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.

None of Us Is Invisible

This week I've been very aware of street people, those people who tend to fall between the cracks.  The invisible ones.  Pat and I wrote several songs about these invisible people out of compassion, a need to understand more about them.  We've had many connections with street people since we moved to Philadelphia from the pristine woods of Maine.  It's been very interesting.
One song we co-wrote is called "The Baglady" and it's on the second August Sky cd called "Flight."  The last two verses go:

...When did she stop being visible?
When did her options dissolve?
Hundreds of people pass by her each day
Too self-absorbed to be glancing her way
And those walking by never thought to surmise
That this was a lady of mystery...
When did the world stop seeing her?
When did her life start to fade?
Why has no one counted the obstacles mounted
Why couldn't she make the grade?
And those walking by never thought to surmise
That this was a lady of mystery,
A little old girl with a history...

Today when I was busking, a street person sat himself down not far from me and proceeded to light up a cigarette.  It is now forbidden to smoke in all public indoor places in Philadelphia.  If you're invisible to begin with, and want to become noticed, just light up a cigarette in a public space.  No sooner did he do this but four cops descended on him with walkie talkies blaring and crackling.  One cop proceeded to write the man a ticket for smoking.  Like that makes sense.  I suppose the man will have to pan-handle extra hard to pay the ticket now.
Maybe it was a cry for help in this cold weather.  That is, if they had taken him and gotten him some help.  They simply made sure he left the concourse, ticket in hand.  Out into the cold, out of sight, out of mind.  I guess he could always use the ticket for a bookmark.

Then there's a song we wrote called "Through the Rain" from the perspective of a guy who's been dumped by his woman for another man.  The chorus goes

What'll I do on a rainy night
Standing all by myself
Nobody sees me, 
Nobody cares,
I'm like an empty box on a cellar shelf.

Today when I was singing the chorus, a woman was smiling as she walked by.  She winked and said, "But I see you..."
Cool.  Someone was listening.....

I don't think any of us wants to be invisible.  None of us wants to be unnoticed or unloved.  We want to leave our mark on the earth somehow.  We want to say, our existence mattered.  It was not a waste of time being here.  I write songs and share them for that reason.  I want to touch people.  For good or for bad.  Hopefully they won't feel invisible if they can relate to the lyrics somehow.  If it strikes a chord in them.
Each one of us is a mystery, each one of us has a history.

It Feels Like Family

Some of the most interesting people I've met since I moved to Philadelphia back in '92 have been street musicians.  Some have become friends.  Some have become music mentors.  We met Charles who plays haunting melodies on an electric violin.  He tends to play in Old City now, but he was a favorite in Suburban Station, where musicians love to play in the winter, because it's heated.  Once the "no amplification" rule was instituted there back in August, Charles stopped playing there.  Now, with the temps dropping below freezing, buskers tend to head inside, if possible.  Charles, on the other hand, simply prays for warm days and wears gloves with the fingers cut out to get through the winter on the streets.
Charles played the wonderful violin solos on our first album, August Sky.  The melodies are haunting, as he plays through a delay pedal, which gives it a resonating reverb and echo.  Sounds like he was playing in a cathedral.  Very appropriate for our dreamy ballads.  If you want to listen, go to www.cdbaby.com/augustsky1.  Charles has been our friend for ten years.  When he's not busking in the city, he balances out his chi by camping and hanging out in the Pine Barrens of New Jersey.

Then there was Faruq.  We met him on the streets in Old City as well, sharing his bleeding soul with his jazz trumpet.  We hit it off when he heard us play our song Flight, which brought him to tears, as his son was killed in a drive-by shooting.  He joined our band as a result.  Faruq changed our sound.  He changed the way I listened to music.  Faruq made me work hard and get away from the straight folk/rock/pop world and enter the more freeform world of jazz.  Very unfamiliar territory for me.  Oh, I can appreciate jazz, but it's like a foreign language in some ways.  Faruq introduced me to thinking like a jazz musician.  Some of the songs on the second album Flight reflect the jazzier sounds of major-seventh chords.  He also played on our second cd, but more importantly, played with our band for several years, performing all the instrumental solos.  Faruq left Philadelphia to return to Atlanta.  I miss his big laugh and his honey horn.
And the beat goes on.  I met a young musician at Suburban Station named Huston West.  He has a high- pitched Appalachian singing voice and plays clawhammer style banjo.  Think Oh, Brother, Where Art Thou.  He loves to play with me and I with him.  His bluegrass style makes me shift my thinking, use muscles I didn't know I had.  Like Faruq, he's stretching me.  Together we actually draw an audience that stands and listens.  It's much more of a show than playing solo.  Playing at Suburban Station and local open mics has given him good exposure and he recently opened up for someone at the Tin Angel.  His youth is in his favor.  He will go places.
Music has brought us musicians together like family.  In some cases, I've met brothers I'd probably not have a connection with otherwise.  Faruq was a jazz musician, African-American, and Muslim.  We wouldn't have met in the mosque or in a jazz club.  But we did meet on the streets, making music, where the sky is the limit with what instrument you play or what kind of music you make.  This music is the bond between us, taking us to a place beyond age, race, or cultural differences.
May the beat go on, forever.