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.