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.