Yesterday I went busking in a larger village near where Lincolnshire meets Cambridgeshire. I thought I’d give Friday, the regular market day, a go because last time I managed to pick half-day closing and there were very few people in the street. I didn’t have to worry about parking, because last time I was here someone told me to use the space in their yard. That meant I had as long as I wanted and not the two hours street parking I had during my last visit. I found it interesting that the main shopping street is actually closed to traffic until 2pm on market days. Sadly I arrived too late to take advantage of people shopping, but the day was greatly enriched by the encounters with people who wanted to talk and had interesting things to talk about. It was also notable that so many people thanked me for coming to play music in their village and asked me to come back. These encounters make the whole busking experience so worthwhile. The offerings were modest in comparison with everywhere else I played this week and I actually earned less than the time when I played with no shops open. I was very moved that several people offered their widows’ mites.
I tried out two sites, the first was in the market next to a greengrocery stall and the second one was outside outside the church. As I was deciding where to set up I met three traders having a conversation in the middle of the blocked street and I asked how long the road was closed for. “Till 2 o’clock,” they answered. I explained I was going to sing a few songs. They looked doubtful and told me to watch out for the market inspector who may or may not have a point of view on my intentions. One of the men offered, with a canny and winning grin, to sublet his trading licence to me. “How generous!” thought I …
For the greengrocery spot, normally a two-hour roadside parking space on non-market days, I was obscured from people approaching on the other side of the street by some of the traders’ vans. This meant it wasn’t actually the most effective place to be. I thought to sing a few songs to see what happens anyway, before moving elsewhere. A woman working on the stall came over to listen or chat a few times when she wasn’t needed to sell the produce. She thought it was lovely that someone should take the trouble to offer a street performance in such a relatively small place and made a point of thanking me and telling me how much she was enjoying my music. As the traders began to pack away I wound up my set and began to load my trolley too. An hour’s work had netted me about £3.50. This wasn’t my most profitable day. I decided to move to the other side of the street and set up outside the church, you know the one with the tallest extant wooden spire in the country.
This second spot was close to where I played last time which, counter-intuitively, was better even though it was further away from the shops. A woman stopped to talk (she was worried about my feet being cold, of course!) and I offered her a song about what I can see as I look out of my boat’s windows. She very much enjoyed “Lean On The Tiller” and was embarrassed she couldn’t find enough ready cash to give me. “Nobody carries cash these days,” she lamented. I told her not to worry and that it was lovely to have someone stop to listen. After she’d completed her shopping, she came back and pressed a five-pound note into my hand. “Put some coins on top of that so it doesn’t blow away,” she suggested. I reached into my bag and pulled out a greetings card. People who give me paper money don’t go away empty-handed if I can help it. “But,” she said, “I already feel like I’ve had a personal concert …” That was true, but not everyone who pauses in their day is willing to acknowledge such a barter. The exchange, on every level, was rather lovely.
Parents with small children stopped to listen. The children feel so grown up when they are given a coin to drop in the hat. Sometimes I think they’d prefer to hang on to the coin, but it is usually donated eventually. For these children I like to sing a nursery rhyme, something that I think they’ll know. I love to watch their faces as recognition slowly dawns. Some listen with serious intent, some shine like the sun, some join in with the actions they’ve been taught at home or at playgroup and one or two even sing along, specially with the last word of each line. At one time I was surrounded by a small crowd representing all the generations. I can’t remember ever having blocked a pavement before. This was a first. The crowd splintered and broke up, leaving just one man. I’d guess he was a few years my junior. He asked if I knew any Neil Young songs. I explained I only sang my own songs. We fell to talking. He loved music. He’d been such a devoted punk that people called him after the name of an infamous bass player who in turn had been named after a hamster. He reminisced about listening to John Peel and how sad it was that he’d died. I’d listened to John Peel ten years earlier than him when Mr Peel arrived back in England from the USA in the sixties and took up playing records on the pirate ship, Radio London. I asked my new punky acquaintance, “Where were you when you first heard the news of John Peel’s death?” He thought he’d probably been at work, but wasn’t sure. I told him I was about to climb a stairway between streets in Lyon, when someone I’d only met that day brought the news from England. I recalled how devastated I was and Punk and I instantly felt something in common. As we talked he let slip personal information concerning tragedy, health challenges and loneliness. Again he was embarrassed that he didn’t have enough to offer me a decent tip, but he reached into his pocket anyway and pulled out a few coins - definitely the widow’s mite. I offered to sing a song specially for him and asked what kind of a song he’d like. “Something thoughtful and melancholic or something slightly jollier?” I offered. He opted for jollier and I had to bring to mind what would be something suitable. I told him the story behind “Damn You, Enchiladas” and he was not sure about how a child with autism, two types of cancer and at the age of fourteen being given a life expectancy of just three more days could possibly be jolly. I told him to listen and see. As I sang and played he moved rhythmically and joined in on the choruses. While I was singing I suddenly realised that enchiladas could be metaphorical ones as well as the literal ones in the song. When I finished I pompously shared my new insight. Next time either of us dip into depression I’m going to try and sing the chorus very loudly to chase away my metaphorical enchiladas.
“Damn you, enchiladas, you may have beaten me this time but I will get you next time round.” I challenged him to do the same. He couldn’t grin, but he smiled. “Maybe,” he muttered
I may have carried on in that spot for a while longer had I not had to get home and cook something to eat before leaving for Songwriters & Poets in Downham Market. I could have afforded a bag of chips thanks to the lady who pressed the fiver into my hand, but I was saving the money towards something more nourishing. I’m glad the weather was more busker-friendly than the previous day. ⛅️
The day’s encounters weren’t yet over. Just as I was loading up the trolley and strapping down all the gear who should turn up, but Ruck Sack Man from earlier in the week. He carried the same mysterious backpack and wore the same charming smile. He apologised for being late, but he’d been held up though he had more ideas for how I could earn more money. He asked if I would go to his village and set up in a spot near a church. He even offered paper money to put in the hat to help make it worthwhile. He was sure the people from the church would like my songs. He thinks he could get me more work in churches. A theme was developing. We talked for a while longer and walked together until we parted ways at the junction with the main road through the village. Am I reading too much into his enthusiasm? I’ve not taken the bait but I’m marginally curious. There are many songs I don’t include in my busking repertoire on account of adult themes and explicit lyrical content. Maybe it’s time to give them an airing and see what happens then …
Thankfully Songwriters & Poets turned out to be a rather good evening!
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