Of Busking At A Village Market - Return To A North Fen Village

 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!

Of Not Waving, But Drowning … In Thetford

For months, maybe longer, a gentleman by the name of Mike Harding-White has been inviting me to the twice-monthly open performance evenings he puts on in Thetford. I’ve never made it. I don’t think he’s ever seen me play, but he is so keen for me to come that I’ve been feeling guilty about never going to one of his evenings. He was also in Bury last week, but our paths didn’t cross. Since I can no longer blame Covid or my stroke for not turning up, I really intended to go to one of his sessions this month. Then the river froze. 

I told him I would try and busk back in Thetford on Thursday. I enjoyed it last time I was there. There may not have been many people, but they were interested and generous. Therefore there will be a busking trip to Thetford today. The weather forecast declared a <5% chance of rain. Just as I’d set up and was about to start a man dropped a pound coin in the hat and warned me I’d brought the rain with me. 

He wasn’t kidding. I got through the first song and was already quite wet through. Of greater concern, though, were the instruments. I covered the footdrums with the towel I usually sit on and put my guitar back in its case.  I was hoping the innovative electronics of the built-in HyVibe system were robust enough to withstand a mild drenching, not to mention the Lâg guitar. The rain eased back a little so I unpacked the guitar again and played the footdrum pedals through the towel. It kind of worked and the rain and I came to a grudging understanding. Mike turned up and we actually met at last. He stayed for pretty much the whole time I played. He took photographs and video on his phone. I may be able to share some of them eventually.

My previous experience of Thetford was pretty much repeated. There weren’t a lot a people, but a steady stream of passing shoppers, slowed down to walk by and some even stopped to listen to a song or two. People, nodded, smiled, thanked me and walked in time with the music as they passed by. It was a lovely friendly experience and Thetford will definitely stay on my list for a return visit. Mike turned out to be super-friendly and keen to get things happening in the community. He said his evenings already attracted about twenty people. I really shall make an effort to get to one of them. 

However, tonight I’ll be drying my clothes and instruments!

Marsh in Thetford by Mike Harding-White

Of Busking Back In King’s Lynn

There is sometimes a plan. It happens occasionally. I have already made a plan to busk in Thetford on Thursday assuming the weather does not prove detrimental to the instruments. I told my Facebook followers that I'd try to remember to give an estimated time of arrival once I have an idea how the day was going. “It's Tuesday and the river is still iced over. I haven't decided where I'm aiming for later today ... possibly Wisbech, possibly even Lynn. That doesn't help does it?!

***

I make a lot of typing errors. Why do ty think that is?

a) I can't type

b) I can't spell

c) the letters are so worn on my keyboard that my version of touch-typing is actually typing by guesswork.”

***

I made a decision. King’s Lynn it is …

I’ve lived in the area around King’s Lynn, known locally as just “Lynn” since the mid-80s. For the thirteen years I last had a “proper job” I was based in Lynn. That came to a stop a couple of years ahead of the last century following redundancy. The precarious joy of self-employment was something I discovered in 1998. I guess for a number of reasons my relationship with the town has had its complications. Since taking up busking I’ve tried my luck twice. The first time was costly, the second not so much. Since I’d not busked in Lynn for about thirteen months a visit was overdue. I wasn’t going to risk paying for parking the van in case I had a repeat of the first visit when, after playing for two hours I had no tips to show for it and a £4.00 parking fee to pay. This time I thought I would park by the municipal recreation park area known as “The Walks” where I remembered there was three hours of free parking. Three hours is normally perfect for me. It allows for up to two hours of earning time and up to ninety minutes to get to and from my spot with setting up time. Unfortunately I’d made an error. Free parking was limited to two hours. This was going to be a slightly rushed job.

As I was in full roll with my trolley of instruments some dear friends approached. They’d been to the library to visit an exhibition that turned out to be in a different library across town. They are two of my very creative friends - poet and playwright - and they introduced me to the people who were accompanying them. I think one was a dancer and the other a theatre director. We always have a lot of news for each other, but my stopwatch was running so I had to excuse myself. The High Street in Lynn is fully pedestrianised and I chose a spot on the sunny side of the street. By this time I fancied I had left myself only an hour for performing before I had to get back to the van. I wondered whether I’d earn anything at all given my previous experiences. 

I swung into “For Pete’s Sake” and felt I was sending out appropriately positive vibes. Some days one feels it more than others. Before long I’d attracted the attention of a couple of men I judged (and I am really bad at this!) to be somewhere in their twenties or thirties. One was wheeling a bike, the other was wielding a very full-looking rucksack. I wondered if either or neither had a home. One could have been the minder of the other, I suppose. They stood close and stayed for a few songs. We chatted between songs. They were interested in the songs and, of course, the footdrums. They both apologised for having no money to drop into the hat. Then they wandered away, but not before bikeman reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coppers and small silver, which he kindly dropped into the hat. Later I noticed that he had also donated an old cup hook. I hope he didn’t need that for something. After they’d gone a young woman came over. She’d been standing across the street outside Starbucks while the men were there. She stood beside me and listened really intently for most of the rest of my set. We talked about the songs, their origins and meanings. I love it when people listen and respond so positively. I like to think that my songs do have a point. 

Becoming concerned about the time I wound up my set and a glance in the hat confirmed it had been worthwhile financially too. As I was packing up the rucksack man returned. He asked for my telephone number … caution kicked in. I don’t give my contact details out to people unless there is good reason. He was very personable and had a nice smile and there was something about his eyes ... When I asked why he wanted to know he said that he liked my music and wanted to listen to me again. He doesn’t use social media so he would be able to find out when and where I’m playing. He also thought I should get work singing in pubs and churches. I pointed out that I enjoyed singing in the street, specially when it gave me the opportunity to meet interesting people. I asked him if he lived locally and he named a village. I’d been considering returning to a neighbouring village later in the week and told him he could catch me there if he wanted. Then I was very grateful for my earlier caution,

“I can’t wait for God to come back and destroy all the sinners,” he said with conviction. Then I recognised that look I’d seen in his eyes. The eyes truly are a window into the inner workings, perhaps what some would call the soul.

“Where would that leave you?” I pondered. I may even have said it out loud. We parted with a handshake and a fist bump. He’d see me again on Friday. 

Of One Very Cold Day In Downham

 I was in Bury St Edmunds on Tuesday. It was cold. When I left the boat it had been iced in for days. It was still cold on Friday, the day I decided to take the instruments out into the street again. Of course, the usual rules applied. I had to get the go ahead from the town council and I could only go out on a Friday or a Saturday (because the market needs to be on before busking is allowed) or be shut down. Being an arrogant sort I don’t actually ask for permission. Something goes against the grain to be asking for permission to perform a perfectly legal public act of sharing my songs in a performance that so clearly makes people’s days brighter and is, of course, free of charge to the listener. Rather I inform that I intend to busk on a particular day, weather permitting, and trust that it won’t clash with anything the council may have booked. When performing I don’t importune, but I happily accept tips from people who like what they hear well enough to drop coins in the hat. Some people even tip with paper money. I’m not allowed to sell merchandise without a trader’s licence, so I try to have a free gift available as a special thank you to people who tip generously with notes of the realm. I’ve not been challenged on this form of exchange yet. I could set up on land that isn’t owned by the council, but most of the streets are too narrow and it would be counterproductive to be seen blocking the way. I’ve discovered my favorite place is where the shops and the market meet opposite Gregg’s. A lot of people pass by in that pedestrianised area and, on a mild day, people can sit outside Gregg’s or by the mobile food van in the market and listen. Today, though was very cold … cold enough to wear socks *shock *horror. Only the very hardiest sat outside to consume a warming coffee or munch a toastie. Luckily, this is Fen country and Fen folk are a hardy sort. 

A few people I recognised passed by. Some stopped to mardle. Many still asked if my feet weren’t cold. I was pleasantly surprised to see my friend, Karen, turn up with her camera. She takes good photographs and she hung around to do exactly that so kudos to her. She stayed around for most of my ninety-minute set. I realise that my photographs often portray me as being of rather dour demeanour. I’m working on my smiling. I’m amazed that Karen managed to capture this photograph of me looking as though I was enjoying myself and, despite the cold, I was enjoying myself a lot. I did feel the show had to come to a stop when my right hand eventually became too cold to keep hold of my plectrum. I shall be in Downham again before very long. 

Marshlander by Karen Thomas 

Of Foot-Stroking While Busking In Bury

Oh, I am sorry, has it really been eight months since I added something new? My excuse is going to be that any new posts were actually filling in the gaps in this record that I missed following illnesses and time in hospital. I have to admit that the optics aren't good. So much has happened, but I'm just going to start off with yesterday.

I've been enjoying the YouTube videos of a young man who glorifies in the name "August Radio Project". I'm certainly not going to throw stones on account of a name! I recommend you look him up on YouTube. Being a curmudgeonly cynic I found his youthful chirpiness and optimism took a little getting used to, but what he does is great and often very useful. We've had a few interactions on his channel where we've shared a few busking tales. For a while now he has been making videos of his experience of busking in different towns. We've been to some of the same places. Last week he spent a day in Bury St Edmunds. It's less than fifty miles from me and has been on my list for a while so yesterday I went to Bury!

I like Bury. It has history, a mix of old and new architecture and it has the Apex, the superb concert hall and performance venue. I've seen a few favourites there over the years. It is right in the town centre and easy to find. It also has a car park nearby and parking is free after 3pm on Tuesdays. I didn't know how to find the spots that August Radio Project played, so I parked in my usual place, paid for parking up to 3pm and went to explore. An obviously good place to start was The Arc centre, the modern pedestrianised shopping precinct where The Apex is housed. It was a really bitterly cold day so I thought some protection from any breeze would be helpful as would the acoustics of being surrounded by buildings. It looked too good to be true, so I thought I'd better just check that this spot was okay. I went into the Apex and asked one of the box office staff if she knew whether busking was permitted outside. She told me I needed to speak to the Arc Centre management and gave me directions, just a few minutes walk away. The anonymous locked door, guarded by entry phone gained me access to the building and I eventually found the office on the first floor. A smiling man greeted me and I asked him about busking. He said it came the within the purview of the colleague sitting at an adjacent desk. She said that approval for street performances is normally obtained from the centre manager who wasn't there (what is it about shopping centre managers?), but if I planned to accept money from people passing by then permission would not be granted anyway. They do however allow charities to raise money ... I asked whether trying to earn money to buy my week's organic vegetables on Friday came under charity, but she looked rather doubtful. Never mind, there are plenty of other places in the town, so we smiled our farewells and I thanked them for their help.

Most of Bury town centre seems to be on a hill. This is not good news, since it quickly becomes a strain playing drums on a slope and the wheel locks on my trolley no longer work. As I walked through the town the busiest place seemed to be Abbeygate Street, but finding a suitable flat space with a wide enough pavement was more of a challenge than I anticipated. One place that did look possible was occupied by a couple of folding stools and a bag. Atop one of the stools was a 48-bass accordion. There was however, no sign of an owner. I could only think that he or she had disappeared into somewhere warm for a coffee or lunch. It was very cold that day. I walked a bit further on and scoped out another couple of options before I arrived at the bottom of the hill with a nice paved space opposite the gate to the Abbey gardens. Okay, this was going to be my second choice if the invisible accordionist's spot was still unavailable by the time I returned with my instruments. There seemed to be a bit of footfall going to and from the gardens.

Returning with my loaded trolley I heard the sound of an accordion playing. The musician had finally appeared. Coins were piled up on one of the stools in front of him, so I added a couple of pound coins to it, but he was too engrossed in his music to acknowledge me or my tip, so I moved on. I did not want to set up while I could still hear him and I ended up at the bottom of the hill. Naturally, the steady flow of pedestrians had come to a complete halt. Still, I was here now, so I found a relatively level area of pavement and set up. 

People walked by and glanced over, but four songs in and I had not received a single tip. Partway through my fifth song a pair of Jehovah's Witnesses turned up with one of their folding display boards on a trolley. They thought the best place to set up would be between me and the main thoroughfare for passing pedestrians. From that point on, no one even gave me a second glance as I was obviously connected with the Jehovah Squad! Clearly they were not familiar with West Suffolk's advice for street performers. I persisted for a couple more songs and even launched into a particularly jolly rendition of "Damn You, Enchiladas" in the hope that the chorus might make them think better of their choice of pitch, but to no avail.

By this time I was not only cold, but also several quid down because of the incidental costs of fuel and parking. Historic Bury was proving to be a bit of a damp (and very cold) squib. I decided to pack up and cut my losses. At least once I was back on the road I could start to get warm again. As I leaned into my trolley to get the kit back up the hill I suddenly was overcome by feeling very strongly that another attempt was required. At least I ought to try to earn back my car fee!

I turned right at the top of the street, having passed the once again abandoned accordion spot with the sad-looking accordion perched on its stool keeping maintaining vigil. After a couple of minutes I found myself in the vicinity of Cornhill which has a paved pedestrian area. I set up outside Sports Direct and without much optimism I began "For Pete's Sake", which was pretty much how I was feeling. However, something strange happened. The whole vibe was different here and people smiled as they went by. Some stopped to talk and a few dropped some coins into the hat. There were two incidents of note. Several people had commented on my bare feet on such a cold day. Two women asked if I needed some socks. I explained that I had more socks than storage and that I preferred to play my drums barefoot. They didn't look convinced, but dropped coins in the hat and accepted my word. Another woman quizzed me about the wisdom of being barefoot in such cold weather, but couldn't leave it at that. She dropped a coin in the hat and as she moved round to my left side she bent down and gently clasped my foot while I was playing. That was weird! Relating the story since then friends have warned me about foot-fetishists. I'm just an innocent old busker. In my mind she was perhaps a nurse whose professional interest in my welfare had kicked in and she couldn't resist checking that there was sufficient circulation in this poor old hippy's body! 

After a while there was an almost steady stream of tips from folk passing by. I sang a nursery rhyme for some small children and once again a dog, this time a juvenile spaniel cross, dragged its owner to a halt and stared. Something I'd never really noticed before taking to street performances is the number of animals, specially dogs, that are curious about music. The puppy stared at me transfixed. The owner stared at the puppy transfixed ... almost as though he couldn't believe what he was seeing. When I finished the song the man approached me and explained. He plays guitar at home, but he cannot play when the puppy is in the room because it becomes aggressive and bites him. He thought the puppy had an aversion to music. He was genuinely astonished that the dog was so engrossed and docile while I was playing. He thanked me effusively and dropped couple of extra coins in the hat as a special thank-you.

Yes, my afternoon in Bury St Edmunds was not without incident.

Of Busking Off The Pier

Tuning up those new strings

A few weeks ago I saw a post on Facebook that the folk festival fringe in Cromer - known this year as "Folk Off The Pier" - was going to have buskers in town for the first time. Having played sets for Richard Penguin's Teatime Assortment a couple of times in previous years I thought I would give it a go. It would give me something to aim for after my stroke. I'd had to miss another booking back in March because I hadn't recovered well enough to risk it. I sent some details to the organisers and was pleased to be accepted. They also offered me a fifty-minute set in one of the pubs in town. I don't make a secret of my feeling that pub audiences are not really interested in the kind of work I do, but this was a folk festival event, so what could possibly go wrong?

I had spent a lot of time building up my stamina in rehearsal at home and during the week before the festival I played a couple of short sets at different events. The first of these was at my regular Songwriters & Poets Night when I managed five songs. The second was in the garden of a friend with a lot of other folk musicians where I was allocated time for three songs. I had managed both sets without mishap, so I went to Huntingdon in the week before the festival to see how I got on with some actual  busking. It was a relief not to be carted off to hospital in an emergency vehicle, so that meant I felt ready to attempt the festival. I am pleased to say that it was mostly a very positive experience. I met lots of friends, often as we passed each other in the street or while performing in one venue of another and made a few new ones. I also met a few people I probably should have already known since we knew many of the same people without our paths actually having crossed before. 

My work was split into eight sets, including six busking spots, over the three days of the extended weekend with the festival kicking off on the Friday. My first busking spot was outside a café near the church in the town centre at mid-day. I rolled up in time for my hour-long slot and the owner was surprised to see me. He wasn’t expecting anyone till Saturday! Staff quickly moved a table to make some space for me. I do require four or five feet of depth to accommodate my folding stool and drum kit. That left just about enough space for mobility vehicles and pushchairs to pass. I was offered a coffee, but I usually just drink water which someone kindly brought out for me. The situation worked well. People sat on the wall across the street, in their cars in the disabled spaces or at the other table outside. Because I play without amplification my sound doesn’t carry far, but those who were interested enough seemed to be able to hear. We were far enough from the main street that the traffic didn’t affect things much except for the buses and motor-bikes. Although I played from 12-1 none of the promised food was offered. It seems I was not alone among the buskers who were expecting to be able to eat when playing at a café around meal times. This was very much to the dismay of the organisers who had arranged for food for buskers. Dismantling my rig and loading up the trolley to find the next space due to begin in an hour didn't leave much time for eating anyway. If music be the food ...?

The next spot was on the pier near some wooden shelters. It was a relief that the weather was good. A howling gale on Norfolk's north-east coast, suspended over the sea, would have been a bit of a challenge. As it was I was afraid of losing one of my expensive hardwood guitar picks between the wooden decking of the boardwalk. It was a nice spot, but not specially profitable. The main challenge here was getting down the very steep slopes from the town centre to the esplanade without my trolley running away from me and then getting back up again where I really had to rest halfway. It would have been a challenge had I been fully fit. One kind man offered to help me by pulling the front of the trolley, but I suspected this extra tension would have completed the separation of the handles from the base frame. I have only had eleven months use out of this trolley which was sold by a music equipment company on the basis of it being just the solution for carting heavy gear about. A polite and strategically targeted e-mail was forming itself in my head.

Early evening was time for my short set at the local Social Club, the scene of previous performances in pre-covid days. It was lovely being among friends and it was impeccably well-organised. The set up was painless and the sound engineer did a great job. Unlike a few people in previous years this audience really knew how to listen. It was great fun.

The following day the first of my three sets was due to begin once more at mid-day. It turned out to be a lovely spot by another café on the esplanade and another lovely day - apart from having to negotiate the cliff-face slope again with my trolley in its rapidly deteriorating condition. The very friendly shop staff offered me a coffee, but filled my mug with tap water on request. The 11am busker hadn’t shown up so when I arrived at 11.15 they thought I was him/her being late. I explained I was early and they asked me to play anyway, which I did. I played for about one hour and forty minutes. In addition to the usual parade of perambulating people there was a stationary audience queuing for coffee and cake or seated at tables a few yards away. It was possible to have a bit of banter with members of this audience at times, which made for a more personal performance and gave an occasional opportunity to explain a bit of the context of some of my songs. The sun appeared between the day’s two periods of fog and it felt quite special.

That bubble was burst during the afternoon, when my next spot was on the main road through the town outside a bank. When I arrived I found my space had been taken by a table of people collecting signatures for a petition. They offered to move round a raised planter surrounded by circular bench seating to give me space to set up more centrally. Unfortunately, although in sympathy with their cause, it was hard to concentrate with the arguments that ensued right next to me when some of the townsfolk didn’t want to Stop The War or offer any kind of welcome to refugees. The discussion got a bit too exciting at times and wasn't much masked by the noise of the traffic that roared by non-stop. It is certainly not a spot I would have chosen for myself as an unamplified performer even without the political differences being aired a metre from my left ear. Actually it was horrible.

That left the pub set to finish my working day. This was a fairly pointless experience and it confirmed the reason I don’t play pubs. Having been under the mistaken impression this was going to be a folk audience, most people were just there for their Saturday evening down the pub. It was loud with the sound of people drinking and socialising and very few could hear anything I was doing. I couldn’t even hear what I was doing and I wasn’t even sure if I was singing in tune. There was a P.A. but no one to drive it. Someone had shown one of the bar staff which two faders to push, but there was no chance of equalising the sound or even setting it up. I know the principles of how to work a P.A. but every desk is different and I did not have my glasses with me to find how to switch on phantom power for my microphone or which pots and buttons controlled which functions. I did take my own microphone, but left all my leads in the van, parked fifteen minutes walk away. The previous act was a hefty group of shanty singers who took a long time to clear off the small performing area, so I had to set up very quickly. I had had to wait in the street before I could even get my instruments into the building to set up. I was actually in the street because the pavement wasn’t wide enough. Given the fact I had no idea what was supposed to happen with the P.A. I sang a song acoustically and it was completely lost in the noise of the pub, so I set up my mic for the next song, but people couldn’t hear the guitar. There were a few people sitting nearby who wanted to listen, but the shouting and shrieking from the table closest to me made that impossible. I would have gone and sat very close to the would-be listeners, but that would have meant me blocking an entrance and people would be trying to get past me with drinks. I had a small amplification system in the van, but because I couldn’t park near to where I was playing there wasn’t time to go back and fetch it. Someone from a band due on later kindly went and fetched a guitar lead for me to borrow, but that took him about fifteen minutes. Even amplified a bit it was still an unedifying experience. If I turned the sound up, the shriekers shrieked louder. I think there might have been about a dozen people who would have liked to listen, but they couldn’t hear a thing. I was definitely the wrong act for that venue. A solo performer should not be expected to manage an unknown mixing desk and carry on with the performance. I could have been louder with my own little rig, maybe even loud enough, but the potential difficulties were not clear to me in advance. It was horrible (again) and I was very pleased when the horror show was over. 

The first set on Sunday was a nice setting outside yet another café, but there was not much room without moving some furniture about. The narrow street was good for the acoustics and for seeing lots of old friends who passed by. Most were on their way to somewhere, but some came back when they could. There was another venue just round the corner from where another set of buskers could be heard quite clearly thanks to their portable p.a. system. This was the first time I'd experienced audible crosstalk between buskers, so thanks to the organisers for choosing the venues which mainly avoided such a problem. 

The staff at the café were friendly and obliging. The owner gave me water and a 10% discount voucher for food. I decided to try and eat that day, but by the time I finished at mid-day they’d run out of all the vegan options on their menu. The food took a very long time to arrive. I noticed they sent a member of staff out; I assumed that was to go and pick up some supplies. Eventually someone turned up with a vegan burger and chips. However while here I had one of the strangest experiences of the weekend.

I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by anything, but this was a first. While I was playing a lady customer came out from inside the café and asked me to stop using my kick drum because it was hurting her husband's ears. They were sitting halfway down the room, which was already fairly busy, while I was outside.  I explained that what I do is a matter of whole body coordination which has taken a lot of rehearsal. I cannot just stop playing one part of one instrument. She was very insistent.  She did say she would give me a generous tip and that they wouldn’t be much longer. I threw a towel over the kick drum to muffle some of the resonance and played almost inaudibly. They took until the end of my penultimate song to emerge from the café and she didn’t tip anyway. I really don't understand why the poor man was suffering so much. I'm pretty certain the café noises reverberating around the hard walls and floor of the interior would have masked any noise I was making. Had it been me I think I would simply have turned my hearing aids off. He had that option, but apparently didn't think of it. Perhaps he experienced hyperacusis that responded dramatically to my kick drum frequencies.

My final busking set of the festival was back on the main road near to where I had been the previous day. Being a Sunday it was far less busy and there were no people arguing over their political differences. Once again the previous performer was a no show so I set my spot up early outside the parish hall. I started playing to keep some continuity going while being quite prepared to stop if he or she turned up. No one else appeared so I was playing there once again for about an hour and three-quarters. After the first forty-five minutes, when I was scheduled to start, the coffee shop next door closed and there was no reason for anyone to be on my side of the street. Because some shops and a café were open on the other side of the road that’s where people were. A few stopped to watch from the opposite pavement, but I don’t know what they heard. One or two even came over to listen for a bit. It was not very rewarding financially. After nearly two hours I'd earned just £2 in tips. As I was packing up two young girls appeared and each handed me a pound coin, which doubled the take. They assured me they'd heard some music while I was still playing. I would have counted that spot as perhaps not the best use of time had not two men come along near the end of my set and wanted to talk about the instruments and the music. I was able to play a song or two specially for them to highlight parts of my instruments they hadn’t yet heard. They were very interested in what I was doing and made that whole session worthwhile. Such chance opportunities for discussion and sharing is one of the most enriching things I enjoy about busking life.

Placing things in perspective some of my favourite musicians were playing in the main festival, but I didn't get to see any of them. Over the three days and after deducting money for parking at £7 a day, and an evening meal on two days I was left with just £21. I don't think that would have been enough for a ticket to any of the main festival events and it certainly didn't cover the cost of the fuel to get there and back again afterwards, although following the event the organiser of the fringe festival did send me some money towards travel. 

I enjoyed the busking and would have enjoyed it still more had I been able to select which spots I played. I'll come back to the town, but unless there are some changes it may not be as part of the festival. I'll keep flying the flag for independent music  😇

Of A Street Poet And A Prejudiced Music Fan

 We interrupt the catch-up to bring you this rant.

It's actually something I think I may have mentioned previously, but this recent experience upset me enough that I am still mulling it over several days later.

There is at least one band I have followed for the past fifty years or more. This is one of that rare breed of bands that are still working and putting out new music. I was in the queue to see them a few days ago. Although I am older than many of the fans, this band still attracts its fair share of grey haired people ... unlike the band itself who have never been seen without hair dye or (possibly?) a hair piece. The queue had been growing for several hours and I was sitting on the steps of the venue talking to people who, quite by chance, had turned out to have come from towns near me.

I became aware of a twenty or thirty-something woman making her way along the queue, stopping to talk to people. I saw several refusing to engage with her or shaking their heads and she walked on, getting closer to where I was sitting. I suspected I was about to be asked for money, sadly not unusual in London or any other town these days. I hadn't seen any buskers or people begging in two days and I still had some money I keep for such emergencies. The woman approached and explained that she was a poet and that she was homeless. She was trying to raise £16 to pay for a hostel bed for a week. This is the modest sum I've heard mentioned several times by many people in North London in recent years and I keep meaning to check whether such cheap accommodation really exists. I have never got round to doing it though.

She reached into her bag and almost pulled out some handwritten sheets of brightly coloured paper upon which were written her poems, before quickly stuffing them back in the bag and zipping it up again. I was impressed by a fellow creative spirit who, like me, was refusing to expect people to give her money in the street for nothing. She was articulate and polite, but looked as though she could be having a hard time. I had no idea what her challenges were, although were I to judge purely by appearance I could have hazarded a guess, but I was willing to accept that the need for safe accommodation might be one of them. I happened to have money on me and handed her a ten pound note. I could see she already had some money and I knew my offering would make it up to the amount she said she needed. I'm not entirely naive and realised that it was completely possible that I was not being told the entire, or even a partial, truth. I know I've been scammed out of money on the streets before, but if someone is so needing cash they have to ask a stranger for it, I'm usually willing to share if I have something to spare. She thanked me and remembered to ask,

"Do you want a poem?"

"Of course," I replied, "that's what I'm paying for."

I couldn't tell if she was relieved or disappointed that I was taking some of her modest stock of poems. There didn't seem to be many left in her bag. She had gone to some effort to write them all by hand in a mixture of colours on A4 card and put them in protective plastic pockets. None of this was an easy or a cheap option. She could more easily and more profitably have rattled off a few printouts on a library or hostel computer, but she had chosen not to. Given the effort to which she had gone to use what talent she had to produce something she could sell I was happy with the exchange. 

When she had moved on a man closer to the head of the queue came back to squat by me to share his assessment of what he had just observed,

"I don't mean to burst your bubble, but you have just funded her drug habit ..." 

At first I thought I had misheard him, but he smirked and nodded in the supercilious way that people reserve for the ingenuous. He got up and went back to his place in the queue, which was a pity because I would have liked to explore his intervention with him. I found his comment gratuitous and insulting.

In no particular order of priority I want to make a list to work out why I felt so irritated by what he thought it was okay to share. 

• He had no idea of what conversation had actually passed between myself and this woman and it was none of his business anyway.
• He wasn't interested in finding out whether I had a motive for offering this street poet some money.
• I was prepared to give her something for her work and creativity in the same way I hope people will offer me something as a tip or buy a CD when I am busking.
• She and I had a business transaction. She offered poems for sale. I bought two.
• I could see there was a problem. I didn't know how much was to do with a need for accommodation, but if I could offer her enough to make sure she had a bed to sleep in that was safer than being on the street or sleeping in a shop doorway it was a reasonable act of humanity.
• Buying her poems meant I was acknowledging there was a value in the product of her creativity regardless of the quality of the work. On some level I was hoping  that my action would reinforce that this was a safer and more acceptable means of raising funds than stealing or performing some other criminal or anti-social act should they be her alternatives.
• I remember how I felt when a woman paused from tipping me whilst I was busking last summer to ask whether I were "on drugs. I can't give you any money if you are," she had said. Either she had enjoyed the song I had sung specially for her after we'd had an interesting discussion or she didn't. To assume some morally superior stance because she had a problem with any choices I made in my life was demeaning to both of us. By that reasoning we would have to choose not to buy the work of Schubert or Shelley among many creative artists.
• Withholding payment for work done or goods sold because I could make some kind of judgement about how she spent money honestly earned infantilises a grown adult. I don't drink alcohol or eat meat. Should I, therefore, withhold money from others because they look likely to do either of those things? How an adult spends their money is a decision that only they should need to make.

I could go on listing my arguments. The more I thought about the music fan's intervention the more incensed I became. I tried to find him again later on in the evening to challenge his attitude. Forming a judgement of my own I assumed he must have been a Daily Mail reader to have been able to have done what he did based on no information other than his own ill-informed preconceptions. I didn't find him and decided I would try and work out why I felt his intervention was so insulting rather than risk my blood pressure reaching dangerous levels. In the meantime here is a poem by Alexandra Hewitt, who has clearly experienced the loss of someone important in her life, just as I have in recent months. I wish her well. 

"Peace Be With You" by Alexandra Hewitt