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


Zebra on Guadalupe

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


Toy Joy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


Read it.

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sin Un Tono (Melodía) en San Antonio, Day 0.5

I think I'll let this be a short post about San Antonio. The morning of my arrival I called about ten different numbers in sequence only to discover that busking is strictly prohibited (arresting) all over the downtown area. When I walked around the riverwalk I further discovered that although it's technically under park jurisdiction, this helps me none - rather than arrests the penalty is a $500 fine. Playing in the Mercado incurs a similar reprimand.

I'll detail the highlights of my short stay. The train arrived in San Antonio just past two in the morning. A local I met on the bus graciously offered to help a fellow traveller and me kill the time till dawn. He took us in his Ram 1500 to a middle of nowhere Taco stand open till 4, the best tacos in the city in his view. Then a tour around downtown and south town where he hoped to reopen his "Bunsen Burgers" restaurant, noting the galleries as we passed (also a film maker) before dropping our comrade back at the station to catch his connection and then me to my couchsurfers doorstep. His incredible kindness proved typical of the town.


San Pedro Park.


Apparently a prison in olden times, as related to me by a powerfully built Apache man who found me "very pretty." Looks like a hobbit house to me.


San Antonio abounds in delightful public art.


Zebra on the Riverwalk.


You don't have to be an art major to see the, ah, symbolism here.



The complaints lodged by the policemen I spoke with weren't entirely ridiculous - should there be street performers all around the Alamo or on the Riverwalk, gathering crowds around, one wouldn't be able to wheel one's grandma there eh? They already have a stipulation that no building may cast a shadow upon the former mission.


I can read the date. That's about it. Help?


Nothing says Alamo like koi fish.


Funky reflections.


Got carried away and drew this. Will post later.



My host, Nathan, lived in a style which I couldn't decide was despicable or admirable - hardly any computer usage, raising chickens and a garden in his backyard and wearing torn clothing. He and his friends were very kind throughout - though the dog and cat he kept (and the dogs of his friends) seem to have induced my sinuses into a bit of a panicked state. It seems everyone in San Antonio has a dog. I was told once that one of the strangest things of "civilized" society is the prevalence of pampered pets coexisting with the uncared for homeless.

Song of the Days: Sound of Silence - Simon & Garfunkel

Red Beans and Busk, New Orleans, Day 5.5l

I promised I'd touch on the attire of New Orleans buskers. The seven piece band's riotously Bohemian garb ran as the norm there. When the antique store owner made that comment about my not being a hillbilly he slightly missed the vibe of their dress - they are self consciously dressing in this way and I must say it seems to work. I've just had a conversation with Bram in Austin about hipsterism (and in so doing have identified more closely my own hipster tendencies). It's an identity created from a hodgepodge of stolen idolized poorer identities - Bohemian Europe with it's overalls and fedoras and suspenders and waist high skirts, street urchins and their worn and torn leavings, gypsies and their silky rags and wraps, belly dancers and flamenco dancers' bangles and body ink and .... and so it is with the vast majority of New Orleans buskers. They dressed to a caricaturable model of Bohemian - what it means to "look like a starving artist" I suppose. I've been told the one merit of my longer hair is that it makes me look more like an artist.

Now as Bram and I agreed it should be fine for those of the upper classes to dress however they please - the dreads, the dirt, the rags... but there's something very disingenuous about the use of such dress in the public performance sphere. That's using people in a business that's mostly about what you look like rather than how you sound. Maybe it's business savvy. Either way I find it dishonest. Despite constant entreaties from friends and passersby to adopt raggedier dress and the comment that "I look like I don't need the money" I have yet to change out of my (in another way) sharp casual dress.

Before they fade from my capricious memory, I'd like to jot down the other buskers with whom I shared the streets of New Orleans. Foremost: a circle act of dancers/acrobats with a very strong act and a decidedly non thuggish way about them (as opposed to the comparable acts in New York, many of which seem like they want to intimidate you into giving tips). Their act included a running flip over the crouched backs of six audience volunteers, one dancer spinning with his stomach on the head of his spinning comrade, parallel to the ground, one demonstrating conservation of momentum in a headspin (like a figure skater). Chief among the large musical groups, of course, is that Bohemian band, after which come two brass bands (one of which plays the same 5 songs continuously on the square) and yet another Bohemian/DIY type trio complete with washboard and headscarves. A blues guitarist with a small personal amp, a battery amped classical guitarist, an excellent jazz clarinetist, Alexander the trumpeter, a hipster girl on guitar and a guitar cello duo round out the musicians.

Aside from the false seated silver busker, all the painted living statues in the city don silver: a hobo who simply walks about aimlessly, a man dancing badly in pop and lock to Kylie Minogue type songs, and a silver singer. Finally the statues which most impressed me: a man in white with a guitar and a black crow at the end, a tall impossibly lanky black man in full white suit and Abraham Lincoln hat in midstride with a toy dog and a swarthy looking "construction worker" in midstep up a ladder with a plank over one shoulder. Mindy Kevin and I witnessed this last one hotly abusing a passerby who took a bunch of photos without a tip. The Abraham Lincoln lookalike also was something of a ventriloquist. Incredible.

The morning I left, Mindy dropped me off at the station three hours early, so I took the time to take the St. Charles streetcar. I don't have photographs or a drawing, unfortunately. Let me simply say the ride perfectly bookended my time in New Orleans - gorgeous Southern Manors straight from Interview with a Vampire highlighted by the loveliest Borders bookstore I've ever seen. Seeing such a brand in a charming white southern manor opened my eyes to what could be possible if the companies stepped out of those horrendous boxes. But then, that would cost money, eh?

Leaving on the train:(

Red Beans and Busk, New Orleans, Day 5

The art of busking is a capricious one. More than most professions, I deign to suggest, its success depends chiefly on factors entirely out of the busker's control: Weather, the mood of the day, and location. Each of these can be managed up to a point - I can venture out at the warmest time of day, I can sing songs to fit or defy the mood and I can seek out the best location. The longer I busk the better sense I get of how to curate these factors, but the sum effect I have any power over is microscopic compared to current of the day.

I followed Friday's lukewarm (literally and figurately) pitch on Saturday, 2.12.11, right on time to meet up with the guitarist. He didn't show for twenty or so minutes (which was fine) but then left quickly promising he'd be back. He never returned and I didn't mind, I was making mad bank. Relatively. The upswing in temperature brought the needle to rest firmly between 60 and 70 bebeath a very visible sun. People passed thicker, yet slower at this pitch just downriver of the Natchez, all smiles and encouraging comments. Somehow I remember the worst pitches in the starkest detail, while this - one of my best and certainly the best in America - I struggle to recollect. One positive moment flowed into the next to be faded and smoothed out at their faint edges by the glorious glorious sunshine.

I played every single upbeat - or at least old/popular enough for the passersby to disregard the tone in a bout of nostalgia - song in my repertoire, saving the winners for sensed opportune moments. Strangely enough, my foreign suite met the most favorable reaction. After singing Ue Wo Muite Arukou a group of Spanish speaking tourists absentmindedly commented and I answered their rhetorical question with "Soy de Florida." They were delighted, had a short conversation including the overasked superfluous "Where is the French Quarter?" and one of their number tipped me. Unfortunately I haven't yet perfected Ojalá, so I followed up with Libertà. One woman came in close for a tip and a mangled pronunciation of "Vive la liberté!" and the whole walkway was rocking.

By this time I'd collected a medium sized crowd to my right and left - just like in New York's Central Park no one felt alright watching across from me. The cluster about a set of chairs to my right consisted mostly of transients. One homeless type sitting on a bench to my left got up to request Hotel California before joining the his comrades. I noticed with gratitude that much of the time they watched, too distracted to drink the beers in their hands. This man tipped me while I moved my capo just as a business man who'd been "tying his shoe" for an entire song on the parapet across from me turned around. I interpret this to have shamed him but I may be reading into it. Either way, the businessman walked up to my case to tip, also, and remarked to the homeless man "Excellent voice," eyes never meeting mine. Maybe I can make the classes mix a bit, too?

As my voice suffered mightily from the strain of use in frigid temperatures I moved many songs a full step down so my highest full voice note sat at D4. She's So High went well this way - I've learned the error of pressing the issue from listening to the live recording of this song I made in Denver. It's positively awful. Two children tipped on a swing by of their orbit around their parents and the tips came steadily throughout. An elder woman shocked me as she sang to I'm Yours and said "I love that song!" A jolly black man laughed as he sang to Hey Ya with the swimming hand motions and rhythmic clapping to provide the trademark beat. A young man from Kentucky sang along to Country Roads on my invitation. I could see he felt bad for not tipping but I didn't mind - it's the humanity that matters more than the money, especially when the money's flowing anyways.

Towards the end a toothless scraggly black man with a trumpet case asked when I might finish up. We struck up a brief conversation which somehow led to his asking if I knew any Japanese songs. He specifically asked for Sukiyaki which is the official name of Ue Wo Muite Arukou. Take what you will from that unfortunate naming. With that courtesy I was quite eager to dismiss the hint of prejudice (in the strictest sense, pre judgement) and sing it to him. He had me run it four times so that I could play the original tempo and timbre of the song, much slower than I'm used to. For the second to last run he accompanied me on trumpet. I closed with Ue Liang Dai Biao Wo De Xin at the request of a pleasant lady who'd plopped down alongside him to enjoy.

As we swapped off, the trumpeter introduced himself as Alexander Masakela. He gave me advice on street performing with a tale about how he helped Tracy Chapman with her first demo album after hearing her in Boston. He began to talk about his connections through his brother and Earth, Wind and Fire and how he'd be able to gather bass and drums and backup vocals for me for a recording if I'd like. I was curious but noncommittal. One drunk man came through to ask for a jam and began to regale us with a chauvinistic tale but we rebuffed him. Even Michael, the druggie I'd played for at the end of my pitch the previous day, came around for a small chat avowing how much money he had (to what purpose?). I gave Alexander my card and went off.

Google that name and you'll see why I'm glad he never called me up (though by then I would not have gone, of course).

Mindy and Kevin called me just as I finished by the riverside and informed me they'd be heading downtown shortly. On that I decided to stick around so they might hear me in action, despite my voice. After an hour and a half of rest I claimed a pitch by Rouse's Market - my first pitch in New Orleans - just as a brass band packed up. I texted Mindy where I was and began, but after a song I knew I'd stay only till they came by. The rush hour feel of droves of people hurrying in all directions muffled my small sound and one busker sitting across the street told me my guitar was inaudible from event that close distance. Kevin later averred that they heard me a block away and found me that way but either way I felt the pitch would be no good. Older more monied passersby make for a slower cash flow - my tips came from the few young folks, including a very kind female busker. I sang Mindy and Kevin Gotta Have You and I Will Follow You Into the Dark for Valentine's day sandwiching a strained requested Hello. When we left I thanked the seven piece bohemian band for their patience and manners and bequeathed them the pitch.


On the streetcar back to the mansion at Lakeshore

Earnings: $34.28, 1.7 hours
Song of the Day: Ue Wo Muite Arukou - Kyu Sakamoto

Red Beans and Busk, New Orleans, Day 4

Sun and warmth can make a world of difference. Friday in the Quarter the temperatures climbed to the low 50s, certainly buskable weather. I started off roaming the streets looking for a new likely pitch but in so doing missed out on claiming the Royal Street pitch. The breeziness kept it rather brisk and I'd left my pea coat at home so my main priority was finding a sunny spot to play - which I found just outside the Omni Hotel, with the white walls reflecting the light nicely in a warming way. The tips, however weren't so nice. My only tip came from a cab driver waiting in the taxi line in front of me. Isn't it interesting how many of my tips in New Orleans come from the working class while on the job? Certainly a much higher proportion than anywhere else. Many people took photos of me, again, including one slim Ugg and Aviator sporting blonde girl who videoed me from across the street. Hardened by the last day I mostly - mostly - shrugged it off. Most curiously two groups of Omni hotel patrons carried out conversations on the sidewalk directly in front of me, ignoring me except for one woman who said "I'm sorry." as she parted with her friends. I didn't understand what she was sorry for except perhaps their attitude towards me - which wasn't what she meant. The other group was a set of Asian Americans I saw walking around many times, business school types entirely Americanized and babbling about many-comma-ed sums and necessarily luxuries.



A random note on New Orleans - all French is pronounced rather un-French and slips into everyday vocabulary. Beaucoup becomes bookoo and I hear it more than "very."

With this fail pitch I wandered about a while to find a new one. I ended up back on the riverside promenade, where a guitarist secured the bottleneck by the Natchez Steamboat. Not long after I arrived I was accosted by a drunkard from Portland (who lives nearby and gave me his card and number, eventually) of fifty five years who offered to pay me five dollars to play my guitar and listen to some of my songs. Deal, I thought, and Deal I said. At this moment the steamboat started to sound with distinctly un steamboat-y noises and I turned about to see a woman playing a set of bottles above the steam chute.



As the lady played her last note a trumpeter instantly started playing a bit downriver - unrelated as busking. He played well but this tempered the rudeness none, as the guitarist by the bottleneck and easily downwind had been playing earlier and waiting patiently for the steamboat to finish. The Portland drunk took this opportunity to say "Either we're doing this or we're not." and I let him play - a medley of five or six classic rock tunes to the same vaguely combination of chords, melding the disparate catch lyrics together with "While my guitar gently weeps babe, oh babe I'm gonna leave you in the house called the rising sun..." He sang passably well. He gave me no money but instead his card with his phone number and an offer to stay with him. Sketchy.

I started to walk back to the quarter past the Natchez guitarist and after I passed he called out "Girl!" and I knew he was talking to me, somehow. Not until I walked up did he realize his mistake, but I didn't really mind. He'd been chatting (abusing the Portlander's lack skill together) with a drunk gentleman who wanted to "jam." Why not? He had me sing whatever song I chose, From Dawn to Busk in E maj, and followed along with some solo. Our drunkard echoed my lyrics very tunefully with some into-it clapping then borrowed the other guitarist's instrument to play an A major twelve bar blues, which I followed as the first man sang some improvised repetitive lyrics including "I want a big fat woman." We jammed to a song in E next where I got the chance for a few solos, and so on. Our drunkard tipped us a dollar and wished us well.

Again set to return to the quarter or at least get a move on with the rapidly cooling air, the guitarist informed me was set to leave soon, what with the chill, so I decided to stay after moving to the opposite side of the thoroughfare to face the sun. He stayed to watch for a while as I received no tips while waiting for his friend to take the bus. He chatted to me throughout, which distracted me, but left soon enough, after we agreed to meet back up the following day at noon to play together. I felt most eager to play with him and learn the art of stopping people - he explained that as how he made his money. He'd talk to passersby and get to know them "Are you married or in love?" "I have to earn that!" for single dollar tips which turns them into fives and tens and twenties he said.

A group of homeless people began to congregate to my left by the public bathroom. Again my first tips came from blue collar folks - a man moving boxes on a dolly and a set of men in greasy overalls and boots who looked the construction worker type. I recognized (and was recognized by) some of the same strollers and joggers from the Tuesday prior, who greeted me friendily but didn't change their minds about tipping. The temperature dropped quickly and the breeze rose in inverse correlation. For some reason none of the older folks tipped this day - perhaps with a desire to keep their frail hands warm? - but showered me with smiles. After a little while I sat down to best avail myself of the sun. I always stand while playing - for stage presence and dignity, but warmth won out (and a growing tension in my right shoulder).

Some moments seem pre-ordained, or karmic, or whatever you'd like to call it. For a short stretch in the middle of my pitch I knew precisely what to play for every passerby and for those songs I got my tips. Most memorable were these. On finishing another song I saw a group of five middle/high school girls approaching and I just knew I should play Hey Ya. Upon the opening words they squeed and smiled and rushed to tip me - one each from three of them. After the first verse I asked them to sing along. One girl protested "I can't sing!" but I assuaged her fears with an "Of course I'll sing along" and a gentle smile. They nudged each other nervously, giggling a little as I led them through the next three verses and the first chorus. They even did a bit of the swimming arm motions. Very cute. They ran off laughing, feet lighter and swifter than before.

When a mother passed by with her child in tow I knew to sing them Hotel California which they danced to as only a mother and daughter can, with cute abandon and obvious love before embarking on a lively chase down the walkway and back up to bounce again to a chorus before tipping and skipping away. I think they took my premonitions with them. If only I could keep it, always - but maybe, like the alethiometer, it's something that you use first by grace and then devote time and study to develop once again.

As the sense faded a homeless man with a sallow drugged face came by and asked if he'd like me to sing him a song. He sat down gratefully beside me as I sang him my most upbeat songs. "I had a real bad day, man, but I'm going to get some alcohol and feel a lot better. Do you drink? Good, man, stay that way, don't do drugs." For the second song he kept saying "You're ___, man. Real ___" which I kept hearing as "bad" and felt odd. When he used other words, however, it became clear he meant something akin to "incredible." I bid him farewell after this song as gently as I could and he walked off to speak with the group of homeless folks by the public bathroom. One song later he returned, notably changed. He mumbled incoherently in place of words. His hands scratched absently at his shoulders and his head twitched suddenly from side to side. At the middle of this next song he bowed his head between his palms with his elbows on his knees and began a dreadful retching noise. I saw later this was to expel a very, very long train of mucus from his mouth that he dumbly coaxed out until it touched the floor and as if this was a sign to bite off the top end the chain fell in sloppy off white mess between his feet. I took this as my cue to finish up for the day and packed up. Before I left I offered some kind words to him but I don't think he heard.

Earnings: $13.50
Song of the Day: Hey Ya - Outkast

Red Beans and Busk, New Orleans, Day 3

Thursday made Tuesday feel like happy day in remembrance. Something about the niceness of New Orleans people makes bad days even worse - it feels like it's all my fault, my lack of quality or wherewithal to cut through the mood-dampening weather to uplift others to get tips. I haven't had as horrid a day since playing in Istanbul - and even that day yielded a few positive encounters.

To summarize the general feel of the pitches, I had the distinct feeling that people were taking from my performance but not giving. I tried so, so hard out there. I injected every bit of happiness I guarded into the cheery songs so that by the end of the day I had nothing left for myself. When you've plied this trade a while you can see the effect you have on others, see if you're having a bad day performing. This wasn't that, at all. Every passersby got something positive from me, I could feel it. But it was like the sucked it out and shared it with their buddy or girlfriend and gave me nothing back.

Before I set up I asked the shop owners, as always, and these similar no business souls were very kind. MauRiMa's even sported a very friendly "Come inside! It's warm!" sign to go with the smiling shop tender. Because the temperature without was listed on Accuweather.com as 27 degrees after wind chill. I wore a tee shirt, a long sleeve, a hoodie, a scarf and my peacoat over jeans and long warm socks to start off. After a few songs my fingers burned with that numb tingly pre-frostbite cold I've read about (but never known) and I donned Michelle's cotton gloves. Further down the street a busker I'd seen around before whose statue act consisted of posing as a man walking his dog in midstride (an excellent statue act, one of the best I've come across but more on that later) tried to bear the chill but was soon defeated. Aside from myself only a very few buskers graced the streets.

I tried every tone I knew - slow sad ballads, contemplative chill indie songs, upbeat bouncy tunes, oldies, street surefires, foreign songs... nothing. Even Mad World yielded nothing. My first tip came from a kindly woman who asked me if I could feel my fingers as I cupped them around my mouth between The Boxer and Streets of London. I answered honestly without asking for pity and she gifted me $2 for good luck. My second tip came shortly after. Not long that, a brass band set up down the street and blew me out. I went to speak to them about it and they dismissed me with a "Oh, we've been here since 11. I'm sorry for blowing you out, man, the corner down the street's a pretty good spot." In the least apologetic I don't care get out of my face you don't matter to us what are you going to do, huh? voice he could muster.

Upon asking the antique shop owner down the street if I might play in front of his store he took stock of my look and gratefully said, "Of course! I'm surprised to see someone who wants to play on the street that isn't a hillbilly. Tennessee must be empty right now because they're all here." I don't know about the accuracy of the geography, but his statement rang true to me. I told him they seem to do better in tips than me and I couldn't understand why. We commiserated and bashed dirty bohemians a while. It was nice.

I played in the sliver of weak sun in the middle of the closed off road for another pitch. My only tip came from a man on the job moving things back and forth from his car to the shop to my left. The workers at the Rib Room - the restaurant attached to the Omni Hotel across the street - cast encouraging and sympathetic glances out the window but their obviously moneyed patrons paid me no mind. No, let me clarify, they paid me no mind but they enjoyed my entertainment. It is hard to describe. Three separate old men at distinct times brought out video cameras to film me for whole songs without once looking me in the eye. Many of these same old rich folks snapped photographs. Couples smiled at each other and snuggled closer as I sang love songs, passersby lingered to either side in my peripheral facing away - none of them acknowledging my existence. I felt like a curiosity, a monkey in a cage, "Look! See that Asian sing! Isn't it interesting and cute and talented? Let's take a photo of it!" When a homeless man - the slice of society usually the warmest in words and expression - shouted "Hey Jackie Chan!" at me I felt like smashing my guitar on the street, screaming Fuck this Shit and walking in front of a streetcar.

Instead I went with the frustration and poured it out to the detriment of my cold ravaged vocal chords on two Radiohead songs. There There for the raw power and Exit Music (From a Film) for the emotion and the very appropriate lyrics. In the middle of this second one a dyed yellow haired black woman talked to me about music coming from the heart, sang me a short ditty about God filling her with love - me too cynical to really hear - and wandered off. Waiting for Kevin (the not my brother one) to pick me up later I heard a gaggle of youngsters who'd passed me talk about $100 bets they made. A group of three men in Jackson Square set about proving the fakeness of the "busker" sitting hunched on the newspaper box - actually a mannequin in silver - by punching it directly in the face. On seeing this low trickery with the tip jar in front I felt enraged enough to want a go at it myself.

Happily this Thursday was another cooking night for me. I fixed a beautifully plated catfish ensemble and recreated the avocado pasta I'd invented for Geoffrey in Vienna. Absorbing myself in chopping and managing five stovetops and an oven kept me too busy to despair, and the appreciative reactions of Mindy and her housemates soothed my nerves. Another day. Punch in, punch out.

Earnings: $4.00, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: Exit Music (For a Film) - Radiohead

Red Beans and Busk, New Orleans, Day 2.5

On Wednesday I went with Mindy to the high school she where she teaches geometry. Kevin, my elder brother, warned me against going, fearing New Orleans public schools would scare me off teaching. Mindy and her housemates also told me to be prepared for their unruliness, etc. I felt incredibly nervous from the moment I awoke at 5:30AM to head off.

Compared to Eastside High School and Howard Bishop Middle School kids, her students were extremely capable, docile sweet children. They all wanted to learn, I detected none of the thuggishness, cruelty or pride in ignorance that I expected. Maybe there's a reason Florida always ranks 49th of 50th in education. I didn't even hear a single fight all day. One thing stuck out, however - the school allows the children to have cell phones at school (yet imposes a strict dress code... priorities?) and thus almost every kid texted, surfed or listened to music throughout much of the class. This floored me particularly with the prevalence of iPhones among these poorer family children. Advertisements really work wonders in convincing many people of the things we "need," such that they sacrifice health, even - buying water injected Tyson chicken and other terrible foods to afford their cable habits. I helped Mindy grade and assisted children in their project for the day - they were brighter than I expected and also more on task.

I mention the chicken, actually, as the bright point of my day as upon returning to Mindy's place I set about cooking a fabulous meal - a chicken marabella I'd begun to marinate the night before, picadillo over rice with one egg over easy per person and maduros. I plated each dish with a sprig of parsley and a dash of paprika for embellishment. When I opened the whole chicken the previous night I discovered, to my dismay, that they'd not bothered to gut the thing. Never seen that before. That, plus the absurd amount of water I squeezed out of of the fowl thing rather worried me but all ended well that tasted well.

Red Beans and Busk, New Orleans, Day 2

As if to remind me of the nature of busking, Tuesday sucked. On the whole it felt very blah - I think I've gotten too used to busking. Few experiences feel novel - certainly not the good ones. The first times someone smiled back at me, or sang along or snapped a photo or gave a kind word or tipped that simple act could sustain me for a long time. Like any job, though, the longer one does it the less one values these interactions and the more one cares about the money. It's unfortunate. With busking, especially, as one's mood figures so strongly in one's income. I can't fake happiness very well, or gratitude or forgiveness or enthusiasm or emotion. People can always see that. Every time I busk, though, I find I need to manufacture these more and more. Wonder turns to a feeling of "clocking in." Gratitude to a misguided sense of being slighted - where every passerby becomes someone who owes me something, when that isn't true at all, so that even the ones who tip don't make me happy but more a feeling of "Geez, about time!" Negative all round - the worst sort as the occupation goes - I feel unhappy being there and it probably shows and the passersby likely feel unhappy not giving - if I give them the benefit of the doubt. But what can I do?


Gorgeous Bridge on the way in.

Tim dropped me off on Frenchmen street, which he suggested based on it's liveliness at night. Unfortunately such life sleeps or works during the daytime. By starting my walk into the main quarter there, however, I met a nice busker who goes by "Cajun" and gave me the rundown of the various New Orleans busker rules of etiquette and police laws - play half a block away from the next musician, Royal's the best bet, etc.


Frenchmen Street.

Really the one thing that salvaged my day was meeting the buskers, street vendors and statues of the city. Without them I may have been very depressed. A certain solidarity borne of tough times brought us together - the card readers had no business. The stores stayed empty, the tip receptacles untouched. Cajun introduced me to Dragon James, one of the card readers, who sympathized with my inability to play Jackson Square with the 7 piece brass band dominating the soundscape - they're relatively new and play the same 5 songs over and over - they'd blown out a cello/guitar duo who he actually enjoyed. Everywhere else in the quarter large raggedly attired groups commanded whole stretches of blocks. On Royal I stood sandwiched between a five piece blues band - quite good but oh so terribly dressed, take a shower, eh? - and an amped blues guitarist with an excellent rumbly voice. For the short test pitch I played, the few passersby who looked like the might be the tipping type (sometimes you can just tell) looked to be rebuttoning purses and stowing wallets from a previous tip.

I've heard it said that New Orleans is a tough city that buskers come to see if they're any good - if they can make it here they can do well anywhere. I believe I'm failing that test. This day really got to me. Some kind of existential crisis where I realized "I'm not doing anything special, I'm just singing pop songs. Most people can play like me." I felt I wasn't any good, that I shouldn't be a busker - I don't know what specifically it was, because I don't think the quality really blew me away - more the attitudes. If nothing else I'm certainly unique in the city as the only oldie/pop singer, which is a strange distinction and a new for me. Then again I've noticed recently that I'm far too judgmental and snobby about other buskers. I dismiss them for the gimmicks I see and rarely begrudge any troupe a positive association in my mind without classifying them with the negative "ugh. competition." Really, I shouldn't despise a bad didgeridoo player for playing up the spectacle or an aggressive busker wrangling passersby, trying to shame them into tipping - they understand the reality of the job and they play to it. I'm too much of an idealist to be a good busker. An aristocrat, as Mindy says. A sad state of affairs when I keep myself from enjoying the work of others who ply my trade. That same sort of jealous guarding I feel building in myself that I hate in others - that bitterness Jerry in Boston showed from too many years with the reality of busking.

I hope this proves a phase. There remains so much I love about busking, but this day yielded little of it. As a busker waiting on a pitch told me - he called himself guitarman - adversity is part of travel and one of the best parts. He also made $17 the previous day. Curious. But even him - something about the demographic he represents as a busker bothers me significantly, but I'll write more on that tomorrow. I try so hard to be upstanding and proper, asking in the shops (denied twice, once with a nice man who said "Go out there and fight" on my lament about Royal) before each possible pitch and deferring to other buskers - and for what? Their aggression and rudeness wins out. As in Poland, might makes right on the street. I want to go out and perform, not fight. At least here that's not the nature of the business, though.

With no tips on Royal I wandered off to the riverside promenade, where after passing two very painful buskers - a panhandling trumpeter and an effect laden electric "guitarist" (yes I'm self consciously poking fun at my own snobbishness) I found a nice, peaceful pitch facing the river. Where the quarter itself saw many pedestrians the riverside walk saw a steady but slow traffic of strollers and joggers. I yielded four different tips and one made my day alright - an understanding, appreciative fiver from an elderly black woman who'd sat on a bench nearby for a few oldies. Actually, every tip came from a person of color. The riverside felt nice. Halfway through I switched sides to face away from the river and catch the weak and waning rays of sunshine and through the peace of that pitch I managed to recapture a tiny bit of why I busk. Many strollers smiled at me, and none took photos. I thought the smiles without tips a bit odd, but couldn't really do much about it.



I played a final half hour pitch on Jackson Square right as the brass band left and the sun hid behind St. Louis Cathedral. Very few tourists came through as I sang. A disproportionate number of police passed. Those tourists who did pass took photos or hurried along with heads down. No tips. Without Jenessa, the card reader whose stall lay to my immediate left, I may have broken down. She clapped after my first song, then sympathized with my insecurity about not being any good - each additional non tip hit as a personal rejection (another reason I shouldn't be a busker, as I'm rather too sensitive) with an affirmation of my music and "It's been my worst day, ever, too, but hey that's how it goes sometimes."


Jackson Square.

And I wonder: how does that work? How do days have vibes like that? Are people's moods so infectious but even if so the moods should even out so I don't understand the science of how it's possible to have good days for everyone - there must be some critical mass effect. One too many slightly more down people in the morning and the whole city suffers.


Miss him?

Song of the Day: Mrs. Robinson - Simon & Garfunkel
Earnings: $7.50, 2 hours

Red Beans and Busk, New Orleans, Day 1

I'm baaaaack!

After an absolutely absurd nearly aborted but not quite absolved abstinence from busking, I went out for a nice standard amount of time on Monday, 2.7.11 in New Orleans. As I hope I've conveyed I'm REALLY REALLY HAPPY to be back out there. Good God it's been eons. Hi Laura who doesn't read this!

I arrived in New Orleans after a very enjoyable Greyhound ride, despite all the hullabaloo that led up to it. No crying babies, no virulent passengers... yet somehow a hard time sleeping. I noticed a couple things on the trip - first, the demographic isn't just poorer folks. It's poorer folks and internationals (a Korean, two Poles, a Cuban, a Spaniard, a Mexican, etc. etc.). The Polish in particular fascinated me. I was convinced they were speaking Polish but didn't want to offend by asking but wanted to speak Polish to them but felt shy and they muttered so it sounded sometimes Czech but I never heard a ř sound and I knew it wasn't Russian but hey it could have been Ukrainian or something...

I ran into them yesterday on Decatur Street. They're Polish, from Bydgoszcz. :). Made me very happy. Back to the bus, I mention it because I was able to practice my not spoken since Poland (what!?) Spanish aboard- translating the announcements and just joshing about random things. I felt very worldly. Or something. When I arrived at the bus station I chilled with the other delayed-in-Gainesville passenger while I waited for Mindy and Kevin, after which we romped about the French Quarter a bit, with beignets at Cafe du Monde and lunch at Coop's Place - where I unconscionably splurged on a meal with a case of reverse guilt - I didn't want to make them pay for me and I knew they might offer to if I refused to eat something so...

Later that night apparently there was something called the super bowl. I cleaned dishes and stuff while the housemates watched that. Towards the middle I watched the brown thing get tossed about while really oversized men gorilla-ed at each other and the crowd with replays of their injuries until the green and yellow side won. Happily this was the side the house backed.

I'd intended to busk on arrival in New Orleans but on Mindy's suggestion held off for the next day. Appropriately the sun shone bright and 60 degrees on Sunday and fled behind 20 mph winds and mid forties on Monday. But I toughed it out like a dumb boy. I only got the mildest of colds, too. Days n' Daze, the band I played my first CMC gig with, recommended I ply my trade at Royal Street, where they'd made a killing when they passed through. I found a likely spot in front of a store called Forever and went inside to ask the shop owner if I might play outside. She was absolutely floored by this simple courtesy - usually no one asks here.

New Orleans passersby are all warm and positive. Not a single exception on this day. Each woman looked up with a tentative, broadening smile, each man affirmed me with a firm, appreciative nod. I find the traditional gender institutions much more firmly entrenched here amongst the older folks. Aside from that, however, the town feels distinctly un-Southern as I know it from Georgia and Bama and such. A whole vibe of it's own with a European plan and Aristocratic soft southern fillings. Kind of like peach cobbler inside a tarte.

I began with From Dawn to Busk. Why not? I got some friendly responses but people didn't really warm to me until I got to my super happy section - Here Comes the Sun et al. Halfway through this song, day overcast and clouds threatening cheerily above, a lady across the street conducted a voiceless conversation with me replete with shrugs, points up and quizzical glances. After I finished I explained I figured I might sing it to try it bring the sun out. Well, it peeked out four times for maybe two seconds each time during the entire pitch. By the time I got to I'm Yours an unlikely couple (indie hipster types who hate all things that have become popular) hung about to listen to I'm Yours in a little alcove across the way. They chuckled to my follow up Ue Wo Muite Arukou before waving as they passed on.

Tips came slow, but as far as America goes they felt quite excellent and heartening. More impactful to me were the "Keep it up"s and the thumbs ups I'd so dearly missed. Now I was freezing my microscopic little butt off the whole while. I wore my peacoat over track jacket and long tee but that cut none of the wind that literally numbed my fingers. Unlike the Northeast where I got jeers for warming my fingers with short breaks these New Orleans folks conveyed sympathy. One elder Chinese couple's kind words prompted me to sing them Ue Liang Dai Biao Wo De Xin but alas, no further reaction from them.

Now to the highlight. Always one, eh? As I sang Leaving on a Jet Plane for a troupe of old people down the street who turned without passing me, two young dyed-hair girls stopped shyly nearby. Between the second chorus and third verse the shorter, spunkier one, Devin, asked if she could give me a hug. Why of course! So I stopped a moment, shifted my guitar out of the way and gave her a hug. Asked "Where was I?" "Leaving on a..." "I know! oh!" and finished the song as she tipped me. They hung around a bit but still a bit far away and so after another tune I asked if they wanted to make a request. Devin bounced up and requested Brighter than Sunshine for her friend Danielle. Unfortunately I forgot lyrics, though I tried the first verse anyways. It'd been awhile.

Devin and Danielle apparently had been engaged in a conversation about buffer time and delay in hearing recorded songs, so my human jukeboxness delighted them. They followed up this fail quickly with Where is My Mind. Two amazing beauteous things transpired then. First, an older woman stayed and listened alongside them for my now non-falsetto Cmaj transcription Pixies cover. Listened, shared glances with them, payed my voice a compliment and left a tip. Second, the two girls cried. Praps it was the cold. No matter the impetus I found it beautiful. Is that chauvinistic of me? Silent tears running down smiling faces hurried down by the biting wind. We sang Such Great Heights together - I chose a wrong key (F#maj) so they could sing along while I sang in bass (happy Brent?)

My new friends stayed for a long while. Nearly to the end of my pitch, standing beside me without obstructing traffic. Offering a light and then the rest of a beer to a homeless man sharing my corner. Three well American Apparel dressed girls sat on the curb across the street to eat their convenience store sandwiches and listen. They neither tipped nor met my eyes but at that point I didn't care. I was alternately rather happy and rather cold. I could hardly feel the tips of my fingers at that point. We sang Hurt Together. A woman joined the chorus of Hallelujah as she passed before us. Devin requested I Can Tell that We Are Gonna Be Friends to dedicate to Danielle - oh so sweet. They left after I sang them Your Song.

I wrapped up with a set of oldies mostly sung to refresh them and end on a comfortable note. Two men plopped themselves across on the curb after the three skirt and blouse girls left, and one clapped for me after The Boxer. Somehow I knew he'd tip me so I stayed to wait. I sang Streets in London for the poor I saw everywhere (and beside me), and even considered giving to that homeless man. In the end I just said bless you and thanks for the company. My Let it Be elicited an "I love that song!" - the perfect send off.


A bit dreary in a cheery way, right?

A short demographical note. Three asian girl/white boy pairs passed me. Each of the girls pointedly turned their faces away from me (and often from their boyfriend who they placed protectively between). On my walk out of the quarter I passed a busker heading in to set up, a bohemian looking man with a plump black clad girlfriend. He asked me where might be good to play and I told him. He asked "Do you smoke weed?" "Nope." "Really? And you do this? Wow!" "Yea I'm pretty straitlaced actually." "Wild." He set off to be more of a panhandler type, meaning to accost people as they left the convenience store. I'd discover the next day a cop wrote him a ticket for some stupid charge like "obstructing the path."

In the library starting this blog post immediately after I saw a couple that passed me on the street earlier and waved at me. They didn't recognize me. I sat on a computer reserved for teens and no one said a word.

Earnings: $16.80, ~1 hour 50 minutes
Song of the Day: Where is My Mind - The Pixies

A Gain in Gainesville, Day 10

After receiving comforting news regarding my mother's potential illness I hoped to hop off to New Orleans immediately. A few factors impeded my desire. First, the house had suffered flood damage nearly a year ago and needed the floor redone, so as I happened to be around it proved convenient for me to move out all the furniture and whatnot. What with all the furniture out after the floors were finished, we realized it'd be a good time to paint the walls, and who better to do that than an art major? So I painted them pink. With brown baseboards.

Now the principal reason I couldn't quit this charming abominable town lay in the wonders of Greyhound. When I visited their office to acquire a changed ticket they told me it'd be best to return the day I wished to travel, an hour prior, as the ticket remained valid for 365 days - so might as well pay the change fee once. At this time I told the agent I'd want the nine fifteen bus again - this is important as when I arrived on the Wednesday I wanted to leave the station was closed with a sign declaring that no driver would accept credit cards, reservation numbers or cash.

The next I changed my ticket at 3.45pm for that night's bus - or so I thought. This same agent wrote 9.15pm on my ticket jacket... on opening it that night my mother and I discovered I had the ticket for that day's 2.10pm bus - a different set of buses altogether and possibly incurring an additional change fee. Happily, but aggravatingly, this turned out to be a moot point - due to icy roads the bus driver was taking no passengers past Mobile - again information the agent must have been privy to yet failed to mention. The next day the same unremedied roads denied me passage.

I suppose my final date of departure ended up a fortuitous one. The day before I received the last of my licenses. I also finished moving all the furniture and books back into the house. Best of all I stayed just long enough for a Chinese New Year's dinner just before my bus out west. So perhaps all went well - if in a very frustrating manner.

Song of the Days: Crazy - Gnarls Barkley
Earnings: $300, many hours.

A Gain in Gainesville, Day 9

The Thursday preceding my victory at the CMC my mother and I discovered some potentially distressing news (which seems to have been merely a scare) which impelled me to abandon my plan to depart Gainesville that following Monday, 1.24.11. So instead of boarding the Greyhound that day I again traipsed off to the Laboratory Open Mic. I prepared no set list with a mind to take inspiration the night's events. On arriving I first noticed the presence of seven non-regulars, the show's audience being so normally static that any new ones stick out instantly. Reverend Angel Dust started us off as usual with ode to Proposition 19 and the fruits of the dumpster. As delightful as ever, if slightly less inspired.

Immediately after my older brother Kevin rang me and I therefore missed Dave and Jesse's performance - according to Chase, who detained me outside for the rest of their act, talking about his drag act and how he's old and can suck the life out of young people as he said he was doing right then with me, it was transcendent. Happily I escaped his beer/cigarette suffused breath for a listen to Helen. She sang an entirely a capella set of two German songs and a variation on the Song of Solomon in Hebrew, nerves as quivering as ever. A nice act, nonetheless.

Some time afterwards Tom Miller mentioned that "We are all James Wesson's bitch. We tolerate his damage to the furniture, to the equipment, to our bodies..." which got quite an appreciative and knowing roar. To fill time between the two acts he started a limerick battle with another Tom, which became the defining thread of the night. Sometimes the limericks stayed true to the AABBA format and retained that recognizable meter, but often they'd stray overlong or try forced rhymes that earned terrible groans from the audience. During one interlude Miller began taking limericks from the audience to champion his cause - which he instantly regretted with the first abysmal three. I think the limericks kept our new audience members entertained, too, as they'd spend the rest of the evening coming up with their own generically sexual and family-offending lines.

Heather, the bellydancer of questionable pregnancy took the stage to an admirably deadpan introduction by a mousy "theatre" woman - "Hi, this is Heather. She's great." Wahoo followed with his standard Tom Miller introduction, but with a me-specific twist. He opened his three song set with "In honor of our resident busker, Terrence, all of the songs tonight will have a common theme." This theme proved to the French language, gringo as before. Maybe I've become accustomed to his voice/style, though, as he rather charmed me with his singing.



Chase and his brother Dave, the hand dancer/singer from the previous week asked me to video them for a duo performance to the music of Tarzan after their usual YouTube commercial sharing. I'll let that video commentate in my stead:





The one female new audience member had been incredibly vocal and enthusiastic throughout the night and when she took the stage next, Brandi explained she'd been psyching herself up. She sang three songs a capella in a soulful way, though often off pitch and off rhythm. I sympathized with her - her screaming and drinking and smoking for her nerves no doubt affected her ability to hit notes, but I don't think her propensity for melisma helped at all. After two song from Showboat our conspicuously large white southern girl retired for a drink before singing a strange, overly vocalized version of Somewhere Over the Rainbow. Tom filled the interim with limericks and she finished to rousing applause.

My older brother's childhood friend Ryan read a hilarious poem sexualizing religion in a similar style to David Moss but with defter and more clever strokes. I can't remember the half of it's brilliance, but one line stood out: "You make my sac... religious." Two more poets followed - Bayou with a bitter eight year old poem about an ex which he'd never read aloud and needed to be drinking steadily til' the moment of delivery to spit and Astrid, who read a nice poem with a matter of fact voice. Jack Mason visited again with an incredible display range to the lyrics "If I wanted to go up high I'd go up high" in a reedy voice to maybe a B4 down to a rumbly C#2 "If I wanted to stay down low I'd stay down low."

And then, finally, moi. I took my violin along in case I wanted to play it, and with Tom Miller's mentioning a violinist, Kim, who now played with Barry Manilow and used to play at his show many times I thought that a sufficient excuse. I fashioned my set to describe the reasons why people may or may not tip. With Wahoo's mention of me I knew I needed to begin with a discussion of my racism experiment. I sang Ue Liang Dai Biao Wo De Xin - sketchily and somewhat weak - unintentionally but appropriate to my story. I then whipped out the violin, explained how people tip just for seeing "Oooh a violin, talent, it must be an artist down on his luck." Rather than "Feh, I can play the guitar too, get a job." I improvised a passionate G minor variation and theme for a few minutes. It felt natural and I certainly had the entire crowd with me. That short bout underscored my reason for not playing the violin on the street, though. In order to play well I needed to close my eyes and delve into myself - I wasn't connecting with anyone and I may as well have been alone. I perform to be with people. When I finished, the other Tom came up to the stage and tipped me a dollar. I finished my set with Hallelujah - my most lucrative song in non-racist locales and appropriate to the slew of anti-religious poems and comments throughout the night.

When I returned to my seat the other regulars surprised me - David clapped my shoulder with "To me the most emotional instrument in the world is the violin. I was bawling the whole time you were playing." Tom told me "Maybe people tip you because you're really good." And best of all Ryan: "How you (an artist) came out of the Ho family... it's a beautiful contradiction. It really speaks to the existence of a soul." Jesse and Bayou congratulated me too. I felt so supported there I sent my card around and chatted with everyone a little - flattered but somehow nervous.

In classic Tom Miller fashion, he followed with a rebuttal poem called "Flea in my urethra." Perfect and smoothed the way to transition to Joe Willis. Joe played the same songs with the same quality with James backing as usual - but a "freestyle drummer" on hand lent a new sound to something I'd become both immensely weary of and acclimated enough to enjoy. Wesson insisted on playing before Tom announced the night's "winner." He sang his songs in Mrs. Doubtfire falsetto while Joe looked foolish and added random plucks and yeas. They'd shown up during my set and Joe "won." I felt a bit indignant and Tom later intimated he hoped I'd win the $25 tab. Damn random.com.



Earnings: $1.00, 15 minutes
Song of the Day: Hallelujah - Leonard Cohen

A Gain in Gainesville, Day 8.5

Nearly two weeks after my gig on 1.22.11, I've decided to give up on Evan writing the post. Which is sad. I'd been extremely excited for him to do so because of his reactions to my songs during the gig itself - as a "classically trained" composer he appreciated my chord progressions and harmonies quite a lot more than the layman. When I hit a major 3rd chord in Purple Dresshe smiled broadly, surprised, and followed all my other compositions from there very closely, focused completely like he was studying. Once he figured out my propensity for major 2nd chords he gave a flourish and point of his hand to "cue" them in for Will. During A Thousand Post-Its I saw him counting the beats and figuring out the strangeness of the chords. He asked me afterwards if Purple Dress was written in two time signatures and I felt very happy he noticed - 3/4 for the first two choruses, 4/4 for the rest of the song. He caught the musical humour in the Squirrel Song, instantly recognized Satie's Gymnopedie as the inspiration to my Stamsund. This alone made my night worth it - someone appreciating the more technical aspects of my music, and Amanda, there again, soaking up the lyrics.

The gig started off quite harried. I'd gone to dinner across the street at The Warehouse with my mother and her friends at around 7.30, hardly having eaten all day. The food didn't arrive until I spoke with the owner, our family friend, at 8.45. Doors at the Civic Media Center at 9. Shoving half the small bowl in, I darted across and past the usual collection of homeless people, this time less ashamed with my eyes not so averted and the air not so cold. When I arrived inside the volunteers were about to call the musicans no-shows.

I was to be only one of five acts that night. Space coordinator Jimmy informed me Erica called in earlier, sick. She'd been my ally throughout the planning process via Gchat understandings, as I'd been butting heads with James a bit on the order, the way we'd run things, how we'd split the box, etc. The week leading up to the show we communicated often, and I felt very excited and privileged to play along side her. She makes very beautiful music: http://www.myspace.com/thewoodenmusic. Her sudden cancelation - later explained as stress induced sickness - rather bummed me out.

James Wesson did not arrive until 9.15 in his Pizza Hut delivery van, dropped off a tiny drum set, amps and a synth before leaving again to pick up Joe Willis and, presumably, Ziggy Potpourri. The latter never showed nor responded to James' calls or texts. By the end I felt happy he didn't. It probably allowed me to quit the space a bit earlier. My mother and her friends filed in and I claimed them as "my old people" to the four friends of mine (and their companions) that showed.

Joe Willis played first, and that likely would have chased my audience away had they not been good friends of myself and my mother. They asked about the balance and my old people chorused, "Too loud!" very cutely, after which James turned the volume dial imperceptibly and they proceeded to play a song. Joe's set ran identical to the past night, with James backing him up banging overly hard on the tiny drums. Amanda's roommate suggested they needed to move the set about ten feet back, but unfortunately a wall at prevented this. James made no effort to ease up, but Joe stood back much further from the mic, which helped.



Honestly the volume never bothered me. The intonation did. I particularly enjoyed watching the audience cringe at his strained, flat voice. The higher the note the flatter he sang, but never flat enough to be even in key. Ginny and Beverly held fingers to their ears, game faces on, stolid determination to sit through it and I loved them for it. Laura and Evan left to get beer across the street, which they shared with Anu and Joan on their return. Amanda and Ryan had already begun drinking. Nick had sudden, often urges to relieve himself. The coping mechanisms felt like something from a comic strip.

I took the stage next to a call and response chant someone started (my mother thinks it was Laura) of "Terrence!" "Ho!" During this time Tom Miller and Hobo Joe (from the Lab) joined us. I began with Dawn to Busk and found my nerves to be relatively still - I knew almost the entirety of the 26 person audience and the rest I'd acquainted myself with in the lead up. As I went through my now expanded to 12 song set list I felt unshakably grateful for my incredible audience. They sang along to Hey Ya, were moved by Purple Dress, laughed at Car No. 5, remained still for Will caught on to the chorus and my desire to have them sing it for Squirrel Song. I sang well despite the cough my mother imparted to me the night before, with a thermos of honey-lemon tea and a day of not speaking to help me along.

Hello exemplified the night. I decided to include it last minute from the feel of the crowd, thinking it wouldn't count as one of my allowed sad songs (Erica suggested 25% of the song were allowed to be sad). They listened attentively to the story of Karluv Most in Prague, stayed silent and waiting through the opening of the song. Then as the lyrics began I could hear them figuring out the humour one by one so that by the chorus the giggles were uncontainable. I felt like I recaptured some of the magic of that streetlamp on the bridge and brought it with me - the first time I've felt like I've successfully conveyed the beauty of busking. It was one of those performances were "you had to be there" to get the feel - a million little technical things may have gone wrong, but the feel of the room, the brisk hollow taste of the oh so light air, the suddenly dimmer lights, the hint of footsteps on stone just out of hearing and the low murmur of passing crowds seeming to suffuse it all - that can't be captured on film.

I remembered to plug my website and mini-merch before my final song. Sales of bookmarkers added up to over half of what I received from the box. Merch seems the way to go. I thanked my audience wholeheartedly to rousing applause and calls of "Encore!" but I felt doing so would disrespect James. Perhaps I should have done anyways, as my posse - half the audience - left after his first song, Abraham.

James' set ran nearly identical to the Tuesday set, but he seemed more comfortable in the CMC. His lyrics came through much clearer on the mics as they weren't over delayed/reverbed as his norm. He moved fluidly from bucket drumming to singing to electric guitar to drumset to synth to computer, brushing his hair at times, too, but all things with a sense of purpose that gave the set an altogether more prepared feel. At one point he even played air guitar. The highlight of his set, to me, was Amanda's drunken joining on the drums. She didn't follow the beat quite right but just watching her having a ball up there made me happy, too.



I promised to meet up with my pals after his set - I think it rude to leave during another artist's set for many reasons which I won't get into (exemplified by Joe leaving directly after his). A long wait. James took the dropping out artists as a reason to extend his set to over an hour and a half. He conversed more with the audience, but in an alienating way, praising his own songwriting abilities and giving off an ironically snobbish aura. He prefaced one song with, "I wrote and recorded this song in just two hours, you know, just because whatever, whatdoyoucallit, that's me on the guitar and the drums and yea I also did all the production then too, yea." Impressive, yes, though the song betrayed it's creation time without him needing to say a word. Most gratifying to me was Ryan's comment after one of his early songs and songwriting interjections, "Do you know the band Modest Mouse? A lot of his songs seem to have the same openings..." I pointed out the next song as Greenday and he nodded, the next as the Pixies and he was appalled, the next was Modest Mouse again and he left.



I stuck it out until the bitter end, just before 1 AM. Laura ordered me a strong girly drink as soon as I arrived and after one 12% 12oz beer which did not taste disgusting I was quite done. We played Poke Battle: Super Smash Bros. on the N64 with no items but tons of pokeballs before crashing at Evan's.

Earnings: $33, 50 minutes
Audience: 26 people
Song of the Day: Hello - Lionel Richie