I decided on my return to Oslo to consider this phase of my journey as my graduation vacation. Its the only way I can enjoy it.
Vigelandsparken looked astounding, yesterday. It felt like Central Park done right. That is, without the oppressive city around it. Theres no real reason to go there except to just relax. You know, Central Park is a bad comparison. Its more like the perfect marriage of the Musée Rodin and the Po Lin Monastery in Hong Kong. Hard to describe. The park is immaculately planned in a way that reminded me of the grounds of the Taj Mahal I studied a few years back, each thoroughfare and line of sight carefully managed and spilling out from a central point and radiating out along two axes. The paths are lined with figural sculptures by Vigeland - some hilarious, some agonizing, some puzzling, some rather sexually charged...
I spent much of the rest of that day wandering around the bookstores and the library (where I gleaned from a placard why I was seeing "Christiania" everywhere - Oslo was once called Christiania - which helped to relieve my feelings of, well, if you know you do and if you dont, too bad) and taking the tram in random directions. At the first bookstore, Tronsmo, I bought Murakami's Norwegian Wood for the lovely Norwegian couple.
And today (7.6.10) Bengt (the male half of that couple) took me about to see the bits Id previously missed. Its amazing how much swifter one can travel by car. We had a look at the hillside which inspired Munch's The Scream, had a walk on the Opera building and finally made our way to the museum peninsula, where we parted ways and I spent the next three and a half hours marvelling at everything inside the Kon-Tiki museum. I remember as a child I loved the book and wanted to be a scientist-adventurer just like Thor Heyerdahl, and the museum more than revived that desire. Naturally as a museum devoted to his exploits I inevitably was pulled to a reverence of his life - the facts of what he accomplished and the way he went about it... just the inspiration for an aimless wandering sod like myself.
I took the ferry back into town when after much debate I decided I ought to busk one last time, just for fun. As soon as I reached Karl Johans Gate, I saw the nice blond man whod been so encouraging the day before set up with a guitar, a bass drum an amp and a bright blue hat right in the best spot. He came from Copenhagen and said itd been an appalingly slow day for him. We had a wonderful chat and I wished him luck before moving on. Id met a nice Slovenian guy busking the previous evening so I set off to find him and sing with him. Seeing as he was in almost the same spot, precisely, that took no time whatsoever. We had a brief chat about busking and Oslo's failings, wondered about this one electric violinist who seemed to know just one song but played only 15 minutes at a time and seemed to be making a killing, and a nice semi long chat where we abused the Romanian buskers before setting up a pitch on the upper end of Karl Johans Gate.
We decided to sing those songs we both knew - of which there was quite a lot of overlap. It was truly, truly excellent. Like the time in Stockholm, playing with Michal reminded me how much more fun and how much more sustainable having a partner can be. We launched immediately into Im Yours and the energy we had was huge. The entire street for many meters either way noticed immediately. Here with someone else to match and focus on we could focus on the music. During just that one song we gathered a small crowd on the various doorsteps before us and had our photos taken maybe ten times. He harmonized very well, albeit softly (for he doesnt sing nearly as loud or high as I do) and I returned the favor on our next number, Country Roads.
It was a very relaxed pitch as we spent the between song interim chatting briefly about which songs were our most successful - Lemon Tree for him, Sound of Silence, Let it Be and Hallelujah for me and teaching them to each other as we went (he's quite talented and it took us hardly fifteen seconds to break from the standard chord strumming and start soloing or comping over). Throughout we hardly got tipped - the only time I noticed someone tipping was when a pretty Asian girl bent down to gently set down a bunch of one kroner and fifty ore coins. We played the most energetic things and I quickly excused myself after a short while and getting his contact information so as not to be late for dinner with Tone, Bengt and Tone's son and his wife.
Earnings: 44.5 NOK (divided by two), 0.6 ish hours
Song of the Day: I'm Yours - Jason Mraz (again, I know)
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Oh So Slow in Oslo, Day 2
Im currently trying to write out the experiences I had in the weekend prior to my return to Oslo but Im finding it very wearying to even relive it all. It will appear at some point, of course, but it may not be for the faint of heart. To assuage the dearth of postings and the fact that ill be completely off the grid for the next week Ill quickly type up as many of what are feeling sadly formulaic (tell me if they are) posts as I can in the next few hours.
I had a short go at a promising pitch in the main tourist attraction in Oslo - Vigelandsparken, but was moved on after only a few songs. Essentially today (7.5.10) was an even more thoroughly depressing confirmation of Oslo's stinginess. Last night when I checked into the hostel and I offhandly mentioned this to the girl working the desk, however, I learnt the reason behind the pittances I amass. She told me no one gives money to foreign buskers because most of them are organized - this is something Ive noticed walking about at night, as all the statues commune and give their earnings to some bosslike guy, muttering away in Romanian.
This revelation has me very incensed. First off, the Romanian buskers I've seen strewn about the city are universally horrid. They slump about with obnoxiously loud instruments, playing the Theme from the Godfather over and over with no sense of cadence or really any semblance of musicality at the best spots for hours and hours on end. So beyond giving busking a bad name, beyond being eye and ear sores, they also shut down us other buskers. Pisses the hell out of me. And I havent even started on about the living statues - in Oslo they all wear masks and full suits - and they dont even stand still successfully. They make a killing. I should stop ranting here.
I had one good experience. A nice, weathered looking man in his late twenties - burnt skin, kindness wrinkles already forming, shockingly blond, longish hair - stayed for the entirety of Hey Ya, smiling appreciatively and came up to me at the end with a kroner and a "nice song."
The main problem is that I know people like my music. I got tons of applause today during my short pitch. One young mother and her child at the start of my set lingered near and applauded each song for a good three or four songs before waddling off, looking happy, no tip. Two men walking in opposite directions stopped abruptly on hearing Mrs. Robinson, raised their eyebrows in a "Whoa, he's actually good" sort of way at each other, stayed till the end and clapped heartily. And if yesterday the filming was annoying, today it was practically unbearable. Its gotten so that I can generallly identify the reaction from the look of the group. Groups of boys laugh derisively, mock me or roll their eyes when they pass. Girls will giggle, point, look at each other and "sneak" peeks back after theyre past. Asian tourists will stop and chatter loudly to each other, smile surprisedly, retrive enormous cameras and snap endless photos. Young parents will dance with their kids (on their shoulders or holding their hands on the street) and stay for a long time. Older males will linger at my peripheral and often videotape me on point and shoots. Older women will cast me kind glances. But one thing they have in common. Tight fists.
Earnings: 54.4 NOK, 1 hour
Song of the Day: Hey Ya - Outkast
I had a short go at a promising pitch in the main tourist attraction in Oslo - Vigelandsparken, but was moved on after only a few songs. Essentially today (7.5.10) was an even more thoroughly depressing confirmation of Oslo's stinginess. Last night when I checked into the hostel and I offhandly mentioned this to the girl working the desk, however, I learnt the reason behind the pittances I amass. She told me no one gives money to foreign buskers because most of them are organized - this is something Ive noticed walking about at night, as all the statues commune and give their earnings to some bosslike guy, muttering away in Romanian.
This revelation has me very incensed. First off, the Romanian buskers I've seen strewn about the city are universally horrid. They slump about with obnoxiously loud instruments, playing the Theme from the Godfather over and over with no sense of cadence or really any semblance of musicality at the best spots for hours and hours on end. So beyond giving busking a bad name, beyond being eye and ear sores, they also shut down us other buskers. Pisses the hell out of me. And I havent even started on about the living statues - in Oslo they all wear masks and full suits - and they dont even stand still successfully. They make a killing. I should stop ranting here.
I had one good experience. A nice, weathered looking man in his late twenties - burnt skin, kindness wrinkles already forming, shockingly blond, longish hair - stayed for the entirety of Hey Ya, smiling appreciatively and came up to me at the end with a kroner and a "nice song."
The main problem is that I know people like my music. I got tons of applause today during my short pitch. One young mother and her child at the start of my set lingered near and applauded each song for a good three or four songs before waddling off, looking happy, no tip. Two men walking in opposite directions stopped abruptly on hearing Mrs. Robinson, raised their eyebrows in a "Whoa, he's actually good" sort of way at each other, stayed till the end and clapped heartily. And if yesterday the filming was annoying, today it was practically unbearable. Its gotten so that I can generallly identify the reaction from the look of the group. Groups of boys laugh derisively, mock me or roll their eyes when they pass. Girls will giggle, point, look at each other and "sneak" peeks back after theyre past. Asian tourists will stop and chatter loudly to each other, smile surprisedly, retrive enormous cameras and snap endless photos. Young parents will dance with their kids (on their shoulders or holding their hands on the street) and stay for a long time. Older males will linger at my peripheral and often videotape me on point and shoots. Older women will cast me kind glances. But one thing they have in common. Tight fists.
Earnings: 54.4 NOK, 1 hour
Song of the Day: Hey Ya - Outkast
Edane Interlude, Part III
Let this conclude the story because it's very very trying for me even to recall it. Simply too intense.
That night when Tom returned he kept talking to me knowingly, like I was some kind of god - asking why he gave me "this task" (I imagined everything from travel to solitude to suicide to murder to rape) - a "simple one" for all of humanity. He referred to me by many names (Imagine John, Ko, Alia... Paul) saying I was everyone, that I was too smart (he'd complimented me when we met, but never so much), suggesting that I understood the Norwegian he was speaking to Bengt. He repeated his accusation that I was chameleonic. Thankfully, I slept without incident.
The following day the four of us travelled to Gammelvala for a little crafts fair in a place that reminded of Morningside - rustic and woodsy. Tom bought the first thing he saw - a foot bath, and would have bought much more had we not prevented him (as it was he came away with Jam, cheesecake, the foot bath, and some other things). I felt very odd there, very ill at ease and somewhat duplicitious, like I was betraying Tom by hiding in the company of Tone and Bengt, hardly talking to him. There was the added strangeness of memory of first love - "Amor Vincit Omnia" on a elegant sign - and of recent love - Bengt humming "Oh, What A Beautiful Morning."
We found Tom a hostel, but an altercation just before we left caused him to depart without bidding anyone goodbye. Bengt, Tone and I drove back to Oslo, where I'd stay with them two of the next three nights. I am eternally grateful to them and I continue to worry about Tom, who only ever meant well but simply doesn't understand he's sick. He's now in the hospital.
Song of the Day: Bus Stop - The Hollies
That night when Tom returned he kept talking to me knowingly, like I was some kind of god - asking why he gave me "this task" (I imagined everything from travel to solitude to suicide to murder to rape) - a "simple one" for all of humanity. He referred to me by many names (Imagine John, Ko, Alia... Paul) saying I was everyone, that I was too smart (he'd complimented me when we met, but never so much), suggesting that I understood the Norwegian he was speaking to Bengt. He repeated his accusation that I was chameleonic. Thankfully, I slept without incident.
The following day the four of us travelled to Gammelvala for a little crafts fair in a place that reminded of Morningside - rustic and woodsy. Tom bought the first thing he saw - a foot bath, and would have bought much more had we not prevented him (as it was he came away with Jam, cheesecake, the foot bath, and some other things). I felt very odd there, very ill at ease and somewhat duplicitious, like I was betraying Tom by hiding in the company of Tone and Bengt, hardly talking to him. There was the added strangeness of memory of first love - "Amor Vincit Omnia" on a elegant sign - and of recent love - Bengt humming "Oh, What A Beautiful Morning."
We found Tom a hostel, but an altercation just before we left caused him to depart without bidding anyone goodbye. Bengt, Tone and I drove back to Oslo, where I'd stay with them two of the next three nights. I am eternally grateful to them and I continue to worry about Tom, who only ever meant well but simply doesn't understand he's sick. He's now in the hospital.
Song of the Day: Bus Stop - The Hollies
Edane Interlude, Part II
If you are related to me you shall not read this. Not for the faint of heart. You have been warned.
I spent my next few hours in that gorgeous place in rather a whirlwind of activity. I was overcome with gratitude for Bengt and Tone's hospitality, who showed their gorgeous house, recommended me a walk and a swim, fed me, and shared great music and conversation with me. Because it was so... I'll just share the snatches I wrote that evening (which may or may not become a song):
"Chopin, even played badly
Moves like nothing else.
As the middle aged talk
Quick Norwegian flowing over a gushing brook.
And the sun dips below the horizon for an hour or two,
And the stars struggle and fail to shine through the indigo sky,
The water sparkles like rustling tinfoil and the feel of satin.
A cold shock and I am dizzy. I am scared.
Are my ears going? Why am I here?
And Chopin still goes. The pain in every key
Stroke - resounding in each note fumbled uncertain
Or pounded too hard.
A roaring fire on a cold summer night,
Snapping at the mosquitoes resting in my hair.
White wine in hand, cardamom and hibiscus,
Hot tea before me.
The guitar strings won't stay in tune.
Just replaced on Alia's admonition.
Leonard Cohen implores me to take Berlin and I think
Yes. New York is done.
Now tears squeeze at the rims of my eyes.
Though the conductor mangles Chopin -
Too march-like and the pianist melodramatic,
And rows of discs remind me how little I know,
In a hundred year old home filled with memories
(That aren't mine) left by a man suddenly passed.
My mind drifts unbidden to who I miss though
I know I miss an idea only.
And I clutch at the pages. Allegro now.
A freight train trundles by.
The light soft from candles and dim lights.
Hearing going in and out with the lake waves like static fuzz.
Where is a one to share the french lyrics on the table.
The disappointment on the streets,
The confusion and unease at the fire,
The bad Chopin."
I wrote that in a quiet time between letters in a cozy little alcove inside just before bed. Tom and I were to share a bed (since the couple couldnt have expected me) and I turned in first. I dont know how long I'd been asleep when I woke rather groggily to the feel of dull metal sliding across my cheek and the sound of Brahms. Tom was peering curiously at me - in just the curious way that made me instantly terrified. He muttered - to himself and half to me, maybe - saying he was sorry that we woke me, about how strange that life can be instantly snuffed out (the metal still dragging over my cheek was in fact a candle snuffer), how nice the radio was... Then it got odder. He asked me who I was and didn't believe when I insisted I was Terrence. He told me I was like the painting in the bathroom - sometimes it looks like a boy, sometimes a girl. He set the snuffer down and wondered to himself why some things are called sin - it's not really a sin, is it? It's a good time to try new things, right? The strangest thing was that I felt most scared that he would do something that he would regret - I honestly don't recall worrying about my safety. There was this strange, demonically posessed but naive gentleness about him and he muttered confusedly. I managed to placate him with insistences that he needed sleep (he hadn't slept more than two hours for the past few nights) and he went off for a walk.Somehow, I must have been truly exhausted, I fell asleep instantly afterwards.
That marked a turning point. After that night I started to believe Tom's "oppressors" opinions that he was sick. He began to buy everything he saw - a boat, a camper van, a speaker set, a grocery bag full of cds, random foods. He went off to a nearby town to find the girl we'd met on the train, saying he was to marry her. He was gone most the next day and I took the opportunity to travel to Arvika with Bent and Tone - a very, very strange town that felt like traveling to 1950s Texas. All the cars were from that time (it was apparently something the locals loved) and the main square downtown featured about twenty Swedes dressed in black T-shirts jeans, cowboy boots and hats all dancing in a metered square dancish way (yet all facing the same direction, moving in a tiny circle, touching their hand to their raised boot behind them, etc.) to a hilariously ironic song. The lyrics included the refrain: "I'm a country boy, I'm as country as a boy can be... I mash up my own taters and I snap me a mean green bean..." It was a strange place. There was even a ski lift into the water where people would rush down and splat into the the water beside a boat teeming with barely clothed twenty somethings just off the dock.
As for that afternoon: again here's a sketch of a couple hours with Bengt and Leonard, who we met passing down the street and invited to sit with us.
"A squat man, rotund with a great beer gut. Skin mottled and weathered but tan; thick legs, body threatening to spill out of his clothes - a too small t-shirt and daisy dukes, ripped himself it would seem, the pocket of the original jeans peeking out at the edge of the woefully short leg. Short stubbly hair around a bald patch - the fairest blonde turning grey. Leaning back, drinking a tall golden Pilsner, hands alternating between a perch behind his neck and his meaty thighs. On a newly painted, woefully old stodgy wooden deck chair, padded doubly with bright yellow cushions and white trim. Speaking Swinglish - to me, to the man across the red wooden slat table.
A man with the pale blotched skin, intense blue eyes, creased forehead and thing wisps of greased back hair that come with age and chemotherapy. No shirt covering the sagging flesh, the scars from surgical intrusions - even armpit and chest hair thin and woven into long matted ropes by sweat, stomach spilling over the front of beige shorts and belt - answering in enthusiastic, hand-accentuated round English. Short vowels swallowed, long ones stretched forever. Knobbly legs crossed over at the knee, silvery and ending in the smooth bare feet of a child. Movements sometimes wild and always laughing, shoulders heaving.
I sit picking at my calloused over heels just dipped in the still cold lake resting from the burden of comprehension in the bouts of Swedish, speaking mostly in the language of eyes."
Leonard thought I was twelve when he met me.
Song of the Day: Piano Concerto No. 1 in Em - Frédéric Chopin
I spent my next few hours in that gorgeous place in rather a whirlwind of activity. I was overcome with gratitude for Bengt and Tone's hospitality, who showed their gorgeous house, recommended me a walk and a swim, fed me, and shared great music and conversation with me. Because it was so... I'll just share the snatches I wrote that evening (which may or may not become a song):
"Chopin, even played badly
Moves like nothing else.
As the middle aged talk
Quick Norwegian flowing over a gushing brook.
And the sun dips below the horizon for an hour or two,
And the stars struggle and fail to shine through the indigo sky,
The water sparkles like rustling tinfoil and the feel of satin.
A cold shock and I am dizzy. I am scared.
Are my ears going? Why am I here?
And Chopin still goes. The pain in every key
Stroke - resounding in each note fumbled uncertain
Or pounded too hard.
A roaring fire on a cold summer night,
Snapping at the mosquitoes resting in my hair.
White wine in hand, cardamom and hibiscus,
Hot tea before me.
The guitar strings won't stay in tune.
Just replaced on Alia's admonition.
Leonard Cohen implores me to take Berlin and I think
Yes. New York is done.
Now tears squeeze at the rims of my eyes.
Though the conductor mangles Chopin -
Too march-like and the pianist melodramatic,
And rows of discs remind me how little I know,
In a hundred year old home filled with memories
(That aren't mine) left by a man suddenly passed.
My mind drifts unbidden to who I miss though
I know I miss an idea only.
And I clutch at the pages. Allegro now.
A freight train trundles by.
The light soft from candles and dim lights.
Hearing going in and out with the lake waves like static fuzz.
Where is a one to share the french lyrics on the table.
The disappointment on the streets,
The confusion and unease at the fire,
The bad Chopin."
I wrote that in a quiet time between letters in a cozy little alcove inside just before bed. Tom and I were to share a bed (since the couple couldnt have expected me) and I turned in first. I dont know how long I'd been asleep when I woke rather groggily to the feel of dull metal sliding across my cheek and the sound of Brahms. Tom was peering curiously at me - in just the curious way that made me instantly terrified. He muttered - to himself and half to me, maybe - saying he was sorry that we woke me, about how strange that life can be instantly snuffed out (the metal still dragging over my cheek was in fact a candle snuffer), how nice the radio was... Then it got odder. He asked me who I was and didn't believe when I insisted I was Terrence. He told me I was like the painting in the bathroom - sometimes it looks like a boy, sometimes a girl. He set the snuffer down and wondered to himself why some things are called sin - it's not really a sin, is it? It's a good time to try new things, right? The strangest thing was that I felt most scared that he would do something that he would regret - I honestly don't recall worrying about my safety. There was this strange, demonically posessed but naive gentleness about him and he muttered confusedly. I managed to placate him with insistences that he needed sleep (he hadn't slept more than two hours for the past few nights) and he went off for a walk.Somehow, I must have been truly exhausted, I fell asleep instantly afterwards.
That marked a turning point. After that night I started to believe Tom's "oppressors" opinions that he was sick. He began to buy everything he saw - a boat, a camper van, a speaker set, a grocery bag full of cds, random foods. He went off to a nearby town to find the girl we'd met on the train, saying he was to marry her. He was gone most the next day and I took the opportunity to travel to Arvika with Bent and Tone - a very, very strange town that felt like traveling to 1950s Texas. All the cars were from that time (it was apparently something the locals loved) and the main square downtown featured about twenty Swedes dressed in black T-shirts jeans, cowboy boots and hats all dancing in a metered square dancish way (yet all facing the same direction, moving in a tiny circle, touching their hand to their raised boot behind them, etc.) to a hilariously ironic song. The lyrics included the refrain: "I'm a country boy, I'm as country as a boy can be... I mash up my own taters and I snap me a mean green bean..." It was a strange place. There was even a ski lift into the water where people would rush down and splat into the the water beside a boat teeming with barely clothed twenty somethings just off the dock.
As for that afternoon: again here's a sketch of a couple hours with Bengt and Leonard, who we met passing down the street and invited to sit with us.
"A squat man, rotund with a great beer gut. Skin mottled and weathered but tan; thick legs, body threatening to spill out of his clothes - a too small t-shirt and daisy dukes, ripped himself it would seem, the pocket of the original jeans peeking out at the edge of the woefully short leg. Short stubbly hair around a bald patch - the fairest blonde turning grey. Leaning back, drinking a tall golden Pilsner, hands alternating between a perch behind his neck and his meaty thighs. On a newly painted, woefully old stodgy wooden deck chair, padded doubly with bright yellow cushions and white trim. Speaking Swinglish - to me, to the man across the red wooden slat table.
A man with the pale blotched skin, intense blue eyes, creased forehead and thing wisps of greased back hair that come with age and chemotherapy. No shirt covering the sagging flesh, the scars from surgical intrusions - even armpit and chest hair thin and woven into long matted ropes by sweat, stomach spilling over the front of beige shorts and belt - answering in enthusiastic, hand-accentuated round English. Short vowels swallowed, long ones stretched forever. Knobbly legs crossed over at the knee, silvery and ending in the smooth bare feet of a child. Movements sometimes wild and always laughing, shoulders heaving.
I sit picking at my calloused over heels just dipped in the still cold lake resting from the burden of comprehension in the bouts of Swedish, speaking mostly in the language of eyes."
Leonard thought I was twelve when he met me.
Song of the Day: Piano Concerto No. 1 in Em - Frédéric Chopin
Edane Interlude, Part I
Im not quite sure how to summarize the very bizarre weekend I spent in Sweden. In addition with the slowness of Oslo, the guy I was to couchsurf with cancelled the night immediately leading up to my arrival and so I had to stay at a hostel - and a last minute hostel in Oslo is not precisely inexpensive. suffice it to say that my earnings yesterday would have to have nearly tripled for me to cover the cost of a single night. I was rather low when I returned to the hostel for the second night. The things that kept my spirits up both nights were the meeting of a couple very nice people. The first night i cooked alltogether too much (.3kg salmon, half a nappa cabbage, .5kg spaghetti, 2 eggs) for dinner and therefore hung outside to invite the next hungry customer for some free food and company. Thats how I met a gently kind Taiwanese girl studying in Germany and on a brief vacation, who later invited me to stay with her in Heidelberg should I pass through. I just might.
At around one in the morning I crept into my room, trying not to wake up my one neighbor, but it turns out he wasnt really sleeping. He introduced himself as Tom, a very friendly forty-six year old Norwegian man, and we proceeded to have a two hour conversation on a great deal of things. We talked on religion, on his present situation (he was very forthcoming and I didnt feel I had any polite way of excusing myself for some sleep) - he showed me photos of his new house, told me about his plans to go to France, insisted I listen to the Eagles' The Last Resort, etc. When I finally took an opportunity to beg a few hours of sleep, he left to take a walk. The next day was my normal horrid day in Oslo. I returned late, cooked leisurely and checked my email to find that my failed couchsurfer had messaged me saying he'd wait for me at a certain metro stop at 22h. It was already 23h. I called him frantically on the payphone, but I couldnt understand the message it was giving me (it being in Norwegian). I'd been moved to a different room but I ran up to the old room in search of Tom. He came back right after I'd acquired the phone of his new roommate - and translated the message as the number not being in service. (Note: In Norway they tend to have males doing generic voices (the tram, automatic answers, etc.) more often than females, which is different, nice - but it confused me.) We had a brief talk where I bemoaned the horridness of Oslo, and he suggested that I come with him to Sweden to visit his friends - that would get me out of the hostel (and it's absurd 220 NOK/a night cost) at least and into the country.
Now, most of you know how spontaneous I can be. And how naive. Obviously I agreed: we'd meet the following day at the train station (by the tiger) just past noon. He assured me he'd call them the next morning and if they weren't ok with it, I'd be fine with going into the city to busk instead. We even made further plans that I'd go with him in a week to France - a free ride! I thought - all the way to France. Score!
The next day I showed up and he was rather late. I whiled away the time by playing on this wonderful public artwork: someone had noticed that the steps from the upper to lower plazas outside of the train station numbered 8 to a tier and had installed a set of thin, rainbow colored cushy pads linked to a speaker system upon the top tier. I think it was a Cmaj scale (not entirely positive, and I think it sounded a little sharp). Regardless, most people avoided it or were surprised by it when they rushed over it. Kids were delighted and just ran up and down (this was how I discovered the installation: how annoying, I thought, someone's brought out a keyboard and an amp and is playing scales with no sense of time). As these steps were just above the tiger statue, I set my things down and proceeded to play around. I'd brainstorm a song entirely in one octave, easily recognizable and all in major and try to play it. It was rather a workout on this unusually hot day and the keys were not quite as sensitive as I liked but I perservered.
I think I started with Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Then Three Blind Mice. Then Mary Had A Little Lamb. These were easy - all the intervals were quite close. Then I got a little more ambitious Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. I was more warmed up and had the positions of the steps better gauged so I could vault the fifth at the beginning of the song quite comfortably. I can't remember what came after that, but after a little rest I decided to have a go at some Beethoven: the Ode to Joy part of his 9th Symphony. Took me a couple goes but I got it :) - there was one rather large jump down in it. After Beethoven I felt very pleased with myself and decided I'd finish up with Sound of Music, so I jumped about for Do-Re-Mi. Crap it was difficult. "Do a dear" till "far a long long way to run" was alright but once I got So La Ti and especially the run at the end.. oh that was a nightmare. Jumping down fifths and then navigating thirds and an arpeggio down - but I got it on go three! I think I could have stayed there all day. Passersby were wildly entertained by my antics and when I played Ode to Joy people stopped and clapped. I even drew a crowd - maybe I should play the stairs instead of the guitar...
Tom finally arrived, riding his bike without a shirt and looking rather manic and we whisked through the the station and directly onto the train - he assured me we'd be able to pay on board (I made sure to check with the controller) and chatted her up to get us discounts. We talked most of the way in until I decided to get seats further up and write some letters. He hung back and told me he needed to call his friend. I was appalled - what would happen if his friend refused and I arrived in the middle of nowhere Sweden? He disappeared for quite a while on the phone and when I went to look for him he'd been chatting up a twenty year old girl about tattoos. He said he wanted an orange dolphin. I thought it very strange that we was using English almost exclusively but we got off without further incident by a gorgeous lake in Edane, Sweden - population 709. Happily his friend had acquiesced and I saw them waving at us from the station. They - Bengt and Tone - would be a lifeline I clung to in the following days.
Song of the Day: Do-Re-Mi - Sound of Music Soundtrack
At around one in the morning I crept into my room, trying not to wake up my one neighbor, but it turns out he wasnt really sleeping. He introduced himself as Tom, a very friendly forty-six year old Norwegian man, and we proceeded to have a two hour conversation on a great deal of things. We talked on religion, on his present situation (he was very forthcoming and I didnt feel I had any polite way of excusing myself for some sleep) - he showed me photos of his new house, told me about his plans to go to France, insisted I listen to the Eagles' The Last Resort, etc. When I finally took an opportunity to beg a few hours of sleep, he left to take a walk. The next day was my normal horrid day in Oslo. I returned late, cooked leisurely and checked my email to find that my failed couchsurfer had messaged me saying he'd wait for me at a certain metro stop at 22h. It was already 23h. I called him frantically on the payphone, but I couldnt understand the message it was giving me (it being in Norwegian). I'd been moved to a different room but I ran up to the old room in search of Tom. He came back right after I'd acquired the phone of his new roommate - and translated the message as the number not being in service. (Note: In Norway they tend to have males doing generic voices (the tram, automatic answers, etc.) more often than females, which is different, nice - but it confused me.) We had a brief talk where I bemoaned the horridness of Oslo, and he suggested that I come with him to Sweden to visit his friends - that would get me out of the hostel (and it's absurd 220 NOK/a night cost) at least and into the country.
Now, most of you know how spontaneous I can be. And how naive. Obviously I agreed: we'd meet the following day at the train station (by the tiger) just past noon. He assured me he'd call them the next morning and if they weren't ok with it, I'd be fine with going into the city to busk instead. We even made further plans that I'd go with him in a week to France - a free ride! I thought - all the way to France. Score!
The next day I showed up and he was rather late. I whiled away the time by playing on this wonderful public artwork: someone had noticed that the steps from the upper to lower plazas outside of the train station numbered 8 to a tier and had installed a set of thin, rainbow colored cushy pads linked to a speaker system upon the top tier. I think it was a Cmaj scale (not entirely positive, and I think it sounded a little sharp). Regardless, most people avoided it or were surprised by it when they rushed over it. Kids were delighted and just ran up and down (this was how I discovered the installation: how annoying, I thought, someone's brought out a keyboard and an amp and is playing scales with no sense of time). As these steps were just above the tiger statue, I set my things down and proceeded to play around. I'd brainstorm a song entirely in one octave, easily recognizable and all in major and try to play it. It was rather a workout on this unusually hot day and the keys were not quite as sensitive as I liked but I perservered.
I think I started with Row, Row, Row Your Boat. Then Three Blind Mice. Then Mary Had A Little Lamb. These were easy - all the intervals were quite close. Then I got a little more ambitious Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star. I was more warmed up and had the positions of the steps better gauged so I could vault the fifth at the beginning of the song quite comfortably. I can't remember what came after that, but after a little rest I decided to have a go at some Beethoven: the Ode to Joy part of his 9th Symphony. Took me a couple goes but I got it :) - there was one rather large jump down in it. After Beethoven I felt very pleased with myself and decided I'd finish up with Sound of Music, so I jumped about for Do-Re-Mi. Crap it was difficult. "Do a dear" till "far a long long way to run" was alright but once I got So La Ti and especially the run at the end.. oh that was a nightmare. Jumping down fifths and then navigating thirds and an arpeggio down - but I got it on go three! I think I could have stayed there all day. Passersby were wildly entertained by my antics and when I played Ode to Joy people stopped and clapped. I even drew a crowd - maybe I should play the stairs instead of the guitar...
Tom finally arrived, riding his bike without a shirt and looking rather manic and we whisked through the the station and directly onto the train - he assured me we'd be able to pay on board (I made sure to check with the controller) and chatted her up to get us discounts. We talked most of the way in until I decided to get seats further up and write some letters. He hung back and told me he needed to call his friend. I was appalled - what would happen if his friend refused and I arrived in the middle of nowhere Sweden? He disappeared for quite a while on the phone and when I went to look for him he'd been chatting up a twenty year old girl about tattoos. He said he wanted an orange dolphin. I thought it very strange that we was using English almost exclusively but we got off without further incident by a gorgeous lake in Edane, Sweden - population 709. Happily his friend had acquiesced and I saw them waving at us from the station. They - Bengt and Tone - would be a lifeline I clung to in the following days.
Song of the Day: Do-Re-Mi - Sound of Music Soundtrack
Monday, July 12, 2010
Oh So Slow in Oslo, Day 1
After all the hope I held out for Norway, it looks like Ill be bleeding kroner like crazy. The currency here has an appaling relation to the euro and an even more terrifying exchange with the dollar. Even beyond that everything manages to amaze me in price. Id been warned over and over when I told others Id be headed to Norway of its priciness, but I was rather looking forward to it. Thought I, "Hey, people will give me about the same, so Ill net more money once I exchange on the continent." Everyone told me the Norwegians are especially friendly, too.
Little did I know that the friendliness comes almost exclusively in thumbs up and smiles. I got those in spades today (7.1.10). I tried to combine sightseeing and busking but the very slow cash flow depressed the hell out of me. I went about the day the right way, too - waking relatively early to scope out possible pitches, consulting a couple policemen before setting up my pitch, etc.
My first pitch was at the base of Karl Johans Gate near the train station. I set up first at the middle of the slope on the sunny side but the sun impinged my ability to make eye contact so I moved along shortly, down the hill to the very base, across from a curious tourist shop which featured a large troll in norwegian dress, stands of postcards, sunglasses and viking helmets, and manned by two middle eastern looking folks. One of these brightened instantly once I started playing. Throughout the pitch hed take any pause to watch me. Towards the end, he had some customers snap a photo of him with me behind.
Unfortunately, these were the only kind of tips I got. I had fun smiling back and bowing my head towards the passersby for a while, but after about half an hour I got rather annoyed. A gaggle of four high school girls snapped some photos from that same shop, giggling away. I finished a song and proceeded to sing them something sweet, I forget what exactly, which precipitated in a fresh giggling fit. They snapped endless photographs, some with them in front of the camera also, and one memorable (and mortifying) one when one of them used her hands to frame me in a heart. Of course, once I finished they moved lazily on, giggling and sneaking obvious glances my way.
When I finished I had a chat with the shop owners who told me to walk up the hill a ways for a better spot. I had a look about but didnt like any of the places and decided to take a rest. The park about the castle helped recharge me - and I was most amused to see some absurdly tanned Norwegian girls lying on the grass while a huddle of Asian tourists crowded each other under a few umbrellas. I wandered up to Aker Brygge next and saw a lovely plaza which reminded me strongly of Maya Lin - bricks waving up to form hillocks backed by steps and fountains.
At Aker Brygge I asked a waitress at the ubiquitous TGIF if I could play across from the restaurant and she smiled her approval. But after just one song security came around and told me I had to play elsewhere, outside of Aker Brygge proper. The best spot was dominated by a horrid, slumping gypsy accordian player and two statues so I walked on, back towards Karl Johans Gate.
I was stopped by a trio who were selling necklaces at a bottleneck on the thoroughfare from the dock to the main drag, who liked my guitar. We decided I should play next to them. I had a hard time navigating their accents, but managed alright, settling on a decidely neutral Spanish to keep myself going crazy trying to decide whether to appease the Spanish girl with the soft "c" or the Argentian with some "sh"s or the Colombian who just wanted to speak in English. That was a time that saved the day. I got hardly anything but it was nice to have someone to talk to and share in the misery of tight fisted passersby. I lent my guitar to the Argentian a few times and considered joining him the following day to watch the match against Germany.
At the very end of the pitch an Iraqi man came by and borrowed my guitar to sing "Bandolero," quite well. He managed to get the tips I didnt :). You know, seven kroner or so. After handing me back the guitar he made some disparaging comments about its lack of "boom," while also complimenting my voice: "It doesnt matter if you have a good voice. You have to reach the people with your guitar, too." He then pulled out his drum to demonstrate and we played a few songs together. First he and the Argentinian, then he and I (Relax, Take it Easy). The spanish speakers packed up to move to Karl Johans gate and I walked there with them and parting with the Iraqi man before finally deciding to part with the others as well and head home for the day.
Earnings: 79 NOK, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: Your Song - Elton John
Little did I know that the friendliness comes almost exclusively in thumbs up and smiles. I got those in spades today (7.1.10). I tried to combine sightseeing and busking but the very slow cash flow depressed the hell out of me. I went about the day the right way, too - waking relatively early to scope out possible pitches, consulting a couple policemen before setting up my pitch, etc.
My first pitch was at the base of Karl Johans Gate near the train station. I set up first at the middle of the slope on the sunny side but the sun impinged my ability to make eye contact so I moved along shortly, down the hill to the very base, across from a curious tourist shop which featured a large troll in norwegian dress, stands of postcards, sunglasses and viking helmets, and manned by two middle eastern looking folks. One of these brightened instantly once I started playing. Throughout the pitch hed take any pause to watch me. Towards the end, he had some customers snap a photo of him with me behind.
Unfortunately, these were the only kind of tips I got. I had fun smiling back and bowing my head towards the passersby for a while, but after about half an hour I got rather annoyed. A gaggle of four high school girls snapped some photos from that same shop, giggling away. I finished a song and proceeded to sing them something sweet, I forget what exactly, which precipitated in a fresh giggling fit. They snapped endless photographs, some with them in front of the camera also, and one memorable (and mortifying) one when one of them used her hands to frame me in a heart. Of course, once I finished they moved lazily on, giggling and sneaking obvious glances my way.
When I finished I had a chat with the shop owners who told me to walk up the hill a ways for a better spot. I had a look about but didnt like any of the places and decided to take a rest. The park about the castle helped recharge me - and I was most amused to see some absurdly tanned Norwegian girls lying on the grass while a huddle of Asian tourists crowded each other under a few umbrellas. I wandered up to Aker Brygge next and saw a lovely plaza which reminded me strongly of Maya Lin - bricks waving up to form hillocks backed by steps and fountains.
At Aker Brygge I asked a waitress at the ubiquitous TGIF if I could play across from the restaurant and she smiled her approval. But after just one song security came around and told me I had to play elsewhere, outside of Aker Brygge proper. The best spot was dominated by a horrid, slumping gypsy accordian player and two statues so I walked on, back towards Karl Johans Gate.
I was stopped by a trio who were selling necklaces at a bottleneck on the thoroughfare from the dock to the main drag, who liked my guitar. We decided I should play next to them. I had a hard time navigating their accents, but managed alright, settling on a decidely neutral Spanish to keep myself going crazy trying to decide whether to appease the Spanish girl with the soft "c" or the Argentian with some "sh"s or the Colombian who just wanted to speak in English. That was a time that saved the day. I got hardly anything but it was nice to have someone to talk to and share in the misery of tight fisted passersby. I lent my guitar to the Argentian a few times and considered joining him the following day to watch the match against Germany.
At the very end of the pitch an Iraqi man came by and borrowed my guitar to sing "Bandolero," quite well. He managed to get the tips I didnt :). You know, seven kroner or so. After handing me back the guitar he made some disparaging comments about its lack of "boom," while also complimenting my voice: "It doesnt matter if you have a good voice. You have to reach the people with your guitar, too." He then pulled out his drum to demonstrate and we played a few songs together. First he and the Argentinian, then he and I (Relax, Take it Easy). The spanish speakers packed up to move to Karl Johans gate and I walked there with them and parting with the Iraqi man before finally deciding to part with the others as well and head home for the day.
Earnings: 79 NOK, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: Your Song - Elton John
Regarding photos and recordings
Yea... I havent a camera but I have made friends along the way so Ill post some at some point! Recordings have also been... difficult. I tend to dislike the sound of them when I review them.
Please keep commenting - give me pointers on my style, if something occurs to you on what I can do better (on the street or in writing or in life) or just the occasional "Hi Im reading!" And give me your addresses if you want letters.
ttfn,
t
Please keep commenting - give me pointers on my style, if something occurs to you on what I can do better (on the street or in writing or in life) or just the occasional "Hi Im reading!" And give me your addresses if you want letters.
ttfn,
t
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Lax, Stockholm, and Two Smoking Buskers, Day 5
My final pitch in Stockholm. I didn't have a ton of time today (6.29.10) so I settled what had become my standard pitch - 7/11. I'd walked down from T-Centralen passing rubbish spots and rubbish buskers all the way down and that was the only free, promising spot. It was precisely a week (a little later in the day) from my first pitch in Stockholm and the same girl was working the fur store across from me. Further west on the road a decently talented pair of guys were singing Stayin' Alive and hawking their 50 SEK CDs.
I was determined to avoid the songs Id tired out a bit and wrote a short list of the neglected ones in my repertoire. It felt like a slow pitch but turned out rather better than expected, especially considering I played sparingly little of the oldies. Naturally, though, Fly Me to the Moon was the people noticed and tipped for - so after that I played Country Roads just to keep those tippers happy. I sang well despite a protesting throat, finding lower harmonies to preserve my voice much like many artists do live (like Sting did oh so disappointingly when I saw the Police in Cleveland).
A sunny day marked by a different crowd - almost universally forty or fifty somethings, many in package tours and most in largish groups. I've found that such groups are not prime for tips. Nothing truly memorable occurred aside from a few youngsters successfully eliciting compassion from their parents. At the end of my set precisely, the manager of the fur shop asked me kindly but sternly to move down the road. Of course, I took refuge in the bookstore.
On my way back (I decided to walk back to Pontus' to avoid paying the fare) I ran into the waiter from the other night on Drottninggatan. He clapped me on the back, shook my hand, smiled very broadly and wished me all the best of luck. I got back just in time to head off to have dinner with Pontus' wonderful mother at a charming little house on the French Island. Gorgeous food, wonderful weather sitting outside, the absolute best of company.
Earnings: 155 SEK + €2.60 + 5 DKK, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: Fly Me to the Moon - Frank Sinatra
I was determined to avoid the songs Id tired out a bit and wrote a short list of the neglected ones in my repertoire. It felt like a slow pitch but turned out rather better than expected, especially considering I played sparingly little of the oldies. Naturally, though, Fly Me to the Moon was the people noticed and tipped for - so after that I played Country Roads just to keep those tippers happy. I sang well despite a protesting throat, finding lower harmonies to preserve my voice much like many artists do live (like Sting did oh so disappointingly when I saw the Police in Cleveland).
A sunny day marked by a different crowd - almost universally forty or fifty somethings, many in package tours and most in largish groups. I've found that such groups are not prime for tips. Nothing truly memorable occurred aside from a few youngsters successfully eliciting compassion from their parents. At the end of my set precisely, the manager of the fur shop asked me kindly but sternly to move down the road. Of course, I took refuge in the bookstore.
On my way back (I decided to walk back to Pontus' to avoid paying the fare) I ran into the waiter from the other night on Drottninggatan. He clapped me on the back, shook my hand, smiled very broadly and wished me all the best of luck. I got back just in time to head off to have dinner with Pontus' wonderful mother at a charming little house on the French Island. Gorgeous food, wonderful weather sitting outside, the absolute best of company.
Earnings: 155 SEK + €2.60 + 5 DKK, 1.5 hours
Song of the Day: Fly Me to the Moon - Frank Sinatra
Lax, Stockholm, and Two Smoking Buskers, Day 4
It's funny how thin skinned I am. How one nasty experience can mar an entire pitch.
I took up the pitch by the 7/11 once again today (6.28.10), hoping to replicate my results from the first day. Making sure to sing softer songs in the more comfortable bit of my range (never wandering above an E4, rarely above D4) I set up a mostly comfortable pitch to an increasingly appreciative audience. As the pitch wore on I got more happy looks and more tips, but people were generally tightfisted.
One guy leaned against a doorway across and to my left for more than half my set, having his friends stand and listen with him before departing without looking at me. Another young man sat himself on a step nearby with similar results. My tippers were once again 80% female, with quite a few taking notice when I sang I Will Follow You Into the Dark. One brace squealed, "That's so sweet!" at each other.
But just as the pitch was starting to warm up and I was hoping to milk it for another half hour, disaster struck. It had been otherwise an average pitch with the usual successes and such but I could feel the place warming to me as the day grew longer and the sun started to etch into more of the street - an occasion I greeted with Here Comes the Sun, of course. People were smiling more, stopping more - by my second to last song, Mrs. Robinson, I had a small audience of seven or so - no tips but things were looking up.
A pair of very young musicians had passed earlier and I'd smiled and nodded at them as I always do when I see a fellow musicians. They kept their heads down and hurried on by. Moments later, halfway through a song, I heard a very loud, very badly played saxophone filling the street. There was no way I could be heard over that. Irritated and crestfallen I looked beseeching at my small audience, one forty something man saying "That's extremely rude." and echoed with anothers, "Bad form." I'm afraid I took this opportunity to abuse them, and all no talent "performers" quite hotly - the saxophonist was playing halting, offtune scales with no sense of rhythm while his guitarist friend looked at him stupidly, hand slack on the top of his guitar. My audience comisserated with me briefly, I thanked them for that, they didnt tip me, and I strode up to the offending pair after packing up.
I told them off for a good two minutes. They looked terrified of me, saying they weren't aware they were infringing on my space. I explained as kindly as I could in my rage that the saxophone is a very loud instrument and if you can hear me I can definitely hear you - especially as they'd set up not 15 meters down the street. I told them how things should be done - you ask for the pitch and I'll be glad to give it to you in a few minutes. You make friends. You respect others, even if you don't agree with their music. Etc. It didn't make me feel any better, but reading a book in the Science Fiction store in silence afterwards did.
Nerd Paradise. The last, appropriately shitty photo my camera ever took.
Earnings: 66 SEK + €2.30, 1 hour
Song of the Day: I Will Follow You Into the Dark - Death Cab for Cutie
I took up the pitch by the 7/11 once again today (6.28.10), hoping to replicate my results from the first day. Making sure to sing softer songs in the more comfortable bit of my range (never wandering above an E4, rarely above D4) I set up a mostly comfortable pitch to an increasingly appreciative audience. As the pitch wore on I got more happy looks and more tips, but people were generally tightfisted.
One guy leaned against a doorway across and to my left for more than half my set, having his friends stand and listen with him before departing without looking at me. Another young man sat himself on a step nearby with similar results. My tippers were once again 80% female, with quite a few taking notice when I sang I Will Follow You Into the Dark. One brace squealed, "That's so sweet!" at each other.
But just as the pitch was starting to warm up and I was hoping to milk it for another half hour, disaster struck. It had been otherwise an average pitch with the usual successes and such but I could feel the place warming to me as the day grew longer and the sun started to etch into more of the street - an occasion I greeted with Here Comes the Sun, of course. People were smiling more, stopping more - by my second to last song, Mrs. Robinson, I had a small audience of seven or so - no tips but things were looking up.
A pair of very young musicians had passed earlier and I'd smiled and nodded at them as I always do when I see a fellow musicians. They kept their heads down and hurried on by. Moments later, halfway through a song, I heard a very loud, very badly played saxophone filling the street. There was no way I could be heard over that. Irritated and crestfallen I looked beseeching at my small audience, one forty something man saying "That's extremely rude." and echoed with anothers, "Bad form." I'm afraid I took this opportunity to abuse them, and all no talent "performers" quite hotly - the saxophonist was playing halting, offtune scales with no sense of rhythm while his guitarist friend looked at him stupidly, hand slack on the top of his guitar. My audience comisserated with me briefly, I thanked them for that, they didnt tip me, and I strode up to the offending pair after packing up.
I told them off for a good two minutes. They looked terrified of me, saying they weren't aware they were infringing on my space. I explained as kindly as I could in my rage that the saxophone is a very loud instrument and if you can hear me I can definitely hear you - especially as they'd set up not 15 meters down the street. I told them how things should be done - you ask for the pitch and I'll be glad to give it to you in a few minutes. You make friends. You respect others, even if you don't agree with their music. Etc. It didn't make me feel any better, but reading a book in the Science Fiction store in silence afterwards did.
Nerd Paradise. The last, appropriately shitty photo my camera ever took.
Earnings: 66 SEK + €2.30, 1 hour
Song of the Day: I Will Follow You Into the Dark - Death Cab for Cutie
Lax, Stockholm, and Two Smoking Buskers, Day 3
There's something yucky and scratchy in my throat, even though I've rested it for nearly two days. It feels like allergies but it's not varying like those normally do. Just lingering and a nuisance. Another rubbish pitch tonight (6.27.10), have I run out of luck? If Helsinki is to be a measuring stick I do best on the first night and the last, but it's hardly scientific to use a sample size of one. It's a Sunday at the conclusion of Midsommar so I figured people would be lazing about and walking the streets. I guess not.
I set up on Drottninggatan near the crossing to Parliament island around 19:00. After a short pitch facing perpendicular to the street in the middle I moved to another pitch across from a nice cafe, after checking with the waitstaff. The first pitch was hard to manage with people going every which way. A bit overwhelming. One man starting dancing in a silly fashion behind me while I played I'm Yours as his girlfriend watched on, giggling. Needless to say, no tip.
The second pitch was much more comfortable. The money was no good but the audience showed their appreciation in glances and smiles - especially the waitstaff. They'd asked if I was any good before I started and I said I was alright. As soon as I started Sound of Silence both waiters looked up and smiled broadly at me, probably surprised by my voice. I think they also sensed how little I was earning and kept giving me kind, encouraging glances throughout the hour.
Again I had my things with me as I was between Cristophe's and surfing with Pontus again. I'd hoped the cafe would be a good spot, what with a captive audience and a narrowing of the street. The cafegoers universally liked my music - no dirty looks, lots of nostalgic spacing out in my direction, lots of surprised and appreciative "oh"s. They stayed æeons at the place but when they left hardly any of them tipped me. Just this one German man after I'd finished, packed up and sat writing on the bench, saying "Thank you for the music" before rushing off to join his family. Of particular annoyance were two girls who I could tell were staying for my music. They had a reaction after every song, stayed long after their food was finished and only left once I'd tired and packed up, after which they left promptly. Surely this was no coincidence.
One man sang along to Let it Be as he passed and another sang along some minutes later to In My Life. The evening seems a good time for me as its an appropriate time for my generally slower fare. As ever, youngsters mocked me as I sang Hallelujah and Hello. Buggers. One nice young Swede sat down on hearing me, showing his appreciation in spades with smiles and by closing his eyes to listen while I sang Scarborough Fair and Ue Wo Muite Arukou. A small tip but I appreciated it - a small tip from a poor man who smiles at me is worth so much more than a large one from a sneering one. People stopped and seemed sent back into the past with Mrs. Robinson and Over the Rainbow, especially. And Falling Slowly again got impressed looks. A lot of children lingered but their parents were unusually tightfisted. All in all a rather dispiriting outing, especially as I felt I sang quite well.
Earnings: 78 SEK, 1.2 hours
Song of the Day: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole
I set up on Drottninggatan near the crossing to Parliament island around 19:00. After a short pitch facing perpendicular to the street in the middle I moved to another pitch across from a nice cafe, after checking with the waitstaff. The first pitch was hard to manage with people going every which way. A bit overwhelming. One man starting dancing in a silly fashion behind me while I played I'm Yours as his girlfriend watched on, giggling. Needless to say, no tip.
The second pitch was much more comfortable. The money was no good but the audience showed their appreciation in glances and smiles - especially the waitstaff. They'd asked if I was any good before I started and I said I was alright. As soon as I started Sound of Silence both waiters looked up and smiled broadly at me, probably surprised by my voice. I think they also sensed how little I was earning and kept giving me kind, encouraging glances throughout the hour.
Again I had my things with me as I was between Cristophe's and surfing with Pontus again. I'd hoped the cafe would be a good spot, what with a captive audience and a narrowing of the street. The cafegoers universally liked my music - no dirty looks, lots of nostalgic spacing out in my direction, lots of surprised and appreciative "oh"s. They stayed æeons at the place but when they left hardly any of them tipped me. Just this one German man after I'd finished, packed up and sat writing on the bench, saying "Thank you for the music" before rushing off to join his family. Of particular annoyance were two girls who I could tell were staying for my music. They had a reaction after every song, stayed long after their food was finished and only left once I'd tired and packed up, after which they left promptly. Surely this was no coincidence.
One man sang along to Let it Be as he passed and another sang along some minutes later to In My Life. The evening seems a good time for me as its an appropriate time for my generally slower fare. As ever, youngsters mocked me as I sang Hallelujah and Hello. Buggers. One nice young Swede sat down on hearing me, showing his appreciation in spades with smiles and by closing his eyes to listen while I sang Scarborough Fair and Ue Wo Muite Arukou. A small tip but I appreciated it - a small tip from a poor man who smiles at me is worth so much more than a large one from a sneering one. People stopped and seemed sent back into the past with Mrs. Robinson and Over the Rainbow, especially. And Falling Slowly again got impressed looks. A lot of children lingered but their parents were unusually tightfisted. All in all a rather dispiriting outing, especially as I felt I sang quite well.
Earnings: 78 SEK, 1.2 hours
Song of the Day: Somewhere Over the Rainbow - Israel Kamakawiwo'ole
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