Soothing the Beast in All of Us

We are all so emotionally and mentally fragile.   I think most of us hang in the balance, where we could be sent over the edge mentally, and for some of us, it wouldn't take much.  The city can be a tough place to live at times, especially around holidays, when emotions run high.  It can also be a haven for the mentally ill, the homeless, where they can often find shelter, warmth and food.  Somewhere.
Suburban Station offers that to the homeless and the mentally ill.  With the bitter cold temperatures and the snow and ice from this week's storm, the concourse has been a gathering place for many, who otherwise would be freezing.  This week I have become more aware of homelessness and mental illness than during a normal week. 
So many people who are mentally fragile visit me every day.  I'd like to think, it was my music which soothes the tortured beast within them.  I'd like to think my music is the language which we have in common.  There is a an attractive young Asian woman who strides up to me daily, talking a blue streak in an Asian language I don't recognize, non-stop, using hand gestures and pantomime.  Her sweat pants are usually wet to the knees.  She's not dressed for the weather.  There is, however, no negativity in her.  She seems gentle and sweet.  I wish I understood what she says.  Sometimes she mimics rocking a baby.  I'm sure she has a story to tell.  Then there is the man who curses me out.  Every day he calls me all kinds of expletives, as I just continue to sing.  There's also the aging hippie, who always stops and talks to me for about three or four minutes about how I would probably earn more money if he just moved on and left me alone to do my singing.  There's a twinkle in his eye.  He starts to leave, then stops, turns around, and pretends to come back, then starts to leave, turns, pretends to come back, smiling the whole time, like, he's just messing with me.  Then leaves for good.  
Many of the others ask me for money.  Yesterday eight people asked me for money before I got my first tip (they were eyeing the eight dollars I put in the guitar case at the start as "seed money").  The open guitar case with money can be a lure.  Yet I'd like to think it is the music.  Beyond language and words.  Tapping into the emotions directly.
Maybe that's why I feel drained after singing for two-and-a-half hours.  I don't usually take a break.  In that 150 minutes I've sung songs about all kinds of pain and sorrow and joy and love.  I've met so many people who smile at me, as well as those who vent their anger at me, or share a story in Vietnamese, or some other language.  Most of the time their stories are in English, and I've understood every word.  In that short time, I've been through the emotional wringer. 
I don't know what the answer is to homelessness, much less mental illness.
Like war between nations, I think it is a condition that will always exist, as long as there are people on earth. 
And I'd like to think there will always be music, people making music, sharing music, in public and in private, to soothe the beast within all of us.....

Wisdom, Blessings, Children's Smiles

I arrived on Monday morning at the P&C Restaurant, as usual, to get my green tea and bottle of water.  I always like checking in with my Korean friends who run the restaurant.  The cook is also a very friendly and warm gentleman, albeit a man of few words.  He always calls me "Mr. David," out of respect.  As I wished them a good day, the cook smiled at me and said, "Play from the heart."

Simple words of advice.  But somehow those words hit me between the eyes.  They just seemed so profound at the moment.  I've always known, with creating any art, straight from the heart is the best way to go.  But somehow his reminding me of this was a gift at this moment.  I thanked him for his wisdom.
His words echoed in my head the entire time I played and sang that day.
Thank you, Mr. Joseph, for your wisdom.
Often I receive rewards other than coins and dollar bills for my playing.  A young woman in a Santa Claus hat stood before me yesterday, smiling.  At the end of the song, I smiled back.  All she said was, "God bless you."  She moved on.....
The holidays are all about children.  Mothers and fathers are walking through the concourse now doing holiday shopping or maybe just enjoying being out among people in this season of lights.  Often when children are wheeled by in strollers, their eyes become transfixed on me.  I'm sure I catch their attention. Voice, guitar, the novelty.  Often they are old enough to point at me or smile with crinkly eyes, sparkling eyes.  Yesterday a grandmother was drinking coffee and eating pastries with two young girls, maybe four and six.  They kept turning around and looking at me, pointing, smiling.  Finally the grandmother gave one of them a dollar.  Shyly she inched her way toward me and hesitated, before dropping her dollar into my case.  I wished her a Merry Christmas....  Grandmother and girls left, but passed by me twice during the next hour to wave and smile.....
I think the light and sparkle...the entire spirit of the season.... was captured in that 6-year-old smile.
Blessings.  God has blessed me.
Feliz Navidad.

Grand Coincidence Brings Us Together

This week has been an interesting and beautiful week.  It started out with a delivery woman from the flower store with her bicycle helmet and sunglasses on,  passing out flowers, long-stemmed white lilies, to everyone sitting at the tables near me, and she even placed a lily in my guitar case.  At the end of the day, I left my flower in a bottle of spring water with the woman who runs the Asian Restaurant.
And then the woman from Iran, who swings by every day to check the mail for her company, stopped by to talk this time.  It was great getting to know her.  She has the most infectious smile...  She works for the Welcome Bureau of Philadelphia, and was wondering if I'd play for her holiday party.....Muslims celebrating Christmas.....  I think of the news, the bombings, the demonstrations in Tehran these days.  Yet it is not an issue for us.  Muslim, Christian, atheist...we're all brothers and sisters.....  The festival of  lights brings us together....
And yesterday, there was the young banjo player from Georgia, who plays "clawhammer" style...covered with tatoos, singing in a high-pitched Appalacian style to accompany his playing.  He is a new-comer, first day...very enthusiastic and optimistic....  We hit it off immediately and I have found a new brother....
And today, a mentally-deranged Asian woman I've see many times, spoke no English with me, only an Asian language I didn't recognize, and machine-gunned me in that sweet language and wouldn't stop.  I started singing, in English, of course, to counter her monologue, and her harangue softened, as her face softened.  She smiled and her voice started to take on tonal qualities, and she ended up blending with me, harmonizing with me in her language....beautiful and sweet...her face softened and she was almost crying.....  We were connecting, without understanding...as she swayed back and forth.  Raw emotion...  At the end of the song, she turned and walked away....
Annie Dillard writes "grand coincidence brings us together, upright and within earshot, in this flickering generation of human life on this durable planet--common language or not..."
Yes, the music can take you to new places of enlightenment.....beyond language, beyond culture and history, to a place where there are no political or cultural barriers, where language doesn't exist, where the only language spoken is Love....

Electricity in the Air, New Songs

It's hard not to feel it, there's an electricity in the air.  The holidays will do that.  Monday, as I was singing and playing, shipments of white and red poinsettias rumbled by on dollies.  Business at the flower shop near to where I sing has picked up.  Shoppers carry large bags, bulging with rolls of wrapping paper from the dollar stores.  Salvation Army bellringers beckon us to give, shaking their bells, in harmony, at opposite ends of the concourse.  Maybe that's a coincidence, that they are in harmony, but I don't think so.  I was informed by a hammer-dulcimer player, that one bell was in B-flat.  Ring, ring, ring...reminds me of my childhood on the streets of Boston.
The electricity is infectious, and music is part of that.  I've added a few secular holiday songs, like "Silver Bells," to brighten my setlist.  Share the spirit.  They balance out the heavier songs of August Sky that question society, not to mention those of Eddie Vedder like "Society" and "Long Nights," and those by  Donovan like "Try for the Sun" and "Ballad of the Crystal Man," which questions war.  I tend to fall in love with dark songs.
I've also added several of my favorite August Sky songs.  You can listen to these on our webpage:
www.cdbaby.com/augustsky1 and www.cdbaby.com/augustsky2
It's interesting to me that Patricia and I wrote so many songs to celebrate and pay tribute to the older people in our lives.  To paint a picture of the poignancy of aging.  These songs include "92," "In the Soft Light of Morning," and "The Bag Lady."  I'm also singing songs of yearning by August Sky like "Dreams of Horses," "Looking for Jonathan," and "Searching."
Regardless of your background or beliefs, there is a lot of good music out there this month, both live and recorded.  I hope you're able to enjoy some of it.  Music takes us to a different place, a magic place. 
My wish for you during the holidays is that you find that different, that magic place.

Giving Thanks

There are many things I give thanks for.  Although the world is not a perfect place, I am grateful for so many things.  This week has showered me with many blessings.
For example, on Monday, I went into the P&C Restaurant to get my usual green tea with lemon and a bottle of water, before I started playing in Suburban Station.  Henry, the son of the owner who works behind the counter, greeted me with his usual smile.  He looked up at the clock and said, "You're late. It's one-thirty."  I cherished this moment.  Attention must be paid.
Also, my Chinese opera singer stopped by and asked me, "Are you going to be here tomorrow?"
Sweet.
Then there was the police woman who sat down at the cafe table near me.  I was singing the song "September Morning."  She looked at me and smiled, listening, as I sang the chorus, "We're all tied together, like lights on a tree, this flow of humanity, these people and me, the squirrels and the pigeons, the birds in the tree, we're all tied together, these creatures and me."  She nodded in approval.
Then my new friend Sumaki stopped by for tea and a conversation.  Then a coworker from my job at the museum appeared and listened for a while and then talked about August Sky and our albums.
I am grateful for my friends and family, for the love I feel.....
I wish for all my friends that you feel as blessed in this holiday season.

It's All About the People, Part 2

Austin, a philosopher, and I talked about the connections we all have with each other and how we affect each other permanently with our auras and vibrations.  I sang for him a song that Patricia and I wrote called "September Painting," which appears on our second album "Flight."  If you want to hear it, you can log on to www.cdbaby.com/augustsky2 and give it a listen.  The lyrics celebrate our interconnectedness.  It's all about the people....

September Painting

September morning, I sit in the park,
People walking, laughing, talking,
The splashes of color, the flashes of light,
Is it a van Gogh or a Claude Monet,
This beautiful morning, this September day.

The leaves are turning, the air is cool,
A baby cries, a pigeon coos,
I think of my childhood, no care in the world,
A painting of memory, my thoughts display,
This beautiful morning, this September day.

We're all tied together like lights on a tree
This flow of humanity, these people and me,
The squirrels and the pigeons, the birds in the tree,
We're all tied together, these creatures and me.

The old couple steps so carefully,
Holding hands so delicately,
They point at the babies as mothers stroll by,
A painting of memory of years gone by,
This beautiful morning, this September day.

We're all tied together, like lights on a tree,
This flow of humanity, these people and me,
The squirrels and the pigeons, the birds in the tree,
We're all tied together, these creatures and me.

Strike Over, Austin, and Richie Havens

The SEPTA strike is over.  The musicians are back at Suburban Station.  The sounds of conga drums, hammer dulcimer, and guitar now reverberate through the concourse again.
I met Austin on the bus going in town this morning.  Austin is a slender musician, my age, and he jumped right in to philosophizing about life, the people we meet, the impressions we make on each other, the vibrations we exchange with each other, the lasting effect we have on each other.  There are no filters with Austin.  I ride with him for about fifteen minutes, but time doesn't exist while he talks non-stop, and he has taken me to a new level of awareness.  The effect we have on each other.
Later that morning, as I'm playing at Suburban Station, Austin has found me again.  He wanders up and smiles.  Between songs, we chat.  We talk about the musicians we grew up with, like Odetta and Richie Havens.  I fumble through Havens' song "Morning, Morning."  I promise him, I'll learn the song by the next time he shows up.  Austin and I share a special place in our hearts for Richie Havens.   He was the first musician I ever saw live.  I was in the seventh grade.  My cool parents took me and my folkie friend Peter Sullivan (this was 1964) to the live show "Folk Music, USA" on WGBH public television in Boston.  We were in the coffeehouse audience.  Thank you, Richie Havens, for opening my eyes to the world of live music....
I could talk to Austin all day.  I excuse myself, however, and tell him, I have to get back to work.  He flashes me a magnetic smile, we shake, and he drifts off, much like the way he arrived.  Like a wonderful and refreshing vapor.  Until the next time, Austin.
Thank you, Austin, for enhancing my day.  Until the next time.
Austin, another mentor on the Path.
It's all about the people.......

The Strike Continues.....

With no end in sight, the SEPTA bus strike continues.  Nerves are frayed, tempers are short, streets are crowded with cars, who seem to think, all courtesy has been suspended as well....welcome to the City that Loves You Back, or maybe that, too, will be reinstated after the strike is over.  In the meantime, we walk the walk.  I wish SEPTA and the Drivers Union would talk the talk.
And musicians remain silent in Suburban Station.
Next week this busker will be heading south to check out the music scene in Puerto Rico, among other things.  The last time we were down there, Pat and I visited the club of the jazz pianist Carli Munoz who played for Wilson Pickett, George Benson and the Beach Boys, among others.  He has his own club in Old San Juan and plays piano with a Latin percussionist. Very cool.  We also got a good dose of the popular music style called reggaeton, which is kind of Latin rap, which kept the barrio near us called La Perla up all night.  We had no choice but to join in, but we enjoyed it.  This time we'll head to the west and south coasts, and maybe we'll find music with a more indigenous flavor, away from the big city.
I'm hoping the SEPTA strike will be over by the time we get back.  I miss playing at my spot and seeing my people.  But most of all, I know the city will breathe a sigh of relief when the contract is settled, and people can get back to their routines.

SEPTA Strike--Music Permits Suspended

Yes, as you may know, in the middle of the night SEPTA went on strike.  I was told the music permits would be suspended for the duration of the strike.  I also won't be playing next week at all, because I will be in Puerto Rico, taking in the music scene there, among other things.  So, it looks like I won't be back till the 16th of November, assuming the strike is over by then.
I was so up for today, too.  I wanted to sing my rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame."  I figure, it's the least I can do to help the Phillies.
Stay tuned for updates about the strike.....
You'd think, music would be just the ticket to soothe the frayed nerves of people who have to wait in long lines for the regional rail trains.  I mean, I can think of several songs that would be really appropriate.  Like, "Charley on the MTA" or "The people on the bus go up and down, up and down, up and down..."  Well, on second thought......

Autumn Leaves, Edith Piaf, and the Granola Bar

This has been a good week so far. Most of my regulars have stopped by, or just smiled in passing. It feels good to check in with my musical family. The judge in his 80's, with his retired Chinese opera singer on his arm, my flower store friends and the restaurant owners, the dollar store owners...they've all checked in. There is a warmth building here. Maybe it's just me, feeling acceptance and support, but it feels good.
Today a lanky young man stood still for about five minutes in front of me, listening, studying the floor, or lost in his thoughts. He opened his back pack and pulled out a granola bar and tossed it into the case, then smiled and took off. I thanked him for lunch.
Then there was the little old lady, probably under five feet tall, I guess in her 80's, who had lunch at the nearby table. She was a Ruth Gordon type with an impish sparkle in her eye. After she finished eating, she walked up to me. "I didn't know what on earth you were playing, and I didn't recognize any of your songs, but I liked what you did." I thanked her, and asked her, what kind of music she liked. "I'm a singer," she said. "I like the old romantic songs." I started playing and singing the old French song, which Johnny Mercer translated into English called, "Autumn Leaves." My new friend started swaying to the music, took a deep breath, then joined me in harmony. The two of us stood there, the odd couple, singing "Autumn Leaves" in harmony. It was beautiful. It touched my heart. Harold and Maude.
If you want to hear how I play "Autumn Leaves" you can go to YouTube and type in "Eva Cassidy--Autumn Leaves." This is my favorite arrangement, and I've tried to copy it. There's also a great version on YouTube of Edith Piaf singing it in both French and English.
What a great song.
The autumn leaves, drift by my window,
Those autumn leaves of red and gold.
I see your lips, those summer kisses
Those sunburned hands, I used to hold.
Since you went away, the days grow long
And soon I'll hear old winter's song
But I'll miss you most of all, my darling,
When autumn leaves start to fall.

Patricia, A Russian Family, an Unexpected Singer

The other day I was setting up at my assigned spot. The new location is not bad, now that I'm getting used to it. It's at a crossroads of hallways, guaranteeing plenty of foot traffic, and next to some tables from Au Bon Pain Cafe, where people sit and eat. Anyway, I was just about to start playing when I saw Patricia, my lovely wife, smiling at me, waving, from down the hall, as she approached. She's my biggest fan, as you might imagine. Also, in case you don't know, she is the co-author of all our August Sky songs. Often she would write a poem, then hand it to me, and I would set it to music. Rogers and Hammerstein, White and Reichenbacher. Three-quarters of the songs on my setlist are August Sky songs. Even though we are not performing as a duo any more, I'm keeping the music alive. Thank you, Patricia, for the gift of these songs.
No sooner did Patricia sit down at the table nearest me to listen, I was joined by a woman who was a little rough around the edges. She stood next to me and with a toothless alcoholic voice the same baritone register as mine, started singing "Oh, What a Beautiful City" gospel style, clapping to the beat, full volume. At first, I figured, I'd accompany her for a moment, then she'd move on. I played along, but after three verses, I could see, she was just getting warmed up, with no intention of stopping. Finally, I thanked her for sharing and told her, I was going to sing my own songs now. She continued full volume. I took a dollar out of the guitar case, thanked her again, and said goodbye. She stopped singing and asked for a second dollar. I shook my head, smiled, and thanked her again, then started singing. At that point, she turned and shuffled off, making her way to the tables, asking for money along the way.
It's all part of the fabric.
Today a family walked by, a father, mother and two teenage daughters. The mother was round and was dressed like a Matrushka doll. The father wore a neat brown suit. The girls were dressed more western. They smiled and nodded, crinkly eyes and gold teeth. I nodded and smiled back and kept singing. They slowed their pace, and the father reached into his wallet and took out a dollar, placing it into the guitar case. I had finished my song, so I bowed to them and thanked them. They bowed, smiled, then moved on. About a half hour later, they returned. I stopped singing and handed them a copy of the first August Sky cd. "A gift for you. Thank you very much. Where are you from?" I asked. "Russia," the mother said. They couldn't stop smiling. "Welcome to the U.S." I said. They smiled and moved on, looking at the cd as they walked away.
Yes, it's all part of the fabric.

My First Dancer, My First Applause, It's All Good

Today was cool. I had my first dancer. While I was singing, he stopped to listen, then turned toward me, smiling through his bad teeth and unshaven face. His clothes were rough around the edges and his bandanna was slightly crooked. He seemed harmless. I continued singing, and suddenly he started to get his groove on, gyrating gently, sensuously, to my mellow song. The young women working the register in the cafe across from me looked at me, curious but concerned, as if to ask if I was o.k. I winked at them, and they smiled back. My dancer continued, carving out a space in front of me for his performance. When the song was over, he sat down at the table next to me. He spoke but I couldn't make out his garbled words. He smiled and repeated what he had said, but to no avail. I just nodded and started the next song. Then he rose and started his dancing again, and I played something with a little more beat to it. He got into it, smiling, his eyes shut.
For the rest of my time there, he sat next to me, nodding to the beat, smiling. Harmless. Friendly. A place to roost.
I sang "Ain't No Sunshine" by Bill Withers. I liked his groove. Apparently the young women who work at the cafe and had requested the song, liked what they heard. They broke into applause when I was done.
My stage. My people. It's all good.

Legalized Busking

For the past two days I've been getting used to my new assigned spot. I'm legal and I have to display my permit like a fishing license. I'm located not far from my original spot where I played under the radar for four months. It's Spot Number 3, and I play from 12 to 3 PM. The permit is legit seven days a week. At the moment I'm playing Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday. It's next to an atrium , located on JFK Blvd and 16th St., with and entrance from the street level. It's opposite a brand new Au Bon Pain coffee shop. I'd love to see you all, if you care to drop by.
Today was interesting. This African-American musician stopped by and listened for a while. He plays guitar and sings, mostly Motown. I grew up on Motown and it's in my blood. He and I ended up doing a version of "My Girl" in harmony. It was very cool.
I also met a woman today who was dressed in garb from Senegal. She is a spoken word artist and is married to a percussionist who played with John Coltrane, Wilson Pickett and the Beach Boys, among others. I told her how we had met the keyboard player of the Beach Boys, Carli Munoz, in Old San Juan during our recent trip to Puerto Rico. Small world.
Yes, it's all about the people, making connections. I'm lovin' it.

Busted!

October. I have been playing here at my spot now for four months. I developed a sore throat, which prevented me from playing for a week. I really missed playing for my people. I missed their smiles. I missed singing.
I managed to sing the following week, but my voice was still rough and actually I had to sing all my songs in a lower key. My voice sounded full, deeper, more present, and dare I say, sexy, in an FM-radio-announcer kind of way. I loved it. I sang my heart out. It was like I was channeling someone, borrowing their voice for a time. I hoped it wouldn't change.
On Wednesday, however, all this ground to a halt. Right in the middle of a song, two cops approached. The blond female cop on the left was chatting up a storm with the male cop on the right, as they walked past me, then stopped. The blond turned to me and started talking to me, right in the middle of my singing. I stopped. "You need a permit to play here." I played innocent. "Really? I didn't realize that." "Well, you do. Call that number on the sign down there at the designated performance space." I thanked her for the tip.
They continued walking and resumed their conversation.
I know if I had protested, they could have arrested me. I know they had the right to shut me down, as I was singing on private property, SEPTA property.
I unstrapped my guitar, packed it away, then sat with a cup of coffee at the cafe at the end of the hall. I informed my merchant friends what had happened, and they expressed their condolences. We all knew the rules. I told them, I'd be back, with a permit, and I'd see them soon.
I called the number that afternoon and got a very nice lady who was very encouraging. The following day I showed up at her office at SEPTA headquarters and filled out the application. She was at a meeting but her secretary greeted me and let me sit down in their conference room to fill out my application. "I'm a musician, too," she called to me from her desk. "Really? What do you play?" "Guitar." "So, do I." She continued, "And I write poetry, mostly spiritual. I don't know if you're into that kind of thing. I also have a blogspot where I write about spirituality." She was very sweet. I continued filling out my application, then handed it to her with my photo i.d. "You've been very helpful," I said. "Can I give you a c.d.?" She was thrilled. She opened it up and popped the disc into her computer. My wife Patricia's voice suddenly filled her cubicle. I watched her start to sway to the music, a dreamy jazzy tune called "Cover Me," which Patricia wrote and is perfect for her soft smoky voice. "I love this," she said.
As I descended from the tenth floor in the elevator, I thought, "It's all about the connections, the people."

My People--or--Brother David Does the Lord's Work

I've been busking for three months now, and I feel, I've pretty much settled in. I have my regulars, people who walk by daily. They seem to spend their lunch hour in the food court or just walking around. There are others who pass by repeatedly during the course of my two-hour performance. Many of them work in the stores and restaurants in the station.
There's my returned Chinese opera singer. The first time she saw me, she stopped to listen. She was with an elderly gentleman. I figured they were husband and wife. She told me she loved my voice and the way I sang. She bought a cd. I thanked her and the older man pulled out his wallet and threw in another dollar. The next day they returned. She told me her son put the cd on in his car that night, and she loved it. "Very relaxing," she said. That's what most people say about August Sky songs. Very relaxing.
Since then I have learned her name. She explained that she is now the caretaker for the elderly judge and spends her days accompanying him to his office, where he still shows up every day in the courthouse. She walks him through the concourse at lunchtime. One time as they were walking by, she smiled and broke into a short aria in Chinese, with a flair of her hand in the air. The judge smiled and shook his head.
There was also the Czech composer, probably in his seventies, who had just had a world premier of his work performed. He stopped to chat and said he liked what I was doing. And the jazz pianist, also in his seventies, who still plays standards at an Italian restaurant. He talked about arrangement of "Autumn Leaves," how he like the jazzy chords I was using. Since then he's been by three times.
Many musicians stop by to chat. There's the harmonica player, the first music major at Temple University to major in harmonica. And there the flute player I met ten years ago while busking in Rittenhouse Square. There's the ten-year-old recorder player who said he was raising money for his school and set up his stage at the end of my corridor and played. I gave him a buck from my case. Then he said he needed to make sixteen more dollars before the end of the day and if I could help him out. I told him, in that case, I guess he'd just have to go play more music. He was a cool little kid though.
Every day I stop at a Chinese-owned lunch counter to buy a bottle of water. Something about this humble restaurant attracted me. The food is inexpensive and they sell beer by the bottle, so it doubles as a poor man's bar. Coffee is only fifty cents. Men and women buy forty-ounce bottles of beer and sit for hours and the owners don't mind. They have good lunch specials, and on good days I'll treat myself to the scallops after singing. Most of all, they are very friendly to me. The mother and father own the store. Their son works behind the counter, and there are two cooks, one Black and one Hispanic.
Occasionally I meet religious people, who seek me out and ask me if I've accepted the Lord, Jesus Christ, as my savior. They are usually very nice to me. Once, while I was sitting in the Chinese lunch counter, two older African-American women asked me if I would join them at their prayer group later that day. I thanked them, but told them I had to sing, so they held my hands and prayed for me. They called me Brother David. Another time, as I was singing, an African-American couple stopped to listen, then told me I was blessed, for I was making music, and the Lord would be pleased. We exchanged names, and she introduced me to her pastor husband as Brother David. They prayed for me and for me to continue doing the Lord's work of making music.
I feel blessed. I am weaving a tapestry of people and it feels good to be part of this community.

Busking--It's All About the People

I started playing in July, beneath the streets of Philadelphia, descending into the catacombs of Suburban Station, located next to City Hall. It was also the 30th anniversary of my father's death. July, 1979.
There's a connection between these two events. I am playing my father's guitar, a Harmony Sovereign from the 60's. It's a great guitar. It's got a big-ass body with a full bass sound, and with new strings, it produces a bright metallic tone to balance out the bass and project the sound. You're no longer allowed to amplify your music in Suburban Station, so you need a guitar that can belt it out. This one does the trick.
In addition to no amplification, the new rules for entertainers require that they get a permit and be assigned to a specific spot and time. I wanted no pat of that, so I would just take my chances with the police. There's a history of run-ins between street musicians and Philadelphia's finest, and although there are no laws against playing music in public, police were arresting musicians until finally there was a showdown in court. The musicians won.
Suburban Station, however, is allowed to establish its own regulations, as it falls under the jurisdiction of the South Eastern Pennsylvania Transportation Authority, SEPTA. Since I don't have a permit, I'm flying under the radar, claiming my own spot. I scoped out the corridors and the entrance ways, trying to find the most ideal stage, away from the street traffic and surface noise above, but also away from the screeching subway wheels wafting up through the corridors and stairwells from the regions below. Also, I wanted to avoid the irritating p.a. system announcing train delays and departures. I didn't want to be right in front of a store and run the risk of turning off a merchant. Opposite it would be fine, but not in front of it.
And then there were the acoustics to consider. Lots of glass and tile would enhance the sound naturally. I found an ideal corridor which had natural reverb opposite a Korean-owned discount store and a flower shop.
I was a little nervous my first day. It had been over three years since I did much performing as a singer. With the acoustic band, August Sky, my wife Patricia and I sang harmony, but when that band ended and we reformed the band to a blues band, our new singer carried the vocals solo, with no need for me to sing. My voice muscles had relaxed over time, and now I was challenged to strengthen them again.
My first day reminded me of learning to swim. I was nervous. I had busked before with Patricia in Old City, Friday and Saturday nights on Chestnut Street, cashing in on the young adults patronizing the upscale restaurants and bars in that neighborhood. The very first time I had busked was back in the 60's when I was 16, testing the waters on Boston Common. Now, in 2009, I was nervous all over again. After I found my spot, I leaned against the wall, sipping my coffee, watching the people pass by, waiting, maybe for twenty minutes, before I screwed up the courage to open my guitar case, set up the cd's, prop the sign, and toss some seed money into the case.
I tuned my guitar, checked my setlist, and started singing. My voice was tentative at first. With each song I increased the volume, pushing it. After five songs I was tired. Originals, then a cover or two. Finally, the first dollar. I called, "Thank you, Ma'me" after the woman. She smiled and kept walking.
I began looking at the people, and I notice many of them would smile or nod as they walked by. That felt good. I realized it was going to be more about the people, than making money. Making them smile. A few would drop in coins or a dollar bill, but it felt good just to see them smile and give them pleasure with my songs. A few nodded to the beat, or snapped their fingers, as they passed by.
People of all ages seem to like the music. Sometimes packs of high school students would swagger by, teasing each other, poking, laughing raucously, and then one heavy girl turned to me and yelled out, "I like that song. That's what up!"
Coming from a sixteen-year-old, that made me feel good.
Later that morning a young African-American high schooler walked by and laid down a vocalized rap rhythm over my traditional folk-style song, and the blend of the two styles actually sounded good. I called over to him, "Love that beat," and he gave me the thumbs-up.
Connections. It's all about the people and connecting with them.
Not only with the people walking by, but with the merchants. The employees of the flower store are very friendly and supportive. Whenever they venture out of the store, they smile, ask me how I am. I asked a young employee if I could give her a cd. She was tickled and said they'd play it in the store. Hearing that, I gave her the second cd as well. The Korean brothers who own the discount store speak limited English, but they always smile and nod politely as they walk by.
The cops don't smile. When they pass, they don't even look at me. I think that's pretty generous of them, considering they could be asking to see my permit, or telling me, it wasn't a designated performance spot. There have been no complaints, so maybe they're o.k. with it. Only once did one cop stop and tell me, I had to change my sign and remove the suggested price of the cd's. I didn't have a peddler's license, and therefore it had to be donations only. That's cool. I changed the sign. No cops have hassled me since. These are growing pains, sizing up the situation.