Diary Of A Busker Day 66 Wednesday March 23rd Winchester High Street (1. opposite Vodaphone, Time: 11:38-2pm, 2. opposite Marks And Spencer, Time: 2:38-4:10pm.)
It’s Wednesday – Market Day. There’s a lady fiddling with her violin – a fiddler?, opposite Marks And Spencer and a guy sitting on a bench halfway up the high street blasting out La Bumba or La Bamba or whatever it’s called. He’s got an amplifier like mine but I wouldn’t dare play it that loud. I set up right near the spot opposite the jewellers but just to the side so they can’t see me out of their window – I’m really paranoid about them! Ten seconds after I start up La Vie En Rose, a nice old lady – Daphne, stops for a ten minute chat. Her husband, now dead, used to be a singer but he never pushed himself. They knew one of the songwriters who wrote A Nightingale Sang In Berkerley Square who was promoted to a high position at the BBC. “When he got the job, I urged my husband to send him a card congratulating him but he wouldn’t, so I sent it myself – put his name on it. He wrote a nice letter back but my husband could have got a lot further.” “Oh well, you must have some good memories of him. Did he manage to get on any records?” “No, but he sang with some big names – some big bandleaders.” Oh well (I say again), you’ve got some good memories – that’s enough isn’t it.” “Well, no…not really!” she laughs.
A man with the most wrinkled face I’ve ever seen comes up for the longest chat I’ve ever had. He used to be in the army in the 60s and went to Germany. “I used to like all the cowboy gear, you know. I had a big Stetson hat and when I was over there I bought these trousers with the big flared bottoms and a holster to put my two forty-fives in. When I came back here I remember going to a pub and after a few drinks my mate said he really liked my gear (he went to the pub dressed like that?!). I said “Tell you what, next time I’m away I’ll bring you something back”, and so I did. Next time I went to Mexico I bought him back one of those wide brimmed hats – a Sombrero…” …about 15 minutes later…” and I have a grandson. He got hold of one of my guns once and he cocked it, you know. Do you follow me? – you’re not following me, are you?” Not really, my mind was starting to wander. I needed to start playing again – I’ll have to put a sign up saying NO CONVERSATIONS TO LAST MORE THAN 5 (FIVE) MINUTES PLEASE. “Sorry, he cocked the gun?” I say. “Yes, you know – pulled the little lever back – cocked it, then he fired it.” “What?” “It wasn’t loaded, but I gave him a talk about guns and ammunition, though.” “How old is he now?” I asked. “He’s twenty five.” “And is he in the army?” “Oh yes.” I thought he might be. He went on – “I said to him “If you can achieve what I have achieved in my life…I was in Northern Ireland from sixty-nine to seventy-seven. Then I was a WO.” What’s that? “WO? Warrant Officer – that’s above…” he explained the relative ranking of every post in the British Army, then said again “…yes, I said to him (the grandchild) “If you can achieve what I have…”.
After an hour, I haven’t made much. I’ve listened to much but not made much. There are alot of people about and I’m hoping no one else stops for a conversation of marathon length. What’s this – a lady is approaching, she’s smiling at me and has something in her hand. I want it to be a £2 coin. It’s not, it’s a bit of wrapper or something, she puts it in the bin next to me.
Later on… a woman vicar stops for a short chat, thank God(?)! She used to play the classical guitar. “Do you not play now?” I ask her. “No, because I’ve got no end to this finger.” Does she mean her finger is really long, I think. No, she shows it to me and it has no end – it’s been cut off. “And it’s quite tender – it hurts if I put pressure on it so I can’t really play.” I feel a certain kinship with people who have problems with their hands and relate to her my particular problematic condition of Focal Dystonia.
I take a lunch break where I have my cheese and lettuce sandwich, chocolate bar and small apple in the cathedral grounds which is full of other lunching people – it’s warming up now. I count my money – only £9 for more than two hours playing – actually more like one hour playing, one hour listening to the above. I decide to set up camp where the lady fiddler was, opposite the corner of Marks And Spencer which is where I usually play. The market stalls are too near the shop, so that’s why the buskers are over on the other side. An old couple on the way to the optician. She: “It’s a pleasure to see such nice music here for once.” He: “Hear – to HEAR nice music, you mean.” Another man – in his seventies: “Do you do requests?” “Oh yeah – if I know the song, definately.” “Oh good, you know there’s a guitarist who sometimes plays up the road, usually on the bench and he never does requests – he’s very good, mind – brilliant, but just doesn’t do requests.” “Strange” I say. “Yes, I think – what’s he doing out here – but he’s brilliant. And I like dancing and the other night I was out and the dance floor was empty so I went up to the band member and said “Why don’t you play something we can dance to?” and said “Look at the floor, it’s empty.” Anyway, do you know any Spanish music?” “Hmm, only a few things like Lagrima and my little Spanish medley.” I suddenly remembered my new piece – Deve Ser Amor, the Samba. “I know a Brazillian tune – my only one.” I play it – he loves it – I’m pleased. It’s quite taxing for the right hand, especially for me with my useless fingers and it has a fast rhythmn which doesn’t let up. However, it’s been going down well enough for me to make it Song Of The Week.
This spot, which falls well into the noisy corner zone is very noisy indeed today. I’ve got the young “THREE FOR A PAAND!” flower guy in one ear and the fruit and veg man shouting “COME ON, THEY’RE GOING CHEAP!” in the other. Plus the buses…and me. Money-wise it’s a bad day – £20 in four hours and I’m quite depressed, walking home. At the other end of the street I see Marcus – one of my regulars – the guy who bought my album from me yesterday. He calls to me from the other side of the street. He’s talking to Alan, the guy who cleans the street who I see every time I’m out here, although I only find out his name now. “I like your album, especially the first two, and the last song – about Francesca. Is that your daughter?” “No, it’s someone I knew along time ago – she died when she was seventeen. She had something wrong with her heart. It got too big for the space where it was, I think.” “Yeah, your album. I like it very much. A bit like a young Donovan, before he got famous.” “I’m glad you like it – I was going to give you your money back if you didn’t!”
Earnings: £20.97p