Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 6 (Norwich - The Karaoke Soprano, A Distraught Child and an Unforeseen Problem)

 I am aware that it has been a couple of months since I wrote anything here. I do actually have a couple of essays in progress, but I am afraid I was very rudely interrupted by a most unexpected event. Remind me to tell you about Downham Market and about the abandoned North Coast Tour!

It was actually the abandoned tour that led me to Norwich on 11th August. The Norwich City Council website present the city as a welcoming place for street performers. That, at least, is enlightened. Despite the fact that Norwich is such a fine city and that I have spent many pleasurable hours there over the past thirty-five years of living in the region I have never examined it from a busker's point of view. There are rules, but they are basically the same as the so-called "Busker's Code" and amounted to do not set up within earshot of another performer, move if asked to do so by a shop-keeper, be prepared to give way to another performer if you been in one spot for a couple of hours. That all sounds very reasonable to me. I wanted to give Norwich a try since it was a) apparently so welcoming, b) our largest local city c) well recommended by other street-performer friends. As with all popular town and city centres though, parking was expensive. 

I parked in one of the city centre multi-story car parks and wheeled my kit towards the market. I didn't know whether I was going to set up somewhere close to the Market or head back up the hill into the main shopping area. I decided to stay near the Market, because there were other performers visible among the shops. I found my spot, set up and began to play.

Contrary to a popular notion of the degree to which the citizens of Norwich appreciate live music, I was on my third song before anyone dropped anything in the hat. There were plenty of people walking by, but walking by was all they did. I was wondering whether Norwich folk are so used to live street performance that they had become more discerning. Maybe I did not come up to scratch? One woman came by and observed helpfully, "You're losing the competition!" Clearly I was although I had failed to register I was in one. Just after I had started to play The Karaoke Soprano had rocked up, plugged in and proceeded to warble her way very beautifully through songs from the shows and some of the usual popular classics. Unfortunately for me and probably any other aspiring street musicians, her volume was set to destroy and I imagined her songs being heard on the wind as it blew through Cromer. I wondered why I was always so careful not to interfere with anyone else's performance. Well, I'd set up and I wasn't earning much so I would see out my three hours of parking (any longer and the rate increased significantly from its already stratospheric £6) and be on my way. 

A family with a very distressed child were trying to sort their problem nearby. Any contribution from me to the city centre audioscape was pointless so I abandoned the song I was singing and launched into my perennial child-pleaser, "Twinkle Twinkle". It pains me that, among the incredible wealth of English language nursery songs, "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star" is by far the most well-known and often the only song a young child appears to know. However, I noticed that when small children are around they do pay attention to this song they recognise. The screaming child did not disappoint and once his attention was drawn to the song by his father he forgot to arch his back and scream as his pushchair protest began to subside. I've seen this happen often and the effect is generally quite magical. Both parents gave me a big smile and the father mouthed a very relieved "Thank you" at me. They made a generous contribution which certainly made my hat look better and they even stayed to listen to most of one more song. I carried on with my set, never becoming any kind of threat to to The Karaoke Soprano. I have to give credit where due, she did have a lovely voice and would doubtless do very well on one of those Saturday evening talent shows on the television. She still wasn't playing fair though!

A man approached. He listened to the end of a song and we struck up a conversation. He was clearly well-informed on matters musical. At some point he asked, "Do you recognise this t-shirt print?" I mentioned that it looked like a Don Van Vliet and he smiled his approval. "It was the picture on the sleeve of "Bat Chain Puller" he said. I didn't feel it necessary to correct him that it was actually Shiny Beast - Bat Chain Puller, although the two are quite different albums by Captain Beefheart and the Magic Band. So, after checking whether I knew some of his favourite singer/songwriters he decided I probably met his standards of knowledge. He asked where I was from and we began to talk about the Fens. I asked whether he wanted to hear "Every Foot Of Progress", my song featuring some Fen history. He sat on a nearby window ledge to listen and I started the song. The instrumental intro and the first couple of verses went to plan, but as I launched into the third verse, the aforementioned very unexpected event occurred. The fingers on my left hand stopped obeying my demands and refused to settle into the correct chord shapes. My right hand kept playing and even my feet kept the drum part going, but I could not play the chords. I remember the effort of will it was taking to stretch my fourth finger into its place to play a simple chord of G major. The other fingers had their own ideas about where they were going to land on the fretboard. I was playing utter nonsense. I also lost all the words to verse three, so I thought, okay, time for a harmonica break. Unfortunately I could not find the right notes on the harmonica either and in the end I had to admit defeat and stopped the song. I apologised to the man and explained what had happened. He thought I'd just forgotten the song. I sat there feeling very sorry for myself as he wandered off into the city crowd. After about five minutes I was able to carry on and played something I knew better without further incident. I packed up and loaded my trolley to head past The Karaoke Soprano, who turned out to be a much younger woman than I had imagined, but who was clearly on a roll, albeit still very loud. She was backed against a wall by a semi-circle of adoring members of the public who whistled, cheered and applauded at the end of a song. I got back to the van and paid for my parking. Thanks mainly to the parents of the distraught child and the Captain Beefheart fan I had enough to pay for the car park leaving two whole pennies for myself.

I wish the Karaoke Soprano well. My set had come to a stop with my first experience of what I was to discover several hours later in hospital and after a CT scan, was a Transient Ischaemic Attack (TIA) or mini-stroke. Great!

Of Harlequins And Unexpected Pleasures

Having had a couple of very washed out days recently in Cambridge and Wisbech I set off for the secret location of Norfolk's Harlequin Fayre, a small festival in one of my favourite places near to a village where I once lived.

My motives for going were threefold:

• I usually enjoy this small, 80% solar-powered, festival
• I'd gone to see some friends perform
• I wanted to see if I could blag a set on an open mic stage

It was also very handy that my band of friends had a spare comp going. I was perfectly happy to lug a bit of equipment around in an attempt to earn the ticket. As it happened, I was able to do a little more than that and was offered an hour-long spot on the "Scrap Racketeers" stage. When not watching my friends play I spent a lot of time in the car park by the van working out and rehearsing a suitable set for the Sunday. That was actually a very enjoyable experience too. Many people fetching things from vehicles were distracted by my noise and came over to see what I was doing. There were lots of compliments and promises to come and see me when I was due to play the next day.

The next day the weather was very mixed. It ranged from hot sunshine to pouring rain. Of course the rain poured down during my set, causing many punters to take refuge in the Scrap Racketeer tent. The majority of these were there for the music, but a small and significantly noisy contingent thought that they could carry on their social life a few distracting feet away. The rain drummed its own rhythms on the roof of the tent and it really didn't help that there were also some problems getting the sound right in the monitors. Not being able to hear myself is one of the reasons I don't much care for amplified gigs. While I'm very happy for the front of house sound to be good, I do need decent foldback, specially in a noisy environment! I know my voice reasonably well enough to "feel" whether or not I am singing in tune and playing footdrums is generally self-explanatory. Some of my guitar chords are a little exotic and, while I do need to know that I'm playing all the required notes, that's usually okay. However, playing harmonica is a different proposition entirely. I could be playing completely wrong notes and not know it if I cannot hear myself. However, given the circumstances I was reasonably pleased with what I produced. There are always a lot of friends in the audience of this event. Some of them had only ever known me in other music or dancing contexts and were surprised and very complimentary to hear me doing something so different. That was extremely gratifying and I thank them for their generosity and kind comments. AJ took some photographs and several people bought CDs. One of a group of young men I'd met in my car park rehearsals actually turned up with his mates and bought four albums! That really was a win of knock out proportions.

Marshlander by Adrian Barber

Of A Living Room Concert & An Afternoon Busk

I had a lovely opportunity to perform a few songs for a dear friend today. Some years ago she had a traumatic brush with cancer and was forced to undertake some radical and life-changing surgery. We've been good friends for about fifty years. She has been in remission, but sadly the cancer returned in several vicious new variants. It was obvious that time was limited. I was very keen to see her again, but with covid lockdowns and other restrictions we have had to be content with occasional phone calls. More recently she found those too exacting, so we have resorted to instant voice messages when she felt strong enough.

We first met each other at college when we studied music together in the early 1970s. When we had to work on projects in breakout groups we'd always work together with John, who sadly passed away shortly after we left college. Bea was a constant source of comfort and joy. She made it possible to laugh about anything. Today she would be laughing about the indignities brought about by her cancer. She is one of the most cultured people I know, yet would absolutely refute anything resembling such an accolade. While a friend and I went to the local cinema to watch the recent live broadcast of Wagner's "Die Walküre" Bea was in the audience at the Royal Opera House for two or three days as a treat to herself of one last Ring Cycle. Had I known I would have scanned the audience on the cinema screen more keenly.

By mid-day Bea is generally too exhausted to continue sitting up, so I had to get to hers by mid-morning. We chatted and laughed and I brought in my instruments. It was such an immense privilege to be able to share a few of my songs with this dearest of friends. She knew the songs I have recorded on my CD, so I sang a few from there and a few others that she hadn't heard. It was such an intimate and uplifting experience and I am so pleased I was able to share this time with her. Of course, by mid-day, she'd clearly had enough so as she was retiring to her bed I packed up my instruments and left. Close platonic friendships are such special and rare events. I never knew what to make of the times she introduced me to her friends with "... we went to college together; pity he's gay"!!!!

The weather that day had been a bit dull with occasional spots of rain, but by the end of the morning the sun was shining. I had my instruments and my voice was warmed up. I needed to go busking.

I drove into Hitchin town centre and was able to use the council information centre to book a two-hour slot at one of the town’s three designated busking spots with the aid of a very helpful assistant. Bravo Hitchin! Thank you too to the generous public. I had to get the instruments out of the rain a couple of times, but otherwise it was a very enjoyable experience. I may be back! 

Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 5 (Sunny Hunny & My First Yellow Card)

I have it in mind to undertake a North Coast tour - the north coast of Norfolk that is. I’d like to do it as a tour, living in the van for a few days. Obviously for such a scheme I’d need a few days clear. One day last week being so sunny and warm, I thought an exploratory trip to the seaside was called for. I’d not been to The Wash or North Sea coasts for a couple of years and big water was calling me. I arrived in Hunstanton just before 2pm and headed for one of the car parks near the town centre. There were plenty of parking spaces so, having made my choice, I made for the ticket machine. I do get frustrated when some of these machines seem to require a PhD in computer programming - the variety of parking arrangements in places like, say, Peterborough gets me every time. This machine looked like one of the Peterborough types, but for some reason, the tickets would eventually be printed stating we were in Southend, not Hunstanton. I stood back to let the young man behind me pay first. Coins, cards, mobile apps - why does every car park require a different app? The reason I’ve no space on my phone for music is undoubtedly because of all the parking and railway apps I seem to need. If I take photographs I have to upload them almost immediately or the phone locks up because not one single byte of its 16gB complement is left available. The young man, though affecting nonchalance, may not have had much more of a clue than I had. He faffed with his phone so, becoming uncharacteristically assertive, I opted to insert coins. One of the great things about busking is that I generally have enough change for coin-operated machines. Sunny Hunny on a Thursday was going to cost me £5 for three hours. Three hours are usually enough for reconnaissance to find my spot, returning to the van to load the trolley, setting up back at the chosen place, playing for a couple of hours, packing up and departing. 

Non Southend sed Hunstanton (to misquote Pope Gregory!)

On the way I had imagined The Green to be a good busking place, but I’d forgotten just how much of a slope there is. My initial reconnaissance mission revealed there weren’t many people sitting on or perambulating across Hunstanton’s famous sward and a quick glance seawards suggested the esplanade was enjoying greater footfall. Finding a space far enough away from people who’d arrived before me was going to be tricky though. A posse of motorcyclists on a rally had lined their shiny mounts along the edge of the grass. Setting up along that wall would be inadvisable. The pavement the other side was just about wide enough, but anyone with a pushchair or wheelchair would be forced to go round me. Again that would have been inconsiderate so The Green it would have to be. I’d played there before with other projects, so there must have been somewhere on less of a slope. I was on my way back to the van when something made me return to check the municipal noticeboard that threatened to contain a list of byelaws I needed to know. I’m glad I made the effort because, indeed, no banners, flags or leaflets were allowed, and no unauthorised trading. No mention of music or busking, though, so good!

Set up by the bandstand

Sunny Hunny Thursday with a teeming crowd of holidaymakers and some of the motorbikes

On arriving back at The Green with my instruments and folding stool, the most level area of ground was the area around the bandstand. I rolled out my mat on the north side where there were no people close by. I prefer that people are drawn in more than driven away when my serenading begins. After an hour I had attracted little clumps of people who appeared close enough to be listening and far enough away not to engage. I also had just fifty pence in the hat. I was determined to carry on for a while longer to try to make my parking money back. In the middle of a song I caught a glimpse of the approach of someone who settled out of my vision behind my left shoulder. When I’d finished I turned to face a young smiling man wearing the black uniform bearing the Borough Council logo. 

“Hello," I chirped, "Is everything okay?”

He nodded and smiled and told me how he loved to hear live music being performed in the town again, “but unfortunately you’ve been spotted on CCTV and I have to ask you to stop.”

“Oh, why is that?” I asked.

“It’s against the byelaws,” he answered.

Given my recent waterways battles I knew that challenging Byelaws produced variable results. He explained that, were it up to him, he’d be very happy for me to continue, but he’d been given his orders and I had to leave. I explained that I’d looked for a notice prohibiting music and had found nothing in the one I found, that the bandstand seemed like an appropriate place for music, that I’d played here on other occasions with other projects and that I had attracted a listening audience. 

“Yes, but it’s against the Byelaws,” he explained very politely and patiently.

“Forgive me,” I said, “I’m not trying to be difficult, I’m just trying to get my head round the situation. Has someone complained?”

“CCTV,” he responded rather more solemnly. 

Of course there could be no arguing with CCTV, whoever he or she was.

“Okay, so not a member of the public …” or a real person, I was going to say, but stopped myself just in time. CCTV was obviously powerful, maybe even his boss. 

“The rules only apply to The Green and The Esplanade. There’s no problem if you go up to the High Street,” he offered helpfully.

So, I began to pack my instruments back into their cases, while an older woman took up my cause and asked him what the bandstand was for if not for music. It was very sweet of her, but we both knew there was not really any point in engaging in further discussion. I could not fault the functionary for his politeness, his approach, his apparent understanding. He was actually very charming and gave the impression of being genuinely apologetic and sympathetic. He even suggested a spot in the High Street I should try, because there had been a couple of buskers in that very spot that very morning. Twenty minutes later I was fully loaded and I set off up the hill towards the High Street. Hunstanton High Street is always one street further up the hill than I remember. It is invariably more deserted than I remember too and any shops that had been open were thinking about closing, so it was really quiet. I was still £4.50 down, though, so I thought I’d give it a try. As it happens it was actually worth it. I found the recommended spot outside a closed shop. There were a couple of café’s across the almost deserted road with a couple of afternoon tea-drinkers sitting at pavement tables. One or two people did go in and out of the nearby clothes shops near me. A man pulled up and switched off his engine to listen. He was smiling intermittently, but clearly listening. His passengers emerged from a bric-à-brac shop and still he refused to move. Three people in one vehicle listening; they were getting a drive-in concert. A woman came out of the clothes shop to my left, emerging between the hanging rails of beachwear to stand in front of me as I sang. This was the cue for the drive-in audience to drive off. That spell was broken. The woman started to search around in her bag, saying she had some change she would like to give me, because it is so nice to hear live music in the town after the great Covid silence. She apologised for not having much and bent down to drop it in the hat. Then she appeared to think better of it and straightened up again.

“You’re not on drugs, are you? I won’t give you any money if you’re on drugs …” 

I really wanted to pursue the morality of this line of reasoning, but for the second time in an hour I held my tongue. I may not be able to make this a habit.

“No, I’m not on drugs,” I smiled. “To be honest, I’ve never even tried them …” I realise that, given my somewhat Bohemian appearance, some people find this difficult to believe, but enough was enough. “I ought to sing you a song if you have time to listen to a whole song,” I offered as she dropped her handful of coins into the hat. She liked that idea and, having spotted the CBD products shop across the street I explained about the inspiration for “Damn You, Enchiladas” and recommended she read Callie Blackwell’s account of her son’s leukaemia battle that prompted me to compose the song. As I concluded she was clearly moved and thanked me, promising to look for the “The Boy In 7 Billion”. 

I had lost a lot of time having to move from my original spot and I only had time for a few more songs. As I sang, people appeared, slowed down, listened and a few dropped a coin in the hat. As it turned out this place was proving far more profitable than The Green. The owner of a restaurant on the corner came across and demanded to know why I’d appeared so late in the day when everything was closing. I explained about being ejected from The Green.

“Oh!” he said, “when are you coming back?”

I said it wouldn’t be for at least a couple of weeks.

“Right,” he said, “when you do come back, come and see me. I’ll sort you out with space to play by my shop. There were a couple of buskers here this morning and they were okay for a while, but to be fair they got a bit boring. You’re much more interesting and you have all this stuff too.” He gestured at my footdrums.

So there is, dear friends, hope in Sunny Hunny. I shall take up this restaurateur‘s offer on my next visit to the town, which will probably be when I start my North Coast Tour. The alarm on my phone signalled it was time to pack up. I made it back to the car park and loaded the van with one minute to spare and £6.33 in my hat. Result!

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?

Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 3 (Lock Fiasco and Bedford)

 I’m working my way backwards with these essays. A couple of weeks ago I had a ticket to see a show at the delightful Arlington Arts Centre near Newbury. It was to be a reduced-seating, masked and socially distanced audience. Normally I would drive there on the day, but I thought that I would take a couple of days and find some places to busk on the way. 

I decided my first stop was going to be Bedford. Bedford was the town of my first appointment as a newly-qualified teacher in the late 1970s though the school itself has long-since gone. I thought more houses were built on the site, but a quick look at a satellite view of the area suggests the building is still there. The school where I worked only had a life-cycle of a couple of decades. I’ve rarely had cause to return to Bedford, so I thought I’d give it a try and see how what was described to me, at my induction into the employ of Bedfordshire County Council, as “the second most multi-cultural town after Greater London” might react to Marshlander’s songs of death, dissent and living on water. The description I was given as a new teacher was accurate. I worked at the school for two years and I remember going through the register and counting six children of white, British ethnicity in my class of thirty pupils. It was a tough, but instructive and enriching, period of learning. I had some great colleagues, but I often wonder what became of the children whose lives I hope I didn’t ruin too much. I have often told children and teachers of two boys, inseparable friends Mohammed and Jaswinder, who decided one day that I should learn to count in Punjabi (or Indian as they called it). For the next few days they approached my desk immediately after registration with, “Sir, it is time for your Indian lesson!” I wish I’d been able to learn more from them; it’s not as though we had the National Curriculum to worry about in those days, though the school did have a timetable. I enjoyed my time living in one of the villages near Bedford. When in town I would often go to one of the town’s green spaces and stare at the Great Ouse. I never imagined I would one day end up living near the other end of navigation where it flows into The Wash. So Bedford it would be. I nearly didn’t make it. 

As I was closing up the boat, and transforming my van into my house on wheels for the coming days, two hire boats went by. There were three women on the stern of the bigger boat. One called to ask how long it would take to get to the lock. I told them, “Thirty to forty minutes,” and bade them bon voyage. I didn’t give them another thought and carried about my preparations. By the time I eventually got away I had no idea they wouldn’t have got through the lock, but as I drew closer I saw a lone woman wandering along the road with a windlass in her hand. Something didn’t look right so I slowed down and asked if she were okay. The lock was full and set against the two boats. They had breasted up to each other with the larger boat tied to the lock landing. I have often wondered how a few minutes tuition at the marina prepares newbie hirers for their time on the waterways. Now I realised the answer - it doesn’t. Between the two boats there were seven crew members. Not one of them had grasped the principles of how to operate the lock! The smaller boat was one of the fleet’s two day boats. The male crew were on a tight timetable - chip shop, pub, turn round and back to the marina by six. The other boat was crewed by the three women who had enquired about the distance from the lock. They didn’t recognise me at first. They were out for a few days and were aiming to get to Ely. I couldn’t possibly leave them in their confusion and asked if they wanted any assistance. I was expecting a refusal as they probably wanted to try and work it out for themselves, but they almost bit my hand off. “I can’t see how we get the boat up to that water to go out through the gate that keeps swinging open,” said the distraught windlass wielding woman. They clearly had no idea about the way a lock works at all. Staff at the boatyard had given them a video to watch, but these folk were clearly more of the kinaesthetic learning type. I explained how they had to empty the lock first to bring the water down to their level. Windlass woman had the wrong type of windlass. Locks on the Middle Level use a particular “pyramidal” style of key and she had the standard one for Environmental Agency waters. After she went back to the boat to get the other windlass I talked them through every step of the process, checking the upper penstocks were down, the gates were closed and how to empty the lock through raising the lower penstocks until the pressure was equal on both sides of the lock gates and the lower ones could be opened to allow access. They were all my seniors, but I made them do the donkey work. They needed to know what to do by experiencing it. So far so good. They emptied the lock and opened the bottom gates. The smaller day boat chugged in. To conserve water two boats often share the lock, so the bigger boat was going to come in too. This is where it all became more complicated. The “driver” at the tiller met my nemesis, the wind. She was struggling to line the boat up with the lock and she was in danger of crashing into the concrete wall having missed the lock completely. She realised she needed to reverse, but I could see she was at risk of grounding on the far side of the river where the water is unexpectedly shallow. I rushed down to the lock landing and, after being assured she wanted some guidance, I tried to call helpful instructions - reverse, push the tiller hard over to me, short hard burst of forward, reverse again and so on over the wind. It took ten or fifteen minutes, but we kept at it until she lined the boat up with the lock for another go. Eventually she managed to get the boat in and I hope I didn’t overdo the praise, but the way she managed to keep her cool in a really challenging situation was very much to her credit. I hope her travelling companions were impressed. They should have been. It wasn’t my place, but inside I was simmering with anger at how unprepared these innocents had been for their holiday. It wasn’t their fault either. How can we know what we don’t know?

So, some forty-five minutes later, I finally set off for Bedford. I’d be lucky to get there before the shops closed now. 

The rest of my journey passed without incident. Bedford was mostly recognisable from my time there, but there were road closures and one-way systems that were were new to me. I missed a car park and ended up diverting through an area I recognised as “Black Tom” - I guess it’s still called that, although it was never signposted. After parking the van I thought a quick reconnoitre was called for. That turned out to be quite useful and I located a good spot to aim for in a now pedestrianised area near the library and the Harpur Centre. The sun was shining and the busking session passed without incident. I noticed many people changed their walking to step and move to the music as they came within earshot. There were lots of smiling faces too and donations into the hat paid for my parking with a little towards fuel for the journey so I was happy. As the footfall slowed down I came to a stop, packed up, returned to the van and set off west and south. I didn’t know how far I would get towards Newbury, which was going to be my busking target of choice the following day. 

Of Further Busking Adventures - Part 2

A (his given name's initial not his condition) was not the only long-term listener that day. A man found his own spot sitting on the same steps where I had had the delightful surprise of seeing, a few weeks ago, the London friend from my teens whom I thought was in Hungary. This man stayed seated. He didn't approach, he didn't leave, he didn't speak, but he did stay within earshot. Meanwhile a woman approached somewhat gingerly. I can't remember what began the conversation, but it was undoubtedly her response to a song after which she confessed an interest in Fenland history. She asked where my boat was moored and I gave the non-committal answer I reserve for this question. I would not dream of approaching a stranger in the street and asking for their address, but people don't appear to see that asking where my boat is moored amounts to the same thing. Seeking a diversion from the ensuing silence I talked about how the banks that held these waterways in place constituted the longest cemetery in the country. She sounded doubtful. I got on to the subject of the slave labour used to build the Fenland waterways and explained how Rex, the late husband of one of the lock-keepers, found the skull of a young boy at the lock. I asked her if she knew about the numerical nomenclature of several of the Fenland drains - the Sixteen Foot, the Twenty Foot, the Forty Foot, the Hundred Foot Drains or Rivers. She tried out the usual responses - width, depth and so on - but in the end I told her I would sing a song to explain it all, "Every Foot Of Progress". She confessed to not knowing any of this and asked me for my sources. I suggested she look for Trevor Bevis' little book, "Prisoners Of The Fens", which was my source and basis for much of the historical information in the song.

She was grateful for the reference. She later wrote me a message on Facebook admitting that she had missed many of the words. I sent her the lyrics. It seems that A had found a new person to talk to and was trying to get her attention right through the song. At least that meant he was no longer standing directly in front of me and other people could see and hear me more clearly. 

The town was beginning to shut down for the day and it felt like it was time to call a halt to this session. As I began to pack up the silent man on the steps approached and said how much he'd enjoyed the songs. As we talked he said he'd only been there to pass the time while his friend was having his hair cut at the barber shop across the road. There must have been a very long queue or his friend was enjoying the most high-end coiffure available because the silent man had been there for at least an hour. Quietly he told me that he thought I'd been very patient "dealing with" A. 

"I don't think I'd have been as patient," he confessed.

In my turn I confessed that I didn't know what else I could have done. I don't know how much of the conversation the silent man had heard, but I don't suppose A chose his alcoholism. Alcoholism chooses its victims and doesn't care. It ruins lives indiscriminately. A may have made it harder for me to concentrate, but he wasn't doing anyone harm. He was also very apologetic when I asked him every now and then to stand to one side so others could see and hear more clearly. It was interesting how he kept creeping forward like a moth to a flame, but he was very biddable when I reminded him. The silent man took this in then dug into his pocket for some change which he dropped into the hat. He also asked to buy a CD, which made me very happy.

"It's for my mum", he said, "I think she'll really like it."