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....