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.