Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 4 (Vanlife and Newbury)

 As it happens I was so energised by the adventures of the day that I just kept driving and hit Newbury in the early evening. I had expected to flake out long before then, but the route I chose is rarely congested and I made much better progress than I expected. I went through the town in the direction of Basingstoke and turned off the main road in search of an overnight park up. I like to choose a quiet place away from habitation where the verge or field entrance is wide enough for me to pull off without the remotest possible accusation of obstructing other traffic. Finding a good spot can take a while, but eventually I found my overnight place. Again my technique is to arrive late, leave early with no trace that I’ve ever been there. I woke up before six am to beautiful sunshine. I was able to wash, dress and breakfast on the last of the food in the cool-box and bask for a while in the glory of the morning sunshine. A Land Rover drove by, so that was my cue to get ready to leave. A few other vehicles, mostly of agricultural appearance, also passed me before I set off. I don’t know whether that was normal morning traffic on that road or whether the word had gone out of an impending invasion and people were checking out the hippy who’d turned up in an old van. I imagine there could be sensitivities about these things since I was so close to Greenham Common and not unimaginably far from Stonehenge or The Beanfield. 

Oh what a beautiful morning!

No one stopped to challenge me and the authorities weren’t summoned, so I started up the van thinking I could turn up at my daughter’s house and offer to take my granddaughters to school. I sent a text message warning of my intention and, on arrival, was greeted with relief and jubilation. Seeing family during these last eighteen pandemical months has not been easy. There are times I miss the ritual of the walk to school and the beautiful weather made this walk even better. I was happy to see that I remembered the habits the girls followed, such as balancing along the brick wall that follows the pavement for a few yards. What was new this time was that crossing the road with the lollipop man’s assistance signalled the need to mask up like a posse of bandits in an old western. 

Granddaughters safely delivered, daughter packed off to work and it was time for me to explore the busking opportunities that Newbury offered. This involved sitting in a queue of traffic, the like of which I’d hitherto not encountered on this trip, as I wound my way in and around the town centre. I found a beautiful place to park under a tree next to the river in a car park near the bus station. The parking charges were a bit steep, but I’d been advised by a few people that the good folk of Newbury would see me right. Since I didn’t know the layout or the direction of the town I thought I’d take an exploratory wander before loading up my trolley with my instruments. Several wrong turns later I realised the main shopping street was the best option and that it was closer than my extended walk had suggested. I returned to the high street with my trolley, but by the time I had got to the suggested “best spot”, between Boots and the river, someone else had already arrived and had begun to set up what looked like a large p.a. system. I searched out, and found, a roadside place a couple of hundred yards further along the street which would hopefully be far enough away from what I assumed was some corporate venture. The road was actually a pedestrian precinct during shopping hours so it all looked good.

Being completely acoustic I think it takes people a while to register I’m actually there, but I was aware that people were sitting and staying for extended periods on the municipal benches within sight of my spot. I can never be certain how far my music carries, but I refuse to use amplification because I personally find it so intrusive. When sitting nearby, many people seem to pretend they aren’t interested, but this time I was aware of people loitering with intent to listen. On the periphery of my vision there were people on a bench to my right. Across the street there was another bench, but also there were a few people who took turns at leaning against the wall of the shop opposite for quite extended periods. After a few songs most of them eventually crossed the gulf between us to drop money in the hat. My voice lasts for up to a couple of hours at the moment, but in that time some people were generous while others put what change they had into the hat. Some people thanked me and said they enjoyed the music, while the usual majority walked by as is absolutely their prerogative. One older woman pointed out that she would have given me money, but “no one carries cash these days” and she wasn’t going to the cash point to get ten pounds just for me. She listened for a while before moving on. I smiled; people are interesting. As my set was coming to an end, the sky grew darker. It was a good time to stop. A woman kindly dropped a five-pound note in the hat and sat down on the adjacent bench. I felt obliged to continue. Suddenly there seemed to be a lot of insects flying around. I thought for a moment that today was probably “ant day”, the day in the year when every ant in the world grows wings and swarms simultaneously. As I looked more closely these were not ants, but bees. I looked up and the sky was black with a slowly descending swarm. Many of the bees landed on me and on the guitar and trotted around as I continued playing. Noticeably they were not interested in the drum kit. I carried on and enjoyed one of my life’s most magical experiences. I was making music in the middle of a town centre high street in the midst of a bee swarm. They seemed quite chilled out so I carried on. They started moving away and began congregating on a cycle rack to my left. The woman who’d given me the five pound note agreed she’d had her money’s worth and that packing up was a good idea. I gave her a Marshlander greeting card that I have for sale in addition to the CDs I carry with me. I’m going to discuss these further in a future post.

After packing up among the residual bees, all without a single sting, I pushed my trolley back along the high street towards the giant p.a. that had been blasting out 80/90s rock ballads and indiscernible speech from whatever had been happening outside Boots. Now in addition to the p.a. there were three large hoops on stands set at very specific distances from each other. A rope marked off a large area around the whole “arena”. The hoops were curious. One was lined with metal triangular “teeth” that reminded me of the inside of a pike’s mouth. Another was set all around the inside with daggers pointing menacingly towards the centre. The third was lined all round with small, soot-blackened pots. This would explain the smoke plume I’d seen in the distance a couple of times during my set. Clearly this was a “spectacle” so I stopped and watched. I was approached by a tall, topless, improbably ripped young man whose eyes twinkled with the promise of mischief and who addressed me in a light Irish accent that sounded like aural honey. “I’m just about to do my last show,” he exuded. Eyeing up my instrument-laden trolley he continued, “You can have this spot when I’m finished.” I explained, I’d just finished a two-hour set myself, so I was done for the day. “I’d love to be able to play an instrument,” he soothed. The charm kept on coming. “If I could do what you do I’d give this up in an instant,” he gestured towards his extensive performance rig. “My name’s Ryan, by the way. What’s yours?”

We chatted for a while as he kept one eye on a slowly gathering crowd. He excused himself and switched on his headset microphone to invite his audience up to the rope. Then the performance began. He charmed, he flattered, he appealed, he confessed and at some length he explained his act. This was to be his third and final show of the day and so far he had managed without injury. He hoped he would continue his record. I recognised the style and the routine. I’d seen this set-up many times, particularly in New York’s Battery Park. A short act would be padded out by audacity and blarney. The set-up was the show. This was something I found endearing and admirable because such a spiel was as much an impossibility for me as playing three instruments simultaneously might be for him. He explained his intention to run, hurdle-style, through the hoops lined with metal blades, metal daggers and flaming torches and that he was going to do this blindfolded - yes, of course he was! He changed the music to some big-haired rock and made his way to the start of his run. All part of the show he ran back to the p.a. at the opposite end and picked up a lighter with which to ignite the third hoop. He leapt on top of the speakers and with arms raised he made his final appeal to the under-sized audience of mostly older shoppers and disenfranchised furlough victims on this sunny, bee-swarming Wednesday in Newbury. He leapt off the speakers, changed the music to something even more portentous and jogged back to the start of his obstacle course where he carefully tied and arranged his blindfold before standing quietly for a moment of attunement, concentration and tension-building. Then he set off. Like a hurdler he flattened himself against his leading leg as he made it through the pike’s mouth with its vicious-looking metal fangs. His run continued, but he seemed to catch his shoulder on one of the daggers in the second obstacle before hurdling, without further incident, through the flames now engulfing the third hoop. He was still alive, but he kept touching his shoulder and looking at his fingers to check for blood as he gave his final triumphant speech and appealed for donations for the show. It was a great performance. Ryan had it all, except for two things I had observed in Battery Park. Firstly his audience was tiny in comparison, which was probably just as well because, secondly, he didn’t have a support team that ran out through the crowd to encircle the audience after the performance, eyeballing each person with the kind of glare I’ve only ever seen among New Yorkers, defying them to refuse to tip. 

“I’m going to try my luck in Basingstoke tomorrow,” he winked at me, “I’ve heard it’s better. Have you worked there?”

“Not yet,” I replied, dropping a two-pound coin into his somewhat optimistic sack. I really hope he made more than the £12 I was left with after paying for my parking. Still, it’s not the money … is it?