Creole

The other day I was playing in Suburban Station, and as I was packing up, a smiling young man approached me in an electric wheelchair, put on the brakes and extended his hand.  "Creole" was all he said.  "David," I said.  He commented on the last song I did, "Autumn Leaves," and that he liked my arrangement.  He talked quickly, like he had little time, but managed to tell me that he was 100 percent Seminole Indian, originally from Tampa, but he had settled in New Orleans and had lived there up until Katrina had hit and devastated the city.  He was proud of his heritage.  He showed me photos of his gorgeous mother in native dress, his sister holding an alligator she had raised in Florida, and his daughter.  His voice sounded sad when he said the word "daughter."  I didn't pry.  He continued and talked about how cool the music was in New Orleans, how is stepmother was Irish, and how is music reflected all of that mix...Irish, Cajun, French, Native American....and how New Orleans was the perfect city for that type of music.  He said he was getting a mixed response on the streets here in Philly with that sound.  He said some people didn't know what to make of it.  A drum was strapped to the back of the wheelchair.  He said he also played clarinet and keyboard.  He was about to go up onto Broad Street and play in front of two Italian restaurants, where he said they wanted him to play and they would feed him at the end of his gig.  He began to talk about Katrina again and how he had diabetes and had a hard time getting insulin during the storm.  He talked about all the people he saw die because they couldn't get dialysis treatments or insulin.  He said he also suffered from muscular dystrophy and was losing his eyesight.  But he was lucky, he said, because he made it through.
Lucky.
Here is a young man, in an electric wheelchair, suffering from muscular dystrophy and diabetes, losing his eyesight, probably no older than thirty-five, and he's telling me he's lucky.
And now he was going to go sing for his supper.
I'm the lucky one.
To have had the pleasure and honor of meeting him.
Creole.

Vietnam: Busking with a Vet

The Vietnam War tore this country apart.  Not to mention the horror and tragedy the people of Vietnam suffered.  Our involvement in the war shaped my teen and young adult years and changed my life.  Lately I've been able to learn more about what the people of Vietnam endured, as we have come to know many Vietnamese immigrants...boat people...who have embraced us and shared their community with us in Philadelphia.  I have talked with many men and women whose families were torn apart, who spent years wandering from country to country, looking for a safe haven, before ending up to start a new life in Philadelphia.  We have been immersed in their culture...food, dance, religion, language, music.  They have been very warm and forgiving. 
The Vietnamese people have very big hearts.  They are very strong and generous people.
The other day I was playing music in Suburban Station.  A heavy-set African-American man walked up to me, smiling with very few teeth.  He was wearing a Vietnam Veterans cap.  There was a twinkle in his eye, but he looked as if he had fallen on some hard luck in his life.  He smiled, as I sang, and at the end of my song, I paused, giving him an opening.  He asked about my guitar.  I told him it had been my father's and it was a Harmony Sovereign.  They don't make them any more, he said.  Yes, and we talked about how great the sound was, a perfect full sound for the train station corridors and the acoustics in the corridors there.  He asked me if he could play my guitar, and decided, this man had a song to share, so I handed him my baby.  He started riffing on a rough blues lick, singing with a gravely voice.  It doesn't get much more real than this, I thought.  I let him play and play and play, as if he had been starving.  I watched him slip into a zone.  Finally he took a deep breath and stopped, smiled that toothless grin of his, and handed me back my guitar.
We talked about the music, how healing it was.  We talked about the war and how it had caused so much pain on both sides.  How music had brought him and me together to share this moment.  How a conscientious objector and a former soldier could be brought together and connect to heal after all these years.  A pain we had shared from two different sides of the conflict. 
We hugged before he left.  I watched him walk slowly down the corridor.  At the end he turned and waved.  And smiled.  That toothless smile of his, the warm twinkle in his eye....

Less is More

We live in an age of seductive technology.  I just watched a great documentary called "It Might Get Loud" with three guitarists who come together and play and talk about making music.  The Edge from U2, Jimmy Page from Led Zeppelin, and Jack White from White Stripes, representing three different perspectives and decades.  I love The Edge and Jimmy Page, and they demonstrated all the amps, guitars, pedals and special effects they use to get the unique sounds they create.
But most surprising for me was Jack White, as I didn't really know his music well before viewing the film.  The film starts out with him on a farmhouse porch with wire and wood and nails and a few other scraps of material and tools.  No dialogue.  Just him pounding nails quickly, no measuring, wrapping wire, inserting a coke bottle into the construction, nailing a pick-up to it and plugging it into an amp.  Then he begins to wail a distortion lead and stops.  "See, you don't really need to buy a guitar," he says.
I thought this was very cool.  Later in the video he talks about the minimalist sound of Son House, a Black blues musician.  We see White putting on an LP of Son House and listening to a cut where Son House sings and claps.  His timing is slightly off.  Who cares.  It's about the soul behind the music.  White says he's been trying to make music like that since he first heard the record.
I wonder if it's something you can learn.
I think of the minimalist guitarists I know.  O'Dell Harris is one.  A friend gave me a cd, recorded after hours in a bar.  I had never heard of him before.  He blew me away, the way Son House blew Jack White away.  O'Dell Harris.  Guitar and drums.  Minimal.  Keeping the beat to his chunky guitar and singing.  Recorded after hours, maybe two mics, no mixing and mastering.  Naked music.
I gotta admit, I love it.  Maybe it's because it's so immediately connected to the audience without all the technology acting as a buffer.  Without all the computer programs and hours of retakes in the sound studio, where tracks are mixed in a computer, and everything can be controlled.   The band doesn't record together any more, and something is lost.
I perform now in Suburban Station and on the streets, unplugged.  Just guitar, harmonica and voice.  It's right out there, with very little to hide behind.  I have to do it all.  The only volume control is in my voice and in my fingers.  No special effects, although I've been know to do weird things with my voice sometimes, or play in different styles on guitar, or bend the reeds on the harp.  The sounds of the street and concourse mix in happily with the music and my voice.  Footsteps, sirens, brakes squealing all add to the mix.  Totally random, uncontrolled.
It's clean and pure.  I love it.  Back to basics.
Less is more, as my wife, Patricia, has always said.
Zen.

San Francisco Buskers

This week I spent some time with my brother in San Francisco, where he lives.  It's a very cool city.  We stumbled upon several buskers around Fisherman's Wharf who took the performance to the next level.  Most of them were amplified.  A few had a complete sound system and even canopy.  But one musician really rocked for me more than the others.
That was One Leg Chuck.  Yes, because he has one leg and a prosthetic device on the other.  Which didn't hamper him in the least.  He did sit, but he was totally cutting edge, very bluesy, with a hint of reggae.  Much of his music were original tunes, and he had cd's for sale, which he had burned himself on his computer.  I liked the unassuming, home-baked feel of his vibe, as compared to the others who verged on commercial karaoke. 
Chuck had grit. 
Chuck had soul.
I was immediately drawn into his performance, a cool blend of rock, jazz, R&B, soul, and rap.
My brother and I sat on a stone bench with some clam chowder and listened to his raspy but warm voice, his finger picking and chunky strumming.  Between songs I introduced myself to him and bought his cd.  He was grateful.  As soon as I placed the money in his bucket, One Leg Chuck grabbed it and said, watch my stuff, I'm gonna get something to drink.  I watched him stand up from his stool, limp across the street to a vendor where he bought a soda and a bottle of water.  He returned, smiling, and took up his position on the stool again, strapped on his guitar, and jumped right into his next song.
He must have not been more than thirty-five, but One Leg Chuck looked like life had dealt him a few bad hands.  Which may be why he had so much to sing about.  There was a visceral gutsiness about his music, which caressed and tore at my soul.
The kind of music I like.

Happy Birthday, John

You would have been seventy years old today.  I'm sure you're still rocking among the stars.  Tonight I was busking on 2nd and Chestnut Streets.  I set up a little shrine for you.  I had a t-shirt with a large portrait of you on the front with the word "Imagine" under it, which I draped over my guitar case, and lit a candle which burned all night long while I performed.  I ended up talking with a lot of people about you, people who seemed to need to talk about you, your contributions, your memory.  People of all ages.  I ended up singing all the Beatles songs I know tonight.  People sang along with me, which doesn't happen very often, and I let them.  It was kind of a Happening for you, John. 
The highlight of the evening was when an older couple came by with two young girls.  I figured out quickly they were their granddaughters and they were out on the town for the evening.  The older daughter was maybe thirteen and warmed up to me instantly, took up her position next to me.  I didn't mind.  Her younger sister stood behind her, not wanting to miss out on anything, but still a little shy.  The thirteen-year old knew as many Beatles songs as I did and they didn't seem to want to leave, so I decided, this was the reason I was there tonight.  To meet her and sing with her.  She could harmonize pretty well, and the two of us ran through song after song, songs I've never played before.  I'd like to think maybe John was smiling down on me, enjoying the moment.  We sang some of the more playful songs as well, like an "Octopus's Garden." 
Anyway, John, you surely have had an effect on this world.  You've touched our hearts.  You've brought us together.   Thank you, John.

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

Imagine that.

Where Have All The Flowers Gone

Sometimes crazy things happen when I'm busking.  I think this one qualifies for the Darwin Awards, celebrating the least evolved humans among us.
Yesterday I was busking in Suburban Station.  I have a small sprig of artificial white flowers sticking out of my guitar case, which I found on the floor once while busking and figured it was an omen.  I've been displaying them for over a year.
Anyway, a man reeking of alcohol came up to me and stared at the money in my case.  He counted the bills out loud so everyone around could hear him.  When he got to twenty-one, he stopped.  By then I had stopped singing, too.  He got up in my face and called, "Man, you got at least twenty-one bills in there.   Can I have two.  I'm homeless."  Then he shook my hand, like he was my buddy.
Maybe I'm overly sensitive, but I don't like it when people yell into my face with alcohol breath when I'm in the middle of a song.
Of course, I wasn't feeling the love at this point.
"No," I said.
"Why not?" he barked back.
"Well, you see, it took me three hours to earn that 21 dollars."
"All you're doin' is blowin'," he said, referring to my harmonica.
"I'm busting my ass, man.  I'm sorry you don't look at it as work."
There was a tense moment.  I could see he was contemplating his next move.  "Well, then, I'm just going to....take your flowers and eat them."  He leaned down, plucked my artificial flowers (wires and all) out of my guitar case and shoved them in his mouth.
I didn't say a word.
I watched him chew.  His face contorted.  He walked over to the trash can and spit out what was in his mouth, and then he wandered off, waving his hand and mumbling.
Maybe I should learn the Peter, Paul and Mary song, "Where Have All the Flowers Gone."

9/11---Music for Peace

I think music is pretty powerful.  On this anniversary of 9/11 I've been thinking about bullies a lot.  I can't think of any better way to combat the Bullies of the World other than with music.   I know, sometimes people feel missiles and guns are better, and perhaps they are right.  I'll leave that method of combating tyrants to the people who can bring themselves to use those weapons of destruction.  I, for one, can't seeing myself using one.  I prefer a more peaceful approach. 
Song.
Last night I was busking on Walnut Street.  It was pretty busy.  I was singing a song and a medium-height man with shades walked up to me and stared me in the face, leaving about six inches between us.  He muttered something in a low voice to me.  I stopped singing, as his in-your-face approach was a little much for me to continue.  What is it you want, I asked.  He muttered something about giving him a dollar.  Then I noticed he was carrying a battery-run power drill.  He pulled the trigger, revving the motor, as he stared at me with his insect-sunglass eyes.  The drill actually had a sharp drill bit in it.  I took it to be a threat.  I said, please move on, and then I broke into song, right in his face.  I don't even remember what song it was.  But I belted it out with guitar, backed up by a healthy testosterone-pumped attitude.  My mugger backed down and moved on. 
If I had thought a little about my choice of song, I would have sung this one by John Lennon.  One of my favorite songs. 
Thank you, John Lennon, for leaving us with this song and giving the Bullies of the World something to think about.

Imagine
John Lennon

Imagine there's no Heaven
It's easy if you try
No hell below us
Above us only sky
Imagine all the people
Living for today

Imagine there's no countries
It isn't hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will be as one

Imagine no possessions
I wonder if you can
No need for greed or hunger
A brotherhood of man
Imagine all the people
Sharing all the world

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one

Jah-may-ka in Feely, Mon!

It is a hot Thursday afternoon and I opt for the air-conditioning of Suburban Station.  A slender black man comes up to me and stands with a gentle smile.  He is listening.  His head nods to the beat and at the end of the song, he says, "Dat is reel-y gooud."  I tell him it was one I wrote and ask him if he does music.  He says he sings and writes songs.  "I'd love to hear one of your songs," I say.  He starts singing a soulful, bluesy song with a reggae flavor.  I pick up the key and start backing him up softly, letting him have center stage.  He sings shyly, but loud enough for a few curious passers-by to smile and flash us a thumbs-up.  It is a great song.  We both gain energy from the music.  When he finishes, we both laugh with cathartic joy.  I tell him he has made my day.  He asks what I play besides original songs and I tell him about the covers and standards I have in my setlist.  "Here's one you probably know."  I play for him "Summertime" from Gershwin's "Porgy and Bess."  I've arranged it for guitar with a soulful harmonica solo in the middle.  He doesn't know the song and I am surprised.  I thought every knew "Summertime," if nothing else but Janis Joplin's version of it.  But he tells me, "I'm from Jah-may-ka, mon!"  We laugh and I thank him for singing his song.  We give each other the fist bump.  I don't want him to leave, but I know he has must move on.  I wish him well, thank him again, and start my next song.
I love playing on the streets of Feely-del-feeah, mon!

Peaceable Kingdom

It can be a jungle out there.  On the streets, I mean.  I try to get along with everyone.  Coexist peacefully and share the turf.  Philadelphia has relaxed in the past few years as far as its tolerance level of street musicians.  It is still wise to consider store owners so as not to offend them or hurt their business.  They usually leave you alone to do your music, if you're considerate of them.  If you smile at cops who pass by, they usually smile back.  Greasing the skids in a peaceable kingdom.
There's another element of the street hustle that musicians have to contend with.  Street people.  Sometimes this becomes a turf-war situation.  Many are cool.  If you're on a particular spot first, they keep moving.  Some are friendly, even chat a bit before seeking an available location elsewhere.
Some, however, are downright territorial.  It's not about who is there first.  There's an unwritten code somewhere that tells them, they own the spot.  No matter what time they show up, it's their spot and you're supposed to leave.  Busking bullies.
I don't know if you can call them buskers.  But they sit on the stoop and hold out their baseball hat to passers-by.  Some are quiet.  Some suck up to people and call them "Sir."  Others are downright belligerent.
There's one guy who shows up late in the evening, when I'm playing on Chestnut Street in the bar and restaurant district of Old City.  I hear him approaching because he is screaming and yelling obscenities about my being there on "his" spot.  He plants himself next to me and starts asking for money.  Full volume.  Calling out to people.  Trying to reason with him has proven useless and has only provoked him to curse me out, again, full-volume.   The other night a friend of his showed up and planted himself on the other side of me, flanking me like bookends.  I asked them to move, since we weren't working as a team.  I mean, picture this.  I'm singing, playing guitar, throwing in some harmonica now and then, and they're collecting the money.
My busking mentor Clinton, who has been playing on the streets for years, tells me not to budge.  Gotta put your foot down, he says.
I don't know.  Maybe he's right.  But there comes a time when sharing might be good, an investment in the future.  Spreading good will.
I mean, after all, I've been on the spot three hours and my fingertips are hurting from the guitar strings, and it's getting louder on the streets with motorcycles and cars, and I'm tired.  I've made some money, and it's probably time to go home anyway....
If I stay any longer, I know it would be purely out of spite, not wanting to give in to my boisterous bookends.
I pack up my guitar.  As I'm leaving I wish the bookends a good night.
Then something sad happens.
The belligerent one who was loudest looks up at me.  His eyes are half shut.   His lids are puffy.  One eye is almost completely closed.  He is slurring his words when he almost pathetically asks me for some change.  Like he has never seen me before in his life.  I get a close look at him.  He is quiet now.   He repeats his request for money.
I look at him.  I see sadness.  Drugs.  Alcohol.  Dissipation.  He doesn't recognize me.
I repeat, "Have a good night," then turn and continue on down the sidewalk.  I think about him, as I walk past rich people drinking overpriced mixed drinks, lounging at sidewalk tables.  Chatting on cell phones, smoking.  Laughing.  Not worried about where they will sleep tonight.
The thump of rock music from loudspeakers takes over, changing as I pass one bar after another.  I weave in and out of the crowd on the sidewalk, making my way up Second Street toward Market, past bouncers and women with little clothing on, and men on the prowl, following them.
Peaceable kingdom.  I guess we can all learn to get along.

Do What You Love....

Do what you love, the rest comes, take it easy.  Those were the words that spoke to me on a poster in a bus stop a few years ago.  I've never forgotten them.  The poster was a photo of a saxophone player, blowing into his horn, leaning with his back up against the side of a brick building, one foot propped on the wall, alone, crying out in the night...I could almost hear the soulful voice of his horn.
Do what you love, the rest comes, take it easy. 
Very zen.  And yet it was an advertisement for Southern Comfort. 
When I was fifteen, I drank Southern Comfort with a few friends of mine.  It was a crisp clear winter night.  Crunchy snow on the ground, we huddled together.  The liquor went down like liquid lightning.
But I digress.
Last Friday I returned to busking on the streets of Philadelphia from the back woods of Maine.  It was a good night.  Some familiar faces.  Many new ones.  Nods, and smiles and tips.....
I ran into Clinton, my jazz-trumpet busking mentor.  We chatted, talked about busking beyond Philadelphia.  New York City.  Key West.  The different vibes...just happy to be playing. 
It was a slow night for tips, for both of us.  But we both shrugged it off and smiled.  After all, that wasn't why we were out playing.
It's a only about the playing.  And the people we meet.   When we're playing, we're good.  I told him about the Southern Comfort poster, the zen quote.  Words to live by, he said.
Yes, do what you love, the rest comes, take it easy.
Aum.

Busking in Philadephia, and Beyond

I'm sitting in Bangor, Maine, looking out onto the Penobscot River toward Brewer.  It's a quiet morning in Bangor.  The summer sun is rising over the town across the river called Brewer.  In a previous life I lived in Bangor.  Far from the streets of Philadelphia.
My son Andre lives in downtown Bangor, which has changed a lot since I lived here.  In the 80's Bangor felt like it was locked in the 1920's.  Still a frontier town.  It has become gentrified in the meantime, featuring art galleries, bagel shops and cafes, many ethnic restaurants run by middle-eastern and eastern immigrants, and even a shop for waterpipes. 
It has a little square in the middle of town with outdoor cafe seating and pub seating.
And, to my surprise, buskers.
Three young people were playing guitar yesterday when my son and his friend John and I walked by. 
I'm impressed...
I'm tempted to give it a whirl myself.

I have a high-school buddy I've been in contact with lately who lives in Brevard County in Florida.  They have an organization for street musicians down there.  Very cool.  And the people I hang out with in Florida when I visit my mom and step-father also play for certain events on the streets of Mt. Dora.  Matter of fact, that's how my mom and step-father got started with their music in Florida, busking on the walkway next to Lake Eustis.

Clinton is an seasoned street musician in Philadelphia...a laid-back Black dude who knows the ropes and has been busking his whole life.  Sometimes we chat about busking, like fisherman, discussing what pool in what hidden part of the lake might yield the biggest fish.  He talks about New York City...the Village, Battery Park, and about how he'll head up there when he needs a change of atmosphere.  Spend a few days, make a few dollars, then return to Philly with a fresh perspective.  Clinton is cool.  When I play in Old City or in Suburban Station, he often trucks by, dragging his shopping cart, which he has scientifically packed, to maximized the space for all his equipment...folding chair, music stand, horn, and whatever.  Yes, Clinton is cool.  He embraces the world with his music.  I hope I'm as cool as he is, when I grow up.

It's Saturday.  And last night was Friday.  I'm a little itchy, thinking about not having busked last night in Old City.  Or tonight.  Away from the Streets of Philadelphia.

Which is a song by Bruce Springsteen that I've added to my setlist.  Great song.  I'll leave you with the lyrics.

Streets of Philadelphia
I was bruised and battered, I couldn't tell what I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself
Saw my reflection in a window and didn't know my own face
Oh, brother, are you gonna leave me wasting away
On the streets of Philadelphia

I walked the avenue 'til my legs felt like stone
I heard the voices of friends vanished and gone
At night I hear the blood in my veins
just as black and whispery as the rain
On the streets of Philadelphia

Ain't no angel gonna greet me
It's just you and I, my friend
and my clothes don't fit me no more
I walked a thousand miles just to slip this skin.

The night is falling, I'm lying awake
I can feel myself fading away
So receive me, brother, with your faithless kiss,
Or will we leave each other alone like this
On the streets of Philadelphia....

And Now a Reality Check

"Nobody's listening anyway," my busking friend Charles says.  Charles is my inspiration.  I met Charles on the streets over ten years ago.  He plays violin.  He also played all the solo instrumentals on our first August Sky album (www.cdbaby.com/augustsky1).  Charles is one of the smartest people I know.  He seems self-taught.  He's a well-read philosopher and artist.  He's a composer and a musician.  He is also a free spirit, flying below the radar. 
It is a Saturday night in Old City.  Charles is busking a block away from me and he has decided to take a break and get a slice of pizza.  He spots me and joins me for a few minutes break.  He tells me about how much money he makes between 1 AM and 2:30 AM after the bars let out.  "It's great money, if you can hang in there until then."
I usually quit around midnight, because something strange happens after 11 PM.  The atmosphere of Old City changes.  Becomes charged.  Louder.  People are drunker.  You almost feel like you need protective clothing.  Strip down to bare essentials...combat mode.  People are rougher.  Once one man grabbed at my guitar, claiming he could play better than me.  Motorcycles roar through the street in packs.  Buses seem louder.  People talk louder, wear less clothing.  One woman ran by, bare from the waste up, with a tuxedo top painted on her chest and back. 
My songs and quiet ballads are almost inappropriate for the atmosphere.
"You suck, you fu**ing pussy," a street person yells at me.  "That's my spot. You can't play for sh**."  And he continued hurling expletives at me, like rotten tomatoes.  Finally I say to him, "Have a nice night" and continue playing and singing.  He continues his rant but finally loses steam and walks away. 
"Nobody's listening anyway," Charles repeats.  "So just strum and sing anything.  Hang in there till late.  You'll make better money."  He claimed he made $250 in two hours.  Hard to believe.  But I love Charles and would never accuse him of bullshitting me.
I play till midnight.  By that time I can hardly hear myself.  Which means people standing five feet from me surely cannot hear me.  No tips are coming in.
I forget about the $250.  I'm satisfied with what I earned.  I pack up my guitar and harmonicas and make my way through the crowd of bare shoulders, long legs, four-inch heels and muscle shirts.  Night clubs music pulsating.  Cops pretending to keep an eye on the situation.
Each block becomes quieter as I get further away from Old City.
I think of Charles' words, nobody's listening anyway.  I know that's not true.  I've had such a warm response from so many people.  I just have to remind myself to concentrate on those appreciative listeners and not worry about a rotten tomato now and then.

Back in The City that Loves You Back

It's been hot, hot, hot....everywhere.  Just got back from Florida visiting with my parents who are folk musicians and very active in the music scene down there.  I got to play in a coffee house in Eustis, which was cool, and the audience seemed to like what I did.  Also I got together with friends I've made over the years and jammed several times.   This is huge down there.  Circle jams at someone's house or at a library or wherever there's air-conditioning.  Got to hear a great guitarist in concert...Bob Rafkin...from Orlando.  But now I'm back in the City that Loves You Back.  I went to my usual haunt on Sunday afternoons in Suburban Station where the acoustics are fabulous (think cathedral) but Phillip, the flute player, had beaten me to it.  He's busking again.  He took a month or two off.  And now he's back.  We chatted a bit, but then I moved on to Rittenhouse Square.  It was so hot, I was the only musician there.  But it was important to get back into and touch base with my people.  I tried out some new songs.  After all, I had all that time in the car, driving alone, to memorize lyrics.  There's this one song that is kind of schmaltzy and country that I grew up on and I love called "End of the World" by Skeeter Davis.  Anyway, I gave that a whirl, and it really wasn't so bad.  Move over, Garth Brooks!
Anyway, I figured it was a successful day.  Made a few people smile.  Made a few bucks. 
And I felt the love.

My Lucky Day

Sunday afternoon.   Heat wave on the streets above.  I'm playing in Suburban Station, the concourse, to be exact, where people wait for their trains, a captive audience.  Lucky for me.  Not to mention, it's air-conditioned, and the acoustics are phenomenal.  There's a wonderful resonance and the sound carries like in a cathedral.
A middle-aged man is standing off to the side, listening.  After a song or two he introduces himself as Leroy, and tells me he paints.  He tells me he missed his train, and would like to sketch me, as he had a whole hour before the next train left.  Lucky for me.
He sets up his drawing pad on a trash can.  He is watching me and proceeds to set up his markers and paper.
He begins to sketch.  I know the routine, as my wife, Patricia, used to sketch me a lot.  He starts out slowly, and builds up a head of steam.
I play several songs.  Ain't No Sunshine, Summertime, some originals, hoping something will inspire him.
I'm also hoping he'll give me the sketch when he's done.
His train is announced.
He packs up and makes his way toward my guitar case, then gently deposits the sketch on top of the dollars and coins.  He smiles and thanks me.  I thank him.  It's a regular love fest.
Yes, my lucky day.

Two to Tango

Picture this.  It's Sunday afternoon.  I'm playing in the concourse at Suburban Station.  A really slow sexy and sad song by Bill Withers called Ain't No Sunshine.  Suddenly a gorgeous Asian couple appears.  She is tall and slender and is wearing full-length tight summer dress, which accentuates her figure.  They start dancing a tango.  I don't know how they manage to fit the tango rhythm to the song, but they do.  She is so beautiful, she could probably manage to dance anything and it would work.  I really get into the song, a doleful harmonica solo in the middle.  A crowd gathers silently.  Watching.  The song is a sad song about how the sunshine is gone since his woman has left.  Only darkness everyday.  Ain't no sunshine when she's gone, and this house just ain't no home, any time she's gone away.  I end with a sad wailing harmonica riff.  The couple ends with a low dip.  There is silence.  Then the gathered crowd breaks into applause. 
And this is why I love doing what I'm doing.  It's moments like that happen every day.

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Sadness and Celebration

This week was emotional.  There was enough sadness to fill a large stadium.  A young man, maybe in his forties, came up to me and asked me if I could sing "Our House" by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young.  Well, I managed to fumble through it, but he started to sob, uncontrollably.  I asked him what was wrong.  He said, he lost his wife of 25 years to uterine cancer two months ago, and that was their favorite song.  He cried and cried, and I could smell alcohol on his breath.  Whatever works.  I hugged him and he tipped me generously, and I said it wasn't necessary, but he insisted.  And so it goes.  He walked away, as I started my next song.
Music can tap into a source, a place of pain.  It can open a flood gate.
Music is not for the faint of heart.
Then there was the couple who approached me yesterday.  She was in a wheelchair, he pushing it.  I was singing "Ain't No Sunshine" by Bill Withers.  As I sang the man started singing back, call and response style.  At first I didn't notice it, but as he and his woman friend drew nearer, I definitely felt the connection.  Ain't no sunshine when she's gone.  Only darkness every day.  We sang back and forth to each other, I alternating with voice and harmonica.
It was the highpoint of my day.
Talk about connecting with your audience.
The couple was from Virginia and they were visiting Philly.  They were celebrating two months of marriage.  They had known each other for 26 years.  He had become a drug addict and she had hung in there with him, through all the hell and rehab, all those years.  Finally he had become sober, and she had married him as a reward.  I could feel the love vibrating from them.  Twenty-six years.  Talk about a test of their love for each other.
Both encounters made me feel grateful for what I have.  A talent to share and someone to love.
What else is there?

Free Insider Tips--Not To Be Taken Lightly

Singing and playing on the streets gives you the advantage to receive a variety of privileged information from passers-by.  I'm not sure exactly why they chose me to share these insider tips with.  I think some genuinely care and want to save me from impending doom.  Three weeks ago a man who spends his days in the park told me that they world was going to end the following week and that I shouldn't worry because he had reserved a place on the boat for me and my wife and that we were safe from the apocalypse.  He spoke in tongues part of the time, so some of the pertinent details were lost in translation, but I for the most part, I understood that we'd be o.k. 
Well, we're all still here, three weeks later.  I had packed my bags for nothing.  But better safe than sorry.
Yesterday, however, was unsettling.  A young man listened to an original song I was singing called "August Sky" about the stars above and infinity and the endless beauty of the Perseids shower on a summer night in Maine.   The man smiled and politely waited till I ended the song before speaking.  He made small talk about the song, but then asked me about what I believed in.  I told him stars, infinity, boundless beauty, that I'd like to think my stepson Jonathan, who died two years ago, was among those stars, his soul now part of the endless universe.  The man launched into a canned speech about accepting Jesus Christ as my savior.  I told him I thought Christ was cool, as well as Buddha, Paramahansa Yogananda, Ghandi, among others.  He told me Christ was the only true prophet.  Instantly I was sucked into a cauldron of the old argument I've heard so many times, that his way is the only way and everyone else was going to hell.  I could kick myself, every time I get blindsided by this line of thinking.  I'm pulled in and find myself going in circles with no way out.  I try to be polite and respectful.  I try to ease my way out, but religious bullies won't let you breath.  Finally, as I could feel him becoming frustrated with my pigheadedness, he shrugged and said he was just trying to help me and he felt bad for me that I would be going to hell.  I said thanks, and maybe we would finish our discussion at some later time, maybe in heaven.  I told him I had to get back to work and wished him a good day.  He shook his head in frustration and walked away. 
Like the apocalypse, I hope this information also turns out to be not true.  Me going to hell, that is.  I don't handle heat very well.  On the other hand, it might be interesting to see who else shows up there.  I could always start a band.

Bumping Through This Thing Called Life

There's a wonderful film out there about busking called "Once."  The soundtrack is fabulous, rich with painful but beautiful songs about love and hurt and how we all bump through life in spite of it.  The acting is fresh and spontaneous.  It gives the viewer an interesting view into the life of a busker in Ireland.  I'd recommend it highly.
It's also a love story.  Strangely the characters never address each other with names and they're listed in the credits as boy and girl.  Maybe that's to remind us of our anonymity.  We think we know each other on this path, but ultimately we are all alone.
Last night I was playing on Chestnut Street.  It's a very interesting experience.  I start playing at 8 PM, when it's still light out.  It's a laid-back feeling at that time.  Almost family-friendly.  People are still out with their children and just beginning to digest their dinner.  It's still an all-ages crowd.  Shortly after I started playing a very thin woman walked up to me with a huge but worn smile.  She seemed very sweet but a bit rough around the edges, like she'd experienced a little bit more of life than most of us.  She stood and listened, smiling constantly.  At the end of my song she said she really liked my voice and what I was doing.  I thanked her.  She then said that she was a singer, too, and had been compared to Janis Joplin.  Well, Janis happens to be one of my favorite singers, mostly because of her energy and grittiness and how she lived her short life on the edge till the very end, burning quickly and hotly, like a comet.  Anyway, I took a chance and said, "That's cool.  Would you like to sing something?"  She lit right up.   We agreed on Bob Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind."  Her voice was just as rough as her appearance, deep and gravelly, perhaps from too much hard living.  She shut her eyes when she sang and belted out her song, not quite sure of the lyrics, but filling in where necessary.  A true performer.  We sang a few more parts of songs, as she really didn't know all the lyrics to any one song.  She told me her name and then pulled out her state-issued i.d. card to prove it.  She said she was Irish and her name was Danny, Daniella.  Like Danny Boy, she said.  Pure Irish and proud of it.  I played a few more songs, then she said it was her last night in Philadelphia, and that she was alone.  She had been alone and lonely all her adult life.  She wondered if she would ever find love or someone to share her life with.  We talked about how we are all alone in many ways; we enter this world alone, often spend our lives alone, even if we're surrounded by friends and family, and then we leave this world alone.  There was a depressing pause in our conversation and I began to noodle around on the guitar softly.  Then she grabbed her ziplock bag of belongings and smiled.  She shook hands.  The lost look in her eyes got to me.  Deeply.   Her worn and tired smile.  I wondered where she was going to sleep tonight.  Under what circumstances.  And where her path would lead her after Philadelphia.
There are no happy endings.  Even the film "Once" ends on a note where we all end up sometimes not realizing our dreams entirely and love can be a compromise.
It's the next morning.  I slept in a warm bed last night after busking.  There's food in the fridge.  I live with the woman I love. 
I wonder where Daniella is right now....

Beyond Language

It's Friday night, I'm I'm heading down Second Street toward Chestnut to set up and play music and sing for all the passers-by, as they move from one bar to another during the course of the night.  I pass a pizza place and for some reason a young Asian woman catches my eye briefly through the window, as she stands at the counter, ordering a slice.  She doesn't see me and I continue on.  I play a song or two, and the same Asian woman, probably in her late twenties, comes up to me, pizza slice in hand, and stands near me and smiles, as she finishes her food.  At the end of the song, I greet her.  I find out quickly that she understands almost nothing I've said.  My Korean is limited to Hello, how are you?  Once I used that line, I was at a loss as to where to go.  I tell her my name, pointing to myself.  She does the same.  We stand in silence, smiling, looking around awkwardly.  I then say, "Beatles."  She smiles and applauds.  I sing for her "Yesterday."  And then a few more Beatles songs.  John Lennon got in trouble once for saying that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus Christ.  But maybe he wasn't too far off the mark with his comment.  Anyway, this Korean angel applauds after each song.  She hangs with me for at least a half-hour, maybe because she feels secure with the music, a familiar hook, an asylum in an otherwise alien city.  I manage to ask her about her travels, and she is traveling alone from NYC to Washington, D.C. via Philadelphia.  Alone.  No English.  What courage.  She stands at my elbow as I continue to sing.  A silent partner.  It was almost like she was catching her breath from the darts and arrows.  Finally, I sense it is time to move on for her.  She hands me a ten-dollar bill.  Her generosity touches me and I give her one of our albums.  We bow, as we say good-bye, then I blow her a kiss and she blows one back.  A blend of Asia and America.  We have learned from each other.
I wish you luck and safety in your travels, my Korean angel.  Thank you for listening and sharing with me through music, the best language I know.

The Blessings Continue

It's beginning to feel like a regular love fest, this busking thing.  Today alone was worth an entire entry.  Two businessmen from Saudi Arabia stood in front of me listening.  This was their first visit to Rittenhouse Square, and the were in love with the friendly atmosphere.   They remarked how people of all ages and income levels and races seemed to be getting along well and all enjoying the gorgeous May weather.  They wanted to take a picture of me.  As I was posing, a very cute, young African-American woman ran up to me and threw her arm around me and smiled at the camera, wanting to get in the picture.  I had never seen her before, but she was very friendly and we posed together.  She disappeared as quickly as she had appeared.  The men asked me if I knew her.  I told them, no, but that type of thing happened every day to me when I was busking.  The city that loves you back.  I sang a few songs for them, and eventually the crowd embraced them and they were gone.

Then there is the aging hippie who claims he met me thirty years ago in his recording studio and the August Sky albums my wife and I made in 2002 were actually made thirty years ago.  This man visits me regularly.  He is warm and friendly and harmless.  We always exchange handshakes and he often leaves a token of his appreciation in the guitar case.  Today it was a nearly empty bag of loose cigarette tobacco.  Anyway,  today was exceptional, because he was giving me insider information about the end of the world, which is going to happen next week.  But I shouldn't worry, because he loves me and my wife, and he's reserved a place on the boat for us to safety.  Then he started babbling in tongues.  I swear.  Occasionally he'd lapse into English, but primarily he babbled his own syllabic mumblings.  I finally thanked him for watching out for us and I'd be sure to pack my bags this weekend.

Because I love you, my readers, I feel compelled to share this insider information with you.  Be ready.  Pack your bags.

Finally, the day ended with a wonderful little girl and her mother sitting down in front of me.  I sang her some kids' songs.  She was pretty precocious and requested I sing something I wrote myself.  "Fake" songs, she called them, as opposed to "real" or popular songs.  I sang her my song about Rittenhouse Square called "September Painting."  As I sang, she pulled out paper and opened up her marker box and started drawing.  She created a beautiful portrait of her and her mother.  I was hoping she'd give me the "painting," but I wouldn't presume anything.  As I was packing up my guitar to leave, she ran over to me with the portrait.  Signed with a heart.
I think I have the best job in the world.   But I'm not so sure about next week.  The end of the world.  I might pack a toothbrush and guitar, just in case. 
But in the meantime, the blessings continue.

Still Full From Breakfast

This week has been a week for reflection.   I see such a broad spectrum of society passing before me.  When I'm busking, I'm in pretty much one spot.  The world passes me by.  I see all ages, all races, and people in very different financial situations.  Rittenhouse Square is one of the affluential parts of the city.  People smoke expensive cigars on sidewalk cafes, sipping hundred dollar bottles of wine.  Others eat out of bags from McDonald's on park benches.  Some go hungry.
The park is a mixing pot of society.  I've been thinking a lot about poverty and homelessness this week.  I see many of the same people every day.  The park is their place to hang out while the sun is up.  Same bench, same companions, same clothes, day-in, day-out.  I also see the same affluent people walk by.  I used to teach in a posh charter school, and the director has an office on Rittenhouse Square.  She walks by now, but she no longer knows me, now that I'm busking.  I also used to work in an exclusive museum nearby, where a few "high-roller" members would chat up a storm with me, when I worked in the museum.  Funny how they don't look at me or recognize me now.  Convince me it's because they suffer from short-term memory.
I use the term "street people" loosely, to describe those who spend their days on the streets.  I'm sure many of them have places to go at night, warm beds to sleep in, but have no job or occupation to go to during the day, so the park is the logical choice.  Many of them have befriended me.  I'm a soft touch, and they know it.  I do like talking with them.  Many listen to the music more closely than others.  Many comment and give me feedback and encouragement.  Some ask for money.  But not all.  And that's o.k.
Yesterday a well dressed woman was eating a piece of chocolate cake she had bought from a nearby bakery, which probably cost her at least $4.75.  She didn't seem to like it.  She balled the entire piece of cake up in the paper bag, and walked twenty feet to the trash can, rather than walk five feet to the next bench, where a street person was sitting, and probably hadn't had lunch that day.
I was moved today by observing three street people in succession who rummaged through the trash can next to me where I play, looking for food.  I thought of my beautiful lunch my wife had made for me.  Tunafish sandwich with chopped celery on 12-grain bread and two mandarin oranges.  I offered the third man the bag, describing it's contents with appetizing adjectives.  He thanked me profusely and hurried to a bench nearby and dove in.
The irony was, I was still full from breakfast.
I thought a lot about that.  Still full.  From breakfast.
How fortunate I am, never to go hungry.
Just wanted to share these observations with you.
And now I'll get back to playing my guitar and singing.

Manna From Listeners

People show their appreciation for the tunes I share in many ways.  Most people toss money in my guitar case.  But I'm always amazed people share other items with me to show their thanks.  Yesterday a man gave me a portfolio and inside was a leather-bound Bible.  Not just a pocket edition, but a full-size, very thick Bible.  I'm not sure that his motive was to spread The Good Word, but his intentions were sincere and the smile on his face was somewhat beatific.
Here's a list of other things people have given me over the past few months, just to give you an idea.
1. Two Narcotics Anonymous medals for good work and encouragement to stay clean
2. A new unopened tube of skin cream
3. Septa tokens
4. fresh flowers
5. granola bars
6. one-hundred personalized business cards with my name on them (a sweet old lady had printed them up for me on her computer, figuring I needed to give people my contact information)
7. A Korean embroidered key chain
8. their own music cd's
9. pretzels and sandwiches
Other people have offered services.  One young photographer did a photo shoot of me in action and then emailed me all the jpg photos for my use.
Several times I've been invited to attend a prayer meeting (somehow I haven't found the time to attend yet) and people have prayed for me and with me.  I respect that, although it does take me by surprise.  But the idea that they feel I'm doing the Lord's Work by singing my music touches me.  They even called me Brother David.
Anyway, the point is, people give what they can sometimes, and I find it very meaningful and touching.  I truly appreciate smiles and winks and thumbs-up.
I guess as long as I receive those, I'll keep singing.
Praise Everyone. 
Brother David

Joshua Bell and Me

The world-famous violinist Joshua Bell was seen busking recently in a subway station in Boston.  Many of you have probably seen the email circulating on the internet where he decided to take his 3.5 million-dollar violin into the subways and play.  I'm not sure why he did this, but maybe it was to make the point that even an virtuoso like him can go unnoticed, like a diamond in the rough, when he is put into a certain environment.  Setting can be everything. 

The email chronicles how people walked right by him, and some even threw money into his case.  He made thirty-two dollars in forty-five minutes.  That's pretty good, I'd say.  I'm not sure how long he played there.  It all sounds like an experiment for Sociology 101, where students would stage something and stand off to the side and take notes about man-on-the-street reactions.  That night Joshua Bell played a concert in Boston where the seats averaged over a hundred dollars.
This story is very comforting to me in some ways.  I play a guitar, an old Harmony Sovereign, from the sixties which belonged to my father.  That's one reason I play it.  It was my father's. The other reason I play it is because it had a big body and it projects the sound well.  My point is, it cost seventy-five dollars new back then.  It's a great guitar.  I am comforted to know that if I paid 3.5 million for a guitar that I wouldn't be making that much more money and it would never pay for itself.
I also love the environment I play in.  Mondays I play in Suburban Station.  I have my regulars, who stop by, give support in various ways.  I have my shop keepers and restaurant owners I check in with.  Even the cops and maintenance people give me a nod.  I have one person who drops off a granola bar every time he sees me.  And recently a older woman had business card made up for me, just because, without my knowledge.
People take care of me.
As the week progresses with this good weather I play in Rittenhouse Square Park.  You couldn't ask for a more beautiful stage to play on.  The azaleas are in full bloom, the trees offer delicious shade, there is a constant flow of people, who have the luxury of staying to listen or moving on, as they are not stuck in one-hundred-dollar seats, wishing they were somewhere else or itching to answer their cell phones.  Business people and shoppers enjoy their lunches on benches, and nannies congregate with their children.  On Fridays and Saturdays sometimes I'll walk on the wild side and play to a younger, more raucous crowd in Old City near the fancy restaurants and bars, where people out out to have a good time and spend money. 
It's all good.
In some ways Joshua Bell has got it made.
But you know what?  So do I.

Kids--You Gotta Love 'Em

Now that the weather is fabulous and I'm playing more outdoors in the park at Rittenhouse Square, it's natural that more children are walking by and listening.  The park is a great place to hang out on a gorgeous day...an oasis of Nature...in a landscape of steel and glass.
I have been touched, as always, by the intent interest children show when they walk by or ride by in their strollers.  Their eyes are often riveted on me.  Sometimes the mothers or nannies don't seem aware of the performance, but the children's head turn and stare, long after they pass me.  It's amazing how flexible their necks are....  Often the children stare with a serious look, and other times they grin or wave or point. 
Sometimes the mothers stop the stroller, or squat down next to their child, and listen for a while.  I'll usually change to a children's song and try to get them involved, encouraging them to finish the line and sing along.  Itsy, Bitsy, Spider and Old McDonald, and The People on the Bus are usually big hits.
I am very touched most of all when the mothers and fathers and nannies sing along with the child and encourage the child to take part.  For many it might be the first time the child has ever experienced live music.  I'm also touched when a parent tosses a donation into my guitar case, or gives the child a coin or dollar to put in the case.  Often they even guide the child over to the case and show them, this is what you can do to show your appreciation.  A teaching moment.
Yesterday I was really moved when a child, no more than eight, reached into his Disneyworld backpack.   His mother said, "Do you have something you can give the man?"  The child pulled out a crumpled dollar, no doubt his snack money, and he proudly placed it in the guitar case.
Talk about sacrifice....
I love to see children learning to appreciate music.  Discovering the magic that music can bring.  How it can connect us all.
And in the meantime, I'll have to learn a whole lot more children's songs....

Spring In Philadelphia

Last week I was singing in Rittenhouse Square.  It's been incredibly warm, like summer.  A young couple with a baby in a stroller came up to me and said, "Can you play Spring in Philadelphia for us?"  I did a double-take and said, "You mean, by August Sky?"  I couldn't believe what I was hearing.   They said, yes, and they explained that they had bought our album in a coffee shop and that they loved the song and even their baby knew it.  I was able to compose myself (I was jumping out of my skin for joy) and said, of course, I can sing it.  I proceeded to clear my throat and sing the song, which appears on August Sky's second album (give it a listen at www.cdbaby.com/augustsky2).  As I sang the song, the young couple joined in and sang along with me.
I have to admit, it pleased me to have this young couple showing so much support.
Then Ellie came along.  I mentioned her in a previous entry.  She must be 85, and she is a sweetheart.  She walked up to me, as I was singing, and said, I have a gift for you.  She presented me with one hundred business cards, which she had printed up for me, since I didn't already have business cards to hand out.  I was touched by her gesture of support.
She remained by my side, humming a soft harmony over the songs I was singing.
I am touched by this support.  This love.
I am blessed.

He Played Real Good For Free

Joni Mitchell is one of my favorite songwriters.  My favorite song by her is about a street musician, and what runs through her mind as a successful and recognized performer, when she sees him playing on a humble street corner.  I dedicate this wonderful song to all street musicians. 

For Free
      by Joni Mitchell

I slept last night in a good hotel
I went shopping today for jewels
The wind rushed around in the dirty town
And the children let out from the schools
I was standing on a noisy corner
Waiting for the walking green
Across the street he stood
And he played real good
On his clarinet, for free

Now me I play for fortunes
And those velvet curtain calls
I've got a black limousine
And two gentlemen
Escorting me to the halls
And I play if you have the money
Or if you're a friend to me
But the one man band
By the quick lunch stand
He was playing real good, for free

Nobody stopped to hear him
Though he played so sweet and high
They knew he had never
Been on their T.V.
So they passed his music by
I meant to go over and ask for a song
Maybe put on a harmony...
I heard his refrain
As the signal changed
He was playing real good, for free
 





 

Listener Supported Busking

The exciting thing about busking is that you never know what's going to happen or who will show up to listen.

The other day I was just setting up in Rittenhouse Square Park and a news crew from CBS walked up to me and asked me if I would sing a song to Sandra Bullock.  A sad love song, as she is having difficulty with her husband.  Without thinking, I said, "Sure."  As I tuned my guitar, I was thinking to myself, what on earth could I sing to Miss Blind Side.  I started singing "Autumn Leaves."
...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.
Anyway, they caught it all on camera, and I  watched myself on a big screen tv with my wife while eating dinner at a neighborhood restaurant that night....
The next day I was playing in Suburban Station.  All of a sudden a group of maybe twenty Hispanic high school kids arrived and stopped in front of me and smiled, nodding to the rhythm of the song.  They were all very beautiful young people, shiny faces, some with braces on their teeth, well dressed, wholesome....  They seemed to enjoy the music.  At the end of the song, I announced, "Ladies Choice."  The young girls picked partners and they started dancing ballroom style to "Yesterday" by the Beatles.  It was so sweet.....  They were very generous with tipping, each person trying to out-do the other....
And today, Ellie stopped by.  She's the one who sang with me months ago.  She must be in her eighties.  Loves the standards.  I sang for her today.  She stood in front of me and listened intently.  Maybe ten songs.  Mostly originals.  She talked about each one, giving her commentary on the lyrics.  I felt very touched by this.  Like she needed to be there at that moment, and listen deeply.
Perhaps the highlight of the week was when my son Chris and his wife Alexis came and listened while I sang.  They had traveled from Colorado to be here to celebrate their mom's birthday.  They seemed to feel it was important to see and hear me doing my thing, busking, in my element.  After seeing the Liberty Bell and other historic attractions, they spent part of their afternoon in Suburban Station sitting, listening, offering support as I sang.  I felt honored to have them there to share with me what has become so important to me.  Playing music.  Sharing.
I need my listeners, as much as I hope they need me.  I hope Sandra Bullock heard my song for her.  Love hurts, and music soothes the pain.  I saw teenagers dancing ballroom style in Suburban station to my music.  Music celebrates raging hormones.  And Ellie sang along as I played sweet love songs for her.  Suspended in time, taking her back to a previous love perhaps, a romantic evening, a long lost lover....
I thank my listeners.  I am grateful to those who stop by.   I love the connection we have through music.  Music brings us together.  Music heals.  Music helps us transcend...

Celebrating Spring with Song

Now that the grip of winter has loosened up a bit, I found myself wandering back to Rittenhouse Square to share my music with the people passing by in the park.  I love Rittenhouse Square.  It is an oasis of nature in the middle of a very large and sometimes intense city.  It soothes the nerves to sit and listen to the birds and look at leaves....
My wife Patricia and I used to play with our August Sky music in Rittenhouse Square.  Back in 2001 tensions were beginning to build between street musicians and some less appreciative neighbors.  With phone calls to the police, they would set in motion the machine to remove the vermin from the park.  Just like the unwanted homeless, musicians were pariah.  We were usually shut down and kicked out of the park.  Eventually the battle came to a head in court, and musicians were allowed to play, but not allowed to open their guitar cases and take donations.
I figured I better check in with the policewoman on duty, just to let her know I was going to play and asked if that was cool.  She was very nice.  She showed me the rules on paper.  She told me she loved musicians and live music.  She said she wouldn't shut me down, and she'd turn her back, if I opened my guitar case for donations.  The new rules say, you can only play for one hour.  She said she would overlook that rule, too.  It was a regular love fest.
Anyway, I set up on the same spot we played in nine years ago and played for three hours.  It felt good to sing there again.  Many people sat and listened.  One young man lit some incense for me and stuck it next to my guitar case.  Many people commented positively about the music and said they loved sitting and listening.  I sang to the children passing by in strollers.  Itsy, Bitsy Spider brings a smile every time.
Pat wrote a song for Philadelphia in the spring which appeared on our second cd, Flight.  It's called Spring in Philadelphia, and it features jazz trumpter Faruq Dawud and jazz drummer Bob Fant.

Spring in Philadelphia

Spring in Philadelphia, blossoms in the air
I walked along the river, looking at the rowers
Wishing you were there
How can it compare
To any other city anywhere.

Every park and playground, is filled with happy noise
Lovers on their cell phones, puppies on their leashes
Laughing girls and boys
Funny little ladies, in funny little hats
Sneak a little smile at you
And hope you’ll smile back.

Daffodils and tulips, on museum lawns
Kids who hookied class, lying on the grass
Stifling their yawns
Spring in Philadelphia, makes your heart feel light
Buy some summer shoes, shirts in summer blues,
Anything that’s bright.

Keep an eye on robins, bent on some dissection
When you’re walking past, a wall that’s made of glass
Wink at your reflection
Sitting with your coffee, underneath a tree
There’s no way you can know, when you get up to go,
What miracles you’ll see.

Vendors selling flowers, pretty scarves and rings
Necklaces and watches, sandwiches and pretzels,
And a thousand things.
Unexpected joys, you’ll find on every street
Open up your eyes, be open to surprise
Life can be so sweet...
In the spring in Philadelphia.

So, Lovely Rittenhouse Neighbors, I'm back.  Along with other musicians, classical violinists from the Curtis Institute, flautists, guitarists, singers, troubadours of joy.  We're here to celebrate life with you.  We will shower you with song and love to help the winter thaw....

Visiting Angels

Lately I've been visited by angels.  They do not have visible haloes and wings.  They look like us, yet they appear out of nowhere and do good, bring peace, change our lives for the better in some small way and then disappear.
A bandmate of mine works for a agency called Visiting Angels that sends nurses out to people's homes.  I've always thought that was a very cool name for a homecare agency.  As my wife Patricia recovers at home from her broken hip, these visiting angels appear several times a week (lately braving harsh winter storms) to make her life a little better. 
Yesterday an angel visited me while I was busking.  I was playing a song, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed a young woman with long flowing brown hair and a peaceful smile, listening.  At the end, I smiled and thanked her for listening.  She gave me a donation and nodded.  I wished her a good day, and she disappeared into the crowd.  About two songs later, she reappeared in the crowd and approached a street person who was asking for money from the people sitting at Au Bon Pain eating their lunch.  He wasn't having much luck with them.  She touched his shoulder and asked what it was he needed.  He asked for money, but she asked him if he was hungry.  He nodded.  She handed him one on the bags she was carrying.  It had several large pretzels with mustard in it.  The troubled look on his face melted and he smiled with his crinkly eyes.  She then introduced her herself to him with her name.  He seemed to be caught offguard, but he told her his name, too.  She reached out to shake his hand, smiling, but he hesitated and said that she shouldn't shake his hand, as it was not clean.   She touched his arm, then wished him a good day.  As she passed by me, we exchanged smiles again and I wished her a good day. 
What a gift to all of us.  These angels.
My step-son died almost two years ago.  I wrote this song to help with the healing.  I sing it every day while busking.

Looking for Jonathan
I’d like to think that you’re still here
Beside me when I walk
I feel your breath upon my face
At the door, I hear your knock.

On these city streets, you’re everywhere
Your reflection’s in the glass
I think I hear your voice on the bus
Or in the car that drives on past

    Your everywhere around me
    Your spirit fills the air
    Your peace and warmth surround me
    Stay with me, everywhere….

The leaves above they spread apart
The sun comes shining through
And then I see your brilliant smile
And then I know it’s you.

They say that life is but a dream
And death is just as strange
Cuz neither one is real to me now
They both seem just the same.

Come sit with me, talk to me now
Come tell me how you feel
I feel your arms around my chest
I know you’re just as real.
 
There are angels among us.  Bless them.  They help us to take the edge off of the harshness of life...earthquakes, broken hips, winter storms, homelessness....
We just need to be ready to welcome them.

Dust in the Wind

I feel blessed to be having this experience of busking in Philadelphia.  Each day is a painting, a tapestry, of the human condition, and I feel connected, playing the sound track.  The Greek chorus.  All kinds of people walk by me every day, rich, poor, all going somewhere, some hurrying more than others.  Some standing still, pausing.  I see people laughing, crying, talking, arguing, brooding, chatting on cell phones, and some talking to themselves.  I think of how fragile we all are.  We're all bumping along, getting through life the best we can.
When I look at the songs I sing, the body of work as a whole reflect the different facets of our human existence.  I add songs periodically which speak to me, shed light on another facet.  Some talk of the poignancy of life.  Some are very Zen and question the material life we lead.  Here's one Kansas made famous....

Dust In The Wind
I close my eyes,
only for a moment and the moment's gone.
All my dreams,
pass before my eyes, a curiosity.
Dust in the wind, all they are is dust in the wind.
Same old song,
just a drop of water in an endless sea,
All we do,
crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see
Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind.
Don't hang on,
nothing lasts forever but the earth and sky.
It slips away,
and all your money won't another minute buy.
Dust in the wind, all we are is dust in the wind.
Dust in the wind, everything is dust in the wind.


We may be just drops of water, but we are in an endless sea.....

El Mundo Es Loco

Yes, the world is crazy.

The relief effort in Haiti continues, as does the nightmare.  People are dying because they can't receive transportation out of Haiti to get medical treatment, especially children.  It's frustrating, busking here in snow-bound Philadelphia, watching this tragedy.  However, many generous people did donate to my collection for the ClintonBushHaitiFund.org last week.  I sent them $85 to help with the relief efforts.  Thank you to all friends and strangers who helped with the cause.  If you'd like to make a donation yourself, simply log on to www.clintonbushhaitifund.org.
Actually, the word "strangers" doesn't seem quite appropriate anymore.  I feel a sense of community with people who happen by.  Some I see on a regular basis, others I see for the first time.  It's hard not to just stop playing and singing and to stand there and talk and catch up on each others' lives.  My friend from Tehran stopped by after three weeks absence due to a car accident, which fortunately only totalled the car and did no harm to her or her son.  My friend, Al, stopped by.  He's always an inspiration.  He must be 80 at least, and he still plays piano and accordion in an Italian restaurant on a weekly basis.  We had a good discussion about jazz and why it's not popular, and how people and restaurant owners prefer pop songs to jazz, when we play for customers.  There are the other musicians I meet, talk with, and even jam with.  A new singer-songwriter named Tim joined the musical fold today, his first day.  We talked about busking, the do's and don't's, although there are really no rules or guidelines.  What works for some might not work for others. 
Sometimes bad things happen when busking.  My banjo player friend was almost robbed last week.  He was playing and a young couple walked up to him and the woman grabbed all his dollar bills out of his box and started to walk away.  My friend protested.  The woman hollered back at him, "What you gonna do about it, bitch?"  My friend went after her with his banjo and threatened her, her boyfriend stepped in, a store owner called the transit police who came and told my friend, he shouldn't be flaunting his money out there for people to see, and that it was basically his own fault.  He got his money back, however.  A senior cop later explained to my friend that he was, in fact, within his rights.  However, no charges were filed.  It was a blip on the screen.  Just another day at Suburban Station.
Which reminds me of the woman I wrote about last week, who asked me why I felt I should give to Haiti and not to the homeless right here in Philly.  She resented it that I also "flaunted" the money I made (for Haiti) for all the homeless walking by to see.
I understand where she's coming from, although I don't know what the answer is.
Nothing is black or white.  The couple was able to attempt to rob my friend in broad daylight before twenty witnesses.  The cops at first sided with the would-be robbers.  Flaunting was the charge, and my banjo buddy got what he deserved.  Welcome to Bizarro World.
Si, el mundo es loco.
And tomorrow I'll return to busking, perhaps a little wiser, remembering not to flaunt the kindness of strangers, and friends.  I will sing my heart out and look forward to seeing perhaps Al, or Austin, or one of my other new found friends....

Haiti's Devastation, Bringing it Home.....

This week I decided to donate all the money I made to the Haitian Relief Fund.  From what I've seen on television, it must be a hellish nightmare beyond comprehension in Haiti.  The suffering, the pain, the devastation...so surreal.
I put up signs in front of me where I sang and played, letting people know, they were donating to Haitian Relief and not to my own pockets.  Monday was the first day I tried this, and I didn't get much of a response.  I was surprised.  I thought the money would be pouring in.  But the second day it went better.  And the third day things picked up even more.
Only one person had a problem with me donating money to Haiti.  A woman with a crown of sunflowers on top of her head wrap, wearing a full flowered skirt and carrying a tambourine, came up to me.  She looked me intently in the eye.  She waited till I ended the song and then she spoke eloquently to me, her eyes rivetted on mine.  I felt peace, yet an agitated intensity, coming from her.  She asked me about the lyrics of the song I just ended.  She said she wanted to hear it again.  She said, she always listened to voices, and that she had no control over the voices in her head, and she couldn't help hearing my song and the words.  The song was an original called "Through the Rain."  I sang her the song again, a private performance.  She liked it.  Then she eyed the open guitar case with all the bills in it.  There was a twenty and a few fives lying on top of all the ones.  She asked me about the money.  She took offense that I would leave it lying out like that, tempting people, even flaunting it.
I told her I was collecting for the Haitian Relief Fund.  She bristled.  "Why send the money to Haiti, when there are people right here who need the help just as much."  I told her, I could appreciate her point, and that poverty was a problem everywhere.  She was right, in a way.  There are street people all around in Suburban Station where I play.  Many of them walked by me as I played, some eyeing the money.  I guess one big reason I didn't distribute some money to local needy people was that the people passing by me who had donated the money knew it was earmarked for Haiti and its earthquake victims, not to Philadelphia's homeless population.  She was frustrated, and so was I, as I partly agreed with her.  We talked a while and we both calmed down.  She told me, she busked with a tamborine and sang acapella, mostly spiritual songs and gospel songs of praise.  She said, however, that she had given up on people long ago.  Finally, I wished her luck and told her I had appreciated meeting her and that she had been honest with me, voices or no voices.  Somehow I doubt she has totally given up on people, especially if she is sharing her music and trying to save souls.
Yes, the devastation in Haiti has perhaps diverted our attention from our own needy population.  Or maybe we haven't been paying proper attention to them all along.  I've known many street people in the city, some more closely.  I don't know what the solution to homelessness is.  Just as war is inevitable, I don't know if we will ever be able to eradicate homelessness in our society.  Perhaps a good start is to reach out to the homeless and listen to them with compassion when they need to vent.

The Eyes Have It

I'm always fascinated with people's eyes, when they pass by me while I'm playing and singing, especially when families with children walk by me.  Maybe it's because the children usually seem fascinated with me.  Whether in strollers or walking and holding the hand of their parent, they seem to stare at me with a rivetted gaze. 
Adults are mixed, when it comes to eye contact.  Some smile, making friendly but brief eye contact, and move on.  Others avert their eyes all together, maybe fearing that if our eyes meet, they'll feel trapped into (my projection) throwing money in my guitar case.  A few people actually look at me with concentration, making a focused connection.  Often these people will stop to listen, but not always. 
But the children.  Their gazes make me want to get inside their heads and look at the situation from their perspective.  A tall guy, with a guitar, singing....  Far out.  Maybe the first live music they've ever seen.  I always look back at them, returning their gaze warmly.  Rivetting my eyes on theirs.  Trying to read their thoughts.
Sometimes, if I've just ended a song and I see them coming, I'll sing a children's song, just to try to make a connection with them and give them something to remember.  It usually works.  My favorite song to sing, which usually gets a big smile of recognition, is Itsy Bitsy Spider.  Often children start singing along.  Sometimes the parents do, too. 
The other day I had an interesting and strange encounter.  A young family was walking along, a father and mother with a young child between them, each holding a hand of their toddler all bundled up in winter clothing.  The parents were arguing about something, and the man was talking on the cell phone at the same time.  The child was being totally ignored.  They stopped in front of me, obviously unaware of me, and certainly not to listen to my music.  They stopped to argue.  Their voices were loud, competing with my song.  Yet the child ignored their bickering.  The child was staring at me.  I stopped singing the song and changed to Itsy Bitsy Spider.
The child's troubled look turned into a huge grin.  The child started singing with me, while the parents, still gripping both her hands, argued and bickered.
"...Out came the sun, and dried up all the rain...."
How appropriate.
Then the bubble was popped, when the parents continued on, ignoring their child in tow.  The child craned its neck around to look at me, as she rounded the corner and disappeared.
I'd like to think, the song was a bit of sunshine on the child's rain.
Her look and smile certainly were a moment of bright light for me.