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