Celebration for a Gray Day

The other day in Suburban Station an amazing "happening" happened.  I was singing next to Au Bon Pain where there are several tables for people to sit and enjoy their java and a group of people, maybe twenty, took up residence at the tables next to me.  Two or three middle-aged women rode herd on about fifteen young girls, all between four and ten years old, teeming with energy and giggles.  I started singing "Itsy, Bitsy, Spider" and caught the attention of one, then two, who elbowed the others and sat up and listened with bright eyes.  One jumped up and walked over to me, then another.  Soon I had a small audience, all smiles and eventually singing along.  "Oh, sing another," they called, as I ended with "...crawled up the spout again."  I began to sing "The People on the Bus," where each verse you name someone on the bus, like the babies, who go "Wah, wah, wah."  Soon the wheels were going round and round, the driver was saying "move on back," and the mothers were going "sh, sh, sh."  We were all having a grand old time.  I notice now that several adults were grinning, enjoying the singing, probably wishing they could join in.  Then some of the girls took up ballroom stance and started dancing.  They explained it was Kelly's birthday, and wouldn't I sing "Happy Birthday" to her, which I did.  There was applause, laughter, giggles.
It was all so innocent.  Yet at the next table down, a woman was still passed out.  She had been there all day.  When I had arrived earlier to busk, she was lying on the floor.  The police had come and escorted her out of the station.  They said she had been drunk yesterday as well.  An hour later she returned to the same table, only to fall asleep again.
As she lay there, passed out again in her drunkenness, the children danced, sang happy birthday, giggled.  They wanted to sing another song, so I sang "Colours" by Donovan, and they made up verses, adding their own colors to Donovan's, with objects which make them feel the best, when they see them in the morning, when they rise. 
All such innocense, existing side-by-side with drunkenness, the grittiness of the city.  These white kids were obviously killing time till their train would take them to the suburbs, to their safe communities, away from underbelly of the city, which had not seemed to rub off on them in the least bit during their day of pre-Christmas shopping.  I wanted to sing another song by Donovan which talks about the derelict buildings and huddling in the cold, but I figured, why spoil their party, why pop their bubble. 
On the other hand, maybe I missed a teaching moment.
Merry Christmas.

Lesson Learned

The world is not such a touchy-feely place.  Every once in a while I'm reminded of this.  Like the other day, for example.  I was singing my heart out in the subway concourse, and a heavy set woman, full of bags and layers, walked up to me and stood there, listening, eyeing my guitar case with the few dollars and coins that were in it.  Then she looked up at me.  Sometimes people ask me for money, and I figured, this is what was coming, so I sang on, smiled at her, waited for the question.  Finally at the end of the song, I greeted her.  She smiled at me warmly and said "Continue making music.  You sound good."  Then, to my surprise, she pulled out a wallet, stuffed with papers coupons, and found a ten-dollar bill.  She placed it in my case and smiled and then started to walk away.  I couldn't believe it.  I thanked her for her incredible generosity and I knew it was a hardship for her to give me that much money.  As she passed, I reached out to shake her hand, but because she was loaded down with bags, she didn't take my hand.  I touched her elbow and thanked her again.  Suddenly her face snapped into a rage and she hissed at me, "Don't you f**kin' touch me."  She turned around, went back over to my guitar case, reached down and took back her ten-dollar bill, turned at walked away, cursing at me as she left.  I called out an apology after her, but I don't think she heard it, as she disappeared around the corner.
I was temporarily disabled by this encounter.  I couldn't sing.  I forgot lyrics.  I took a coffee break and tried to sort out what had just happened.  I felt like packing it up and going home.
But I didn't.  I took some deep breaths, picked up my guitar, and started singing again.  Slowly I regained my mojo.  A few smiles later and dollars later, I began to feel whole again.
In a way, I thank that woman for reminding me, we all have our limits.  We all need to respect each other's space and sensibilities.  I just feel sad about the whole encounter.  But maybe I'm understanding human beings just a little bit better.

Giving Thanks for Music

Thanksgiving Day.  I give thanks for music, for my ability to play and sing for people.  I give thanks for the people who stop and listen, who smile, who wave, who give thumbs up.  I give thanks for the spontaneous outbursts of praise and criticism, for the interaction with the people in my world.  It's what it is to be alive, to interact with people.  Yes, I do love the spontaneous response from some people when I'm playing on the streets.  As you can imagine, it runs the gammot.  Everything from skilled musicians and singers, to people who are absolutely insane.  The big city is a haven for the insane.  Also a haven for wonderfully gifted artists.  I love the extremes.

Two people stand out this week for me.  One African-American harmonica player stood near me, listening, then slipped a "G" harmonica out of his pocket, as if to offer it to me.  He smiled, a toothless smile, with bright, crinkly eyes.  I started playing "King Bee," one of my favorite blues songs.  He joined right in.  I sang a few verses, then said, "Buzz awhile..." giving him the cue to take it and run with it.  He created a fabulous instrumental.  People gathered around.  A few people tossed tips into my guitar case.  After the song was over we laughed for joy and split the tips.  We shook hands and he was off onto some new adventure.
The second person who stopped by was this crazed, wild woman, probably in her late twenties, bubbling with enthusiasm and electricity.  She loved my playing.  She said, "Do you know Paint it Black?"  I love the Rolling Stones, and so I broke into the driving rhythm of the song.  She started belting out the song, rough scratchy voice, like she smoked four packs of cigarettes a day, chasing them with a bottle of Jack Daniels.  Wild and crazy.  Think Janis Joplin, only wilder.  She was awesome.  So full of spirit and fire.
When the song was over, she raced off, her army surplus overcoat flapping behind her, like Icabod Crane. 
And people ask me, why I like playing on the streets....

Young Busker in Fairmount

Jerry is ready to share his music with the world.  He's ten years old and already finding that performing in front of his mom's flower shop in Fairmount is fun.  He's tickled that he has made a few bucks, too.  I've been working with him on his guitar for only a few months, but his energy and enthusiasm is pulling him forward rapidly as his skills with his guitarwork expand.  Currently he's working on a few old standards, like "Amazing Grace" and "Old Blue." (He really has a dog named "Blue.")  He's also exploring more contemporary songs, like Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues" and Don McLean's "American Pie."  He's putting his own spin on "American Pie," as he surprised me recently by singing and playing the song on his own.  He has stage presence and no fear.  A good combination for someone who wants to perform, especially on the streets of Philadelphia.  There are so many great songs out there to learn and share.  I can't wait till he says to me one day, "Hey, listen to this song I just wrote myself."  And if you're in the neighborhood and just happen to be walking by Plants, Etc. after school lets out, you just might catch a few of his tunes....

You go, Jerry, and I'll try to stay out of your way.

Angel

The other day I was singing in Suburban Station, and and angel hovered next to me, and started harmonizing with me.  Songs she didn't know.  Original songs.  In perfect harmony.  With a gospel spice, which was wonderful.  Clarissa was her name.  She sang with me, call and response, and at times she would take it and run with it....I played guitar and let her channel the Spirit.   A crowd gathered and appreciated our performance.  Eventually Clarissa realized it was time to move on.  I was sad to see her go.
This is why I play on the streets.  This connection.  This opportunity to share the spirit through music with the passing parade.  
Thank you Clarissa, and bless you.

Doctor David is in the House

I'm always grateful for people.  I think that is one of the most pleasurable and satisfying aspects of this busking business...the people.  Singing on the streets and in the subways is ever so interesting and enriching because of the interaction with people.
Of course, there are the people who are desperate, who are angry, who take it out on you with verbal abuse and harrassment, but they are few.  If anything, that kind of experience keeps things in perspective and keeps it real.  So I welcome a human challenge once in a while.
For the most part, however, people are wonderful.  For example, the drawing above.  A young man wanted to give me a gift for playing for him.  He had no money, but he pulled out his sketchpad and sat down opposite me and created this drawing and then handed it to me proudly.  This made my day.
I love seeing the regulars.  Most have long since stopped giving me a donation.  But that's o.k.  Once you feel like you are friends, it becomes difficult to accept money anyway. 
Then there are the regulars, a few of them, who give money everytime they see you.  I almost don't want them to donate, because it keeps the relationship business-like, kind of friendly, but at arm's length.  You know you'll never get close to them, because it is a business transaction.  And that's o.k., too.  Afterall, part of the reason I busk is to earn money, and without their loyalty I wouldn't be earning a cent. 
But mostly I appreciate it when someone stops and actually listens, then comments on the song.  Actually listens and comments on the song. 
That is when I know I have struck a chord with my audience.  Made a connection through the music.  Music is very healing.  It is the best medicine I know. 
Doctor David is in the house.

Occupying Philadelphia

It's a mystery to me
We have a greed with which we have agreed
Well you think you have go want more than you need
Until you have it all, you won't be free.
Society, you're a crazy breed
hope you're not lonely, without me....

Gotta hand it to the protesters, who occupied City Hall Plaza to call attention to the inequities of our society.  Gotta hand it to Eddy Vedder for writing his song "Society," to call attention to the greed with which we have agreed.
When will it end?  When will the poor and disenfranchised of all races realize, that it is not a race issue...it is a money issue.  Only when the poor of all races join together, recognize their common plight, will there be any progress in making this world a friendlier, more peaceful place to live.
I hope through my music, I can add fuel to their fire, help inspire a new way of thinking in this country....

It's Good to Be Back

It's good to back, busking again.  I've been to Suburban Station, where I met up with my friends from the P&C Restaurant.   It felt like I was coming home again.  So many people passing by, telling me how good it was, that I was back.  It felt good to be sharing the music again.  Seeing people, sharing smiles, thumbs up, stopping to chat.
Also, playing down on 2nd and Chestnut Streets, meeting up with fellow buskers, checking in, the hugs, the smiles, having been away for so many months...it feels good to know I've been missed.
The music connects us all. 
May it bring peace and love to the world.

Healed, Here Comes the Sun

Little Darlin', it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little Darlin', it seems like years since it's been clear,
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun, and I say,
It's all right.....

I feel like it's been a long winter for healing.  Last night I ventured out on the streets of Philadelphia for the first time in months.  It was First Friday in Philadelphia, where all the art galleries in Old City open their doors to celebrate the arts and offer wine and good times.  It was crowded.  Vendors with jewelry and art crowded 2nd Street with their tables to the beat of drummers and singer-songwriters.  It was quite a happening.  I found my familiar spot on 2nd and Chestnut and played for three hours.  It felt great to be out there again, singing, sharing my music.  Several store owners welcomed me back warmly.  It's nice to have been missed.  It was a beautiful warm Friday night.  Fireworks crackled over the Delaware River.  The street hummed with activity.  Yes, it was good to be back.
Most of all, I met up with some musician friends I hadn't seen in months.  Clinton, a 62-year-old trumpet player gave me a big burly hug and a crinkly-eyed smile.  Huey, my banjo buddy, filled me in on all the goings on with the cops. 
Yes, it was good to be back.
Last week I was in Bangor, Maine, at the American Folk Festival with my son, Andre.  It was a wonderful time, full of musicians, not only from the USA, but from China, Mexico, Egypt, Quebec, and India.  The blues musicians from Louisiana and Mississippi were very cool.  Most of all I enjoyed the buskers.  There was one cool dude who played mandolin.  Just stood there and played mandolin the whole day.  Hours and hours.  He had to be the most devoted busker I have ever met in my life.  There were other musicians, who played guitar and congas and flute and dulcimer, but that mandolin player sticks in my mind most of all. 
Music. 
Helps to make sense out of the chaos.
And heal the wounds.

Busking: Not Just Music

It's been a long winter.  I have spent the last four months healing, unable to play out on the streets or in the train station.  I have missed sharing my music and meeting people and talking and celebrating life.  I have visited my spot in Suburban Station, talked with fellow buskers, had green tea with lemon at the P&C Restaurant where I stand and sing.  I have enjoyed connecting with the Korean owners who are Buddhist.  They have given me beautiful books about Buddhism to read and a cd of monks chanting to help the healing process.  The warmth and support have worked wonders.  I feel ready to get back in the game now.  May 2nd.  My first day back. 
I did play and sing at a cafe for the Fairmount Arts Crawl a few weeks ago and it went well.  So the ice has been broken.
I've also met a young woman who is new to Philadelphia.  She reached out to me through this blog and was wondering about busking as a balloon artist.  I thought that was a very cool idea and encouraged her to look into it with SEPTA, but also to consider ballooning on the streets in Old City on a First Friday or a Saturday night, or maybe in Rittenhouse Square Park.  I got to catch her act in Chestnut Hill last Friday.  She made all types of balloon animals and for me she made a balloon guitar, which I can actually play.  No lie.  She is going to be busking with me this Friday, First Friday, on 2nd and Chestnut Streets, so if you're interested in seeing how the balloon arts and the musical arts can connect, then stop by.
I'm so excited about playing again.  I'll be playing on Monday, May 2nd and Wednesday, May 4th from 12 noon to 3 PM in Suburban Station, near Au Bon Pain.  Also I'll be at 2nd and Chestnut on Friday night after about 7 PM until whenever my fingers give out.
Hope to see you there.
Ah, sweet music.  I'll be even singing a song my wife Patricia wrote called Spring in Philadelphia.  Ah, sweet Spring.

A Winter for Healing

I've missed you guys.  Yes, it's been a long and cold winter.  I feel bad that I haven't been up to writing or playing music in Suburban Station.  After surgery my voice was shot.  It's been a long recovery, but I'm feeling stronger and itching to play again.  Not yet, but soon.  I'm going to venture out in April.  Probably on Friday and Saturday nights in Old City, 2nd and Chestnut.  Maybe Suburban Station.  I can't wait.
The voice.  I think I did some damage to myself.  After surgery I lay unconscious for four days.  During that time of darkness, I tore out two breathing tubes from my lungs.  Not just once, but twice.  I guess I didn't like them.  Anyway, I'm sure it didn't do my throat any good.
But I'm lucky.  I'm feeling pretty normal now.
I have been very lucky during these past few weeks of healing, however.  I am fortunate to be teaching guitar to a ten-year-old boy.  He is a ray of sunshine and creativity.  He was born in this country of Mexican parents.  I have been working with him for almost a year, and his progress is remarkable.  He wrote his first song in December.  We recorded it and he gave a cd of his singing and playing to his parents for Christmas.  He is working hard on his second song, developing his own voice and style.  And this kid is ten years old.  He has also introduced me to music I wouldn't have listened to otherwise.  His favorite singer/songwriter?  Ringo Starr.  His favorite song?  Peace Dream.  Here are the lyrics. 

Last night I had a Peace dream.
You know how real dreams can be?
The world was a better place for you and me,
Can’t you see?
No need for war no more.
Better things worth fighting for.
No more hunger, no more pain.
I hope I have that dream again.
Can you imagine all of this coming true?
It’s really up to all of us to do.
Just like John Lennon said
In Amsterdam, from his bed,
One day the world will wake up to see
The reality.
Last night I had a Peace dream.
You know how real dreams can be?
The world was a better place for you and me,
Can’t you see?
(Try to imagine…)
No need for war no more.
Better things worth fighting for.
No more hunger, no more pain.
I hope that dream comes true some day.
So try imagine,
If we give peace a chance,
All the world could be
Living in harmony.
One day our dream could be reality.
Reality.
Last night I had a Peace dream.
You know how real dreams can be?
The world was a better place for you and me,
(Try to imagine…)
No need for war no more.
(Try to imagine…)
Better things worth fighting for.
No more hunger, no more pain.
We’ll make our dream come true some day.
Now you can see why I love working with his kid.  He has carried me through a difficult time with the healing power of music.
Thank you, my musical friend.  I am grateful for your healing medicine.
And now I'm feeling ready to sing again.
Spring.  A time for rebirth.

A Busker Returns

Nowhere Boy.  It's a great film about John Lennon, his growing up, discovering the banjo and the guitar as a young boy, and finally hooking up with Paul McCartney and George Harrison to form the Quarrymen.  The film ends with his leaving his aunt who raised him and his mother, who taught him banjo, to head off to Hamburg, Germany, full of hurt and anger and teenage angst.  Probably a good foundation to start a rock band.
The reason I mention this film is because they talk about their uncle who was a "busker."
This is the first mention of the word "busker" I have heard of. 

It's been a month since I've written.  I haven't played my guitar or sung during this time either.  I had an aortic dissection on Jan. 18th with ten hours of open-heart surgery, and I had to stay in the hospital for two weeks.  The odds are that only ten percent of the people who suffer with aortic dissection survive.
Well, here I am.
I guess I had a few more songs to write, a few more gigs to play here on earth before I moved on.
Now I'm home recovering.  I picked up my guitar the other day for the first time.  I played some piano.  I'm sure my playing and singing will be back to normal soon.  But this has been a very shocking and humbling experience.  I've had lot of time to think and sort things out in my head.
I've missed singing to my people in Suburban Station.  I'm hoping I'll be ready to play again around March 15th, and I'm looking forward to it.  Hope you stop by...

Busking in Medellin

We just returned from Medellin, Colombia, visiting with our housemate, Oscar, and his family and friends.  Medellin is an incredibly beautiful city.  It has it's upscale rich neighborhoods, as well as people struggling with poverty, and everything in between.  There is much more activity on the streets of Medellin than in Philadelphia with people hustling, trying to sell something, standing in traffic, hawking baked goods, washing windshields, juggling fire at night (pretty dramatic), getting on a city bus and going to each passenger selling gum.  I saw very few beggars.  Everyone hustles.

What I was interested mostly in, however, was the music scene.  Buskers sharing their music.  I did see a few older men walking around the streets with guitars over their shoulders.  A few were jamming at a bus stop.  But most of the musicians I saw with Oscar's musician/nephew Daniel saw were gathered in a beautiful park near the Museo de Antioquia in the center of the city.  There was one duo where one person was playing Andean flutes in native costume.  They didn't want donations.  The flautist's partner was hustling cd's, and that's the only donation they wanted.  They didn't have anyone gathered around listening either.  Maybe it was too much of a commercial hard sell.   Further on, however, other musicians had large audiences listening.  They were older men...in fact...all the musicians I saw were older men....and they played traditional Colombian folk songs.  People were into the groove and some singing along.  Traditional Colombian music seems to be experiencing a resurgence in Medellin at this time.  Some of the clubs we visited featured live jam sessions and circles where people jammed into small pubs to sing the old standards.  Guitar, accordian and sometimes a drum or other percussion instruments were used.  A singer would stand up to sing a solo and the others would join in on the chorus.

The park rang out with music as Daniel and I made our way past the buskers, stopping to listen at each group.  The weather was heavenly...mid eighties with a beautiful breeze.  The sun was shining and birds were singing.  It was the middle of the day and the park was busy.  People took time to listen to the live music, to support the musicians, to celebrate the music tradition of Colombia.
I returned to Philadelphia to temperatures below freezing.  It'll be a month or two before we street musician feel much like playing out on the streets again.  Some of my busker friends don't mind the cold.  Clinton plays his trumpet in any weather.  The steel strings of the guitar, however, tend to do a number on the fingertips in temps belows freezing.  I think I'll stick to heated Suburban Station for the next month and come up above ground on Ground Hog Day.  And if I see my shadow....