The most wonderful thing about buskers
on the underground is the reverberation. The flat tiles of the station
corridors cause the music to bounce and echo, allowing the sound to haunt its travelers.
Usually, and especially if the performer is a novice, such travelers carry on
their journeys in complete ambivalence, and have been conditioned by former
trips to forget the unwanted sounds as soon as they hear them. Sometimes,
however, the traveler is in just the right frame of mind, and the musician is
playing just the right style, that the two enjoy each other’s company and
patronage for a moment or two. A saxophonist improvising over summertime on a
glistening sunny London morning, and a Dixie band playing minor jazz in a
snow-kissed Oxford winter are two recent, personal, examples that come to mind.
I recall
that I was first haunted by such a player one Christmas evening at Piccadilly
Circus, when I was 13 years old. After a day of exploring the blues and jazz, vinyl
and CD section at the Virgin megastore (formerly Tower Records) nearby, I heard
the wail of the blues and deserted my companions to find the source. There he
was: Harmonica Matt. With an
amplifier plugged up to an old shopping dolly, a belt of harps around his
waist, and a Sure ‘Green Bullet’ mic clutched around a harp, cupped in both
hands and pressed to his mouth. He paused only to growl into the mic and
distort the amp. I dislike the stereotypes forced upon harmonica players in
general culture, that the instrument can only be played by the downtrodden;
tramps, the homeless, cowboys, dying soldiers, and old farm workers. Matt lived
up to this stereotype. I couldn’t tell whether he was drunk, or just confused
by the wild haired teenager who stood before him, fascinated with his playing, but,
after a moment or so, he seemed pleased to see a 13 year old kid with such an
interest in the instrument. When he finished his song, we exchanged words about
the instrument, his playing, and his equipment. He received my compliments, and
I bought one of his CDs.
A few weeks later I came across The Holloway Brothers performing in
Kingston where I marveled at the lead singer’s jazz harp technique. When I
purchased a CD from him we again discussed the instrument and his approach. He
offered to jam with me right there on the street, however I had forgotten to
bring a harp with me (sharing a harp is a hygienic faux pas) and I missed out
on a golden opportunity. Since then I have considered it a bad omen to leave
the house without a harmonica on my person, or at hand nearby.
In homage to Matt’s first haunting, I wrote a song about him
when I got home that evening. Ten years later, I have now taken the liberty of
recording it as I first played it, and have included it here.
***
‘Even if he starved to the very best of his ability, and so
he did, nothing could rescue him anymore, people walked past him. Try and
explain the art of starving! It needs to be felt, it’s not something that can
be explained.’
-Franz Kafka, The
Hunger Artist.
On one of the street corners in the
back lanes of Kingston market I pass by an old man playing a chord harmonica; a
simpler form of the instrument compared to the diatonic or the chromatic. I
pull out my diatonic and play music with the old man. After I finish playing we
exchange a few words and then I hurry off to eat. I work in a stationary shop
and I am on my lunch break. I walk by the Thames listening to houseboats creak
on the causeway. I sit by an old converted WWII torpedo boat docked to the
mooring that, with the presence of its old military colours, is a minor local
attraction. On the way back to work I
have since acquired a few coins in change and I place them in the busker’s hat
as I pass him by again. He stops playing and talks to me more eagerly this
time, and I am pleased to learn of his life. His name is Raymond. He is
Italian, and finds my obscure Portuguese surname and heritage to offer some
comfort of continental solidarity. He has played since he was ‘yea high’ and
has also mastered the accordion. He tells me how he chooses locations and how
he appreciates even a few pennies thrown into his hat. He takes any sum as a
compliment no matter how large or small. Busking, he explains, is not the means
to make a monetary fortune, but to receive acknowledgement from those that
appreciate one’s style and talent, even if only for a moment. We exchange compliments, well wishes, the
shaking of hands and pats on the arm; gestures that indicate friendship, and
demonstrate mutual respect and appreciation. He is a good man. I think to
myself about buskers. From great artists, to mainstream sellouts; those with
fanbases, and patrons who pay in advance of performances, carry the luxury of a
safety net that every performer dreams of. Buskers and underdogs have to try it
by the teeth.
And I realise that these are the
people I stand for. Everyone dreams of easy fame and winnings (and why
shouldn’t they?), and those that gain them either become saints; or vain
chauvinists, but to go out into the streets with nothing but talent, necessity,
and conviction, takes guts. I realise that I stand for those who try it by the
teeth.
***
My new year’s resolution for 2015 is to start performing
live again. The main avenue for lone musicians, like myself, is to attend jam
nights, or open mic nights.
The most awful thing about jam nights is the show-off
wankers one has to play with (and I am fully aware of the hypocrisy that, in
this regard, it takes one to know one). Jam nights are where one hears a
thousand notes per minute played over the same old scales with the finesse of a
raging bull. It is the arena where everyone from the novice to the master
‘fancies themselves’.
Open mic nights are more preferable as one can perform
pieces prepared in advance and without the intrusion of strangers. The
environment is more relaxed, and I have come across some truly great players
who have welcomed my own modest talents with friendly open arms. Along with
open mic nights, I have taken to busking before work. Buskers belong to that
category of people, and that philosophical concept of being, where an
individual can exist in plain sight, yet still be invisible. While I have made
a little profit in my performances, as Raymond told me, the rewards are not
riches, but a few chance encounters with like-minded patrons who hear just the
right thing at just the right time.
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