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....

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.