Singing in the Rain or Shine

May 21

May 21 Singing in the Rain or Shine

My experiment with street performing

Over the course of multiple decades on this planet I have met quite a few great singers, some famous, others relatively unknown, but all with unmistakable talent. Comparing their musical ability to mine, I‘d give myself no more than a C+. Even so, that never stopped me from singing whenever I had the chance—at churches, in weddings, around the campfire, in the recording studio, and doing my musical “Weather Dude” presentation for school assemblies. Back in the 70s I toured on the road with a dance band, and before that I sang in talent shows and school plays. But there was one setting I had never thought to explore—I had never taken the opportunity to stand on the street with my guitar and sing for passersby.

That is, until recently.

Shortly after moving to our new home in Vancouver, Washington, my wife and I took a pleasant excursion downtown to the city’s Farmer’s Market. The Market is basically a street fair, held every weekend in a lovely urban park where residents and visitors can buy fresh produce and flowers, check out locally-made crafts, and chow down on food truck fare.

Another feature of the market is the community of “buskers.” That’s a word unfamiliar to many Americans, originating from the Spanish word “buscar,” meaning “to seek.” Buskers date back to antiquity, when traveling troubadours roamed the countryside displaying their talent and sharing news from nearby villages. The word eventually became associated with any entertainer who performed in public (usually outdoors) for tips. Buskers took many forms: instrumentalists, vocal ensembles, jugglers, magicians and acrobats. Until the invention of the gramophone, busking was the chief vehicle for musicians to share their songs.

As we strolled through the Market listening to some of the entertainers one sunny Saturday, I was struck with the question: I wonder what it’s like to do that? It was then and there that I decided to join that clan of weekend musicians and try it out.

On my first day as a Farmer’s Market busker, one of the veteran entertainers, a singer/guitarist named Roy, greeted me enthusiastically and showered me with heaps of helpful advice. “I hope you’re not doing this for the money,” he began, “because if that’s why you’re here, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”

“I just enjoy playing music,” I told him.

It was true. As a kid, I wore out my records, painstakingly deciphering the melodies, chords and lyrics of each song. Later I played those songs for my friends and family members until they too were worn out from listening. And now, decades later, here I was, still reciting the same verses from the Monkees’ “Daydream Believer,” the Beach Boys’ “California Girls” and the Turtles’ “Happy Together”—anthems familiar to me and to thousands of others in my generation. These are the kinds of tunes that I added to my busking setlist.

Having a hefty arsenal of songs wasn’t enough though. I quickly discovered I also needed a dose of humility and a thick skin. I guess I should have anticipated it, but still I was taken aback when a disconcerting truth presented itself during my very first song.

No one was listening.

Here I was singing my heart out as people passed, sometimes inches away, and I might as well have been invisible. I tried switching up styles, first some Otis Redding, then Kenny Loggins, and then an Elvis tune. I even tried a ditty from Hermans Hermits. Nothing seemed to draw attention. As I played on, it became apparent that even though I had a massive audience, I had each individual audience member for no more than about five seconds. Five seconds for them to judge my talent; five seconds for them to decide whether or not to slow their pace and listen to a few bars. Five seconds to decide whether I was worthy of that dollar bill in their pocket.

I finally grasped the reality that I was playing mostly to, and for, myself. Ironically, as that fact materialized in my rebelling brain, I actually started to loosen up and enjoy my own performance. After all, the music sounded pretty good, and I liked the old songs.

Apparently that effect trickled down from my psyche and infused my voice and fingers with an energy that penetrated the indifference of my transient audience. It wasn’t long before someone stopped to listen. Occasionally someone emerged from the crowd to drop a dollar into my guitar case. And even though some people never looked directly at me, I could see a few of them mouthing the words with a little smile of familiarity and nostalgia. My own smile got bigger, and my performance became more enthusiastic. It dawned on me that I was actually having fun!

I came back the next weekend armed with a few more songs and a more complete knowledge of what to expect. I also carried with me a towel, as the forecast called for scattered showers. While I waited for my allotted hour (buskers have to arrive early in the morning to sign up for a time slot), I sheltered under an awning and watched some threatening clouds gather to the west. Listening to another musician plunking out tunes on his guitar, I saw the dark sky suddenly open up, instantly drenching the hapless minstrel. Abruptly ending his performance, he packed up his instrument and ran toward shelter.

By the time it was my turn to busk, the rain had diminished to drizzle, and I emerged from my protective covering to begin my performance. The light rain continued as Market visitors, enduring the familiar Northwest mist, took pity on my increasingly soggy state and dropped equally soggy dollars into my guitar case. I watched the greenbacks gradually mount up and moisten up, sticking together in what became a single bloated blob of bills. It was nice to see so many of them, but I couldn’t help thinking that I should have paid more attention to my weather instincts and just skipped the day. Or maybe, I thought, this just came with the territory. At least I went home with a little cash, along with a mental note to learn the chords to “Who’ll Stop the Rain?”

I have to admit that the entire tipping experience is new to me. It's a fascinating and unpredictable cultural phenomenon. Just when I think I’ve figured out what might elicit a donation, an anomaly surfaces. If someone stops, smiles or sings along, I play it up for all it’s worth, smiling back and singing animatedly. Sometimes it garners a tip, but just as often, people simply turn and walk away. When I do receive a gratuity, it usually comes suddenly—a person appears bearing a bill, quickly deposits it, and disappears once again. Once, I watched expectantly as a young man strolled up with a dollar in his hand, only to grab a second dollar from my guitar case and briskly walk away holding them both! I was so dumbfounded that I forgot the second verse of “Build Me Up Buttercup.”

My favorite tipping episode was when a young father handed a dollar bill to his toddler daughter and directed her my way. The little girl was already clutching in her other hand a plastic golden coin someone had given her as a souvenir. She proudly walked up, and instead of dropping the bill into my case, she carefully placed the plastic trinket inside, obviously surmising that the shiny object was infinitely more valuable than the nondescript piece of paper her daddy had given her. I marveled at her innocence and her generosity.

Because of such isolated but meaningful encounters (or in some cases despite them), and because I just like to sing, I think I’ve discovered a pleasant pastime in busking, and I look forward to further adventures in my newfound enterprise. I continue to re-learn other familiar tunes from my past, and continue to challenge myself with more complicated compositions. For example, I have a new respect for the chord progression of The Beatles’ “Penny Lane,” as well as the jazz-laden “Spooky” by the Classics IV, among others.

So if you someday find yourself in the Vancouver/Portland area on a nice weekend, I invite you to stop by the Farmer’s Market for a pleasant and unhurried outing, and maybe you’ll catch some of the old songs from this old guy with a guitar. I guarantee it’ll be worth a dollar.

And maybe even a plastic coin.