The Poignancy of It All

The other day I was touched by several encounters.  First, I had just arrived at my spot in Suburban Station and I was beginning to unpack my ax and a woman came up to me and handed me a dollar.  Just because.  I smiled and said, "But I haven't even started playing..." and she said, "That's o.k.  That's o.k."  She smiled and walked away.  Two minutes later a young African-American woman walked over to me and said, "Mr. David Reichenbacher?"  I said, "Yes, you must be from Rhodes Middle School" where I taught for fifteen years in the heart of North Philadelphia.  She told me how she had been active in my peer mediation program.  I vaguely remembered her name and face, but to tell you the truth, fifteen years really changes people's appearances, especially  between the ages of ten and twenty-five.  Then she smiled, and I remembered her eyes.  Yes, the eyes.  She told me how she loved the program and how everyone loved me.  Well, I'm not sure that was true, but it surely was comforting to hear.  And sometimes we tend to remember only the positive things or even rewrite history, and that can be a good thing, especially if there was a lot of negative.  Which there was.  In North Philly.  But there was a lot of good, too.  And I'm glad she and I could celebrate that for a moment at least.  Thank you, Sweetheart, for that moment.
And then a few minutes later a young man in a worn army jacket, obviously drunk, but harmless, stood before me, listening to my song, rocking slightly to the rhythm.  At the end of the song, he said, "I have five dollars.  Play me something happy, and I'll take four back.  Would you do that for a veteran?"  I said, "Of course."  I played him "Hear Comes the Sun" by George Harrison.  He loved it.  "Play me another, and I'll give you another dollar."  So I played him an original, and he loved that, too.  He told me his wife was in jail, and she was about to be released.  And that he could sing and he was a writer.  I asked him what he wrote, and he stood there, looking off into the distance.  "Hold it, wait a minute, I'll see if I can remember..."  He stood there, staring...  I started playing softly, background music to his thinking.... "No, wait minute, I think I got it."  Then he broke into a blues rap, obviously original.  Full of pain and soul.  When he finished, he handed me the five spot and I gave him three back, and he smiled and hurried off down the hall, blending into the crowd.
I thank the woman who gave me a dollar on faith, the young former student who expressed her warm memories, and the vet who was struggling to make sense of this world.
Such blessings.

Swan Song

Philadelphia is a great city.  The music scene is fabulous.  Jazz, rock, folk, blues, rap, R&B, classical...Philly's got it all.  I've been in Philadelphia twenty years, and I've enjoyed being part of the musical fabric of this city.  I've given a lot to it, and it has given a lot to me. 
I've played in many venues and with three bands, but the experience which has shaped me most as a musician is my busking on the streets and in Suburban Station.  I've been playng on the streets now for three years.  The experience has strengthened my voice and my guitar playing.  I've enjoyed adding harmonica to my sound.
Now I am turning the page.  Moving to Texas.  Corpus Christi to be exact.  Eight years ago August Sky, the acoustic band my wife and I had, played in Port Aransas, just north of Corpus Christi.  I got a taste of the music scene then.  I'm looking forward to carving out my niche as a performer with new venues, and perhaps new musicians.  During a recent visit to Corpus, we ate at a restaurant and our waiter happened to be a bass player in a rock band.  I looked out the window onto the street and saw the perfect spot for busking.  Across the street, between two bars where they have live music.  I'm sure I'll meet musicians and find places to play and share my music.
Who knows.  Maybe I'll continue this blog as http://www.buskingincorpuschristi.blogspot.com/.
I feel sad leaving Philadelphia and my musician friends.  This is my swan song.  You've all been so good to me.
I hope I'm leaving you all with some fond memories as well.
Rock on, everyone of you....

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.