Diary Of A Busker Day 83 Sunday April 17th Winchester High Street (1. opposite Whittards, Time: 2:05-4:45pm, 2. corner of Marks And Spencer, Time, 5:25-6:03pm.)
After donating to the cause yesterday, a friendly man informed me that there was an arts and crafts market in the high street today and as a consequence, alot of people about. So, having had a day’s rest on Saturday, I decided to come out. I busk everyday of the week but, as the song goes – “Never on a Sunday.” A stroll down the high street reveals all – Rob is in place at the top at The Buttercross – famous Winchester meeting place. He says “Hello Marvin!” through his PA. He’s come up from Fareham for this. Halfway down a couple of girls are singing and down at the other end, Frank’s taking a break. Or giving his accordion one…and everyone else. Ha! “Too late” is all he says to me. It’s OK, I can set up around the middle of the covered bit.
First up is a poor lady of about seventy who’s had her shopping trolley stolen. “I just want to crawl into a field and go to sleep and forget about it…” Oh dear, I say, has she phoned the police? “My son’s looking after it all, but, you know, he’s a busy young man, he’s got other things he has to do…” She says she’s on her way to the bank. That’s a good idea…but it’s Sunday, they won’t be open will they? “Yes, I’ll have a walk up there, anyway…just want to crawl in a field…” I ask if she has food, “Oh, yes…well, I’d give you some money, but I can’t…”
A bit later, it’s my inebriated, hatted regular from last week, and in a similar condition today only he has exchanged his Sainsburys’ bag for a painting – a vista of a small fishing towns’ harbour under a cloudless sky, from what I can make out through the bubble wrap. He sits on the bench opposite, listens for a bit, then comes over, puts a ten pound note in the bucket and says “I’m not trying to stop you but will you play Harry Lime for me?” Sure, I say, but that’s alot of money, does he want some change? – I can give change! He tells me to shut up! I played Harry Lime, aka The Third Man, a few minutes ago but for this – sure, I’ll play it as many times as he wants! If people don’t like it, they can come and pay me to stop. He leans against the pillar next to me and listens. He really loves this tune – it’s “heaven” he says! When I finish, he asks me about my “background in music…what did you start off doing – Bobby Darin? Chuck Berry? You’ve obviously been playing a long time.” I tell him it’s more Chet Atkins – for the solo stuff I do out here. “Oh right, d’you do the boom, chk, boom chk…” (makes sound like the Merle Travis picking technique, the alternate bass notes, etc.) “Yeah, in fact that’s what I do on The Third Man – that’s a Chet Atkins arrangement” – I do a bar of the boom, chk, boom chk thing he was going on about. He goes back and sits on the bench. I can see him trying to convert a young lady sitting there. She gives me a quizzical look, looks back at him then leaves. He comes over again. This time he’s pulled out a, gulp – TWENTY POUND NOTE! Oh my, is this also to be mine? Yes it is! I again offer change for his precious note. He again tells me to shut up. This is a lot of money – with the ten pounds he’s already given me, this is what I’d normally make in a three or four hour session, on a good day. “Look, I’m not being flash but I’ve got money to burn (don’t do that – give it to me!)… I’ve just bought that painting over there (points to bench with painting) for three hundred quid.” I thank him profusely – how else? He returns to the bench, next to a little girl who’s sat down while we were talking. He’s talking to her, takes off his hat, revealing bald head – “You see, I’m strange – I’ve got no hair on top, but hair at the bottom (his beard)…” He comes back over. He’s decided he would like me to play for two hours at his sixty-fourth birthday party in a nearby pub sometime in July and he would like me to play The Beatles song When I’m Sixty-Four, because he will be, yes…sixty-four. He says I don’t have to but it would be nice if I would. He’s willing to pay me the same amount I’d get if I was still doing those old ‘cabaret’ gigs, which is an enourmous amount compared with what I get for two hours out here. Do I agree to his ‘fee’? Of course I do! I’ll do my best with the song request, too.
Three fifteen year olds come up while I’m playing. I’ve had enough of them already! “D’you play Sweet Home Alabama?” “No, try the guy up the road – Rob, he plays it, I’m pretty sure.” “Why don’t you play it? What do you play?” I nod my head to the ground next to me – “Have a look at that list.” I doubt if they can read. They don’t know anything – on the list and literally. But I am patient and accomodating and willing to treat them to a burst of Whole Lotta Love or the torturous, complex riff of Black Dog. “What about Led Zepellin?” I say. Well, they just look at me with comtempt and walk off. Good, be gone with you, foolish young humans.
I have a pleasant hour playing and receiving compliments from many passers-by and people on the bench, taking a break. Some even clap. However, the mood’s about to change. I’m playing The Third Man Theme when a tall, unkempt, baseball-capped man walks past and says, or rather shouts “Don’t you play anything else? You’re always playing that, everytime I walk by!” I see red, stop playing and stand up. “Yeah, I play it because people like it!” – they DO – some even think it’s “heaven” when they hear it! That one guy did, anyway. “How many songs do YOU know?” I shout. “What?” he shouts back. “HOW MANY SONGS DO YOU KNOW?” “Well, hundreds” he says. “Well, you come out here and sit down here and f****** play them, then!” I shout. He walks off, shaking his head – I hope he shakes it ’till it drops off. I’ve been waiting for something like this to happen, actually. I’m bound to annoy at least one person – maybe he’s been walking by EVERY time I’ve played it, just through coincidence. I’ve had it pretty easy, as far as being left relatively untouched by insults. I’m always having people coming up saying how much they like what I play – and the other day, when I went into Clinton Cards before I started, to say I’d only be playing an hour or so – so I hope I wouldn’t annoy them, the young guy said he actually WANTED me to busk outside! So, I’ve had it good and can’t complain and anyway you can’t please all the people all the time, etc. It did made me think, though – I’m out here, more or less forcing this music on thousands of people I don’t know – that’s just the nature of it. I don’t know what mood any of them are in unless they decide to let me know. I don’t worry about the old people or the people with children or the women, just the lone male in his twenties and thirties, like the guy on the bench the other week who flicked his cigarette at me. It’s only then when I feel vulnerable. I’m also a bit annoyed with myself reacting the way I did as I don’t like to swear in front of innocent people but, thankfully, there weren’t many about. Oh well, I take it this guy won’t be joining any fan club of mine. After a couple of minutes, I simmer down and carry on. A man from the art stall nearest me comes over – he’s packing up now and he wants to thank me – “We really enjoyed listening to you.” “Well, thanks! Are you going now?” (I see loads of paintings stacked up) “Was it you that sold the painting to that guy – you know, who was hanging around me for ages?” “Oh him, yeah!”
I pack up and head up the road. I stop at The Buttercross, where Frank is – “Going already?” he says – it’s just past five o’clock. I tell him about my number one fan. With sixteen years of busking behind him, Frank’s heard them all. “Well, I’ve heard them all. I get people throwing pennies, and saying “That’s for the dog”, then they snigger, you know, and walk off, or they say “play a PROPER song.” Frank’s dog Kazoo has been in a fight. She has a wound on the top of her leg which looks very bad, it has about ten stitches and she’s wearing one of those cone things to stop her licking it. On it, people have written things like “The lady with the lamp shade” and “Get well soon”. There are still a few people about so I decide to head on back down to the corner and do a final, shortish session – not more than an hour, though. I might pick up ten quid. I’ve noticed that it doesn’t matter if there are thousands of people about or only a few – I seem to end up collecting about the same amount, strangely enough. I want to visit the toilet before I start so, on getting to the bottom of the street I turn right to go through the arch. A few feet from the entrance to the toilets there is a middle-aged man lying on his back. I think he’s on a stretcher and there are two ambulance guys bending over him and saying “Roger, Roger?!” However there’s no movement from him, whose name I’m assuming is Roger. I look at his chest and it doesn’t look like he’s breathing. I walk past all this and up the stairs to the toilet. I’m thinking, what if this man’s dead? Maybe he’ll be there for a while, I mean, there’ll be no rush to get him to the hospital, will there? Can I really play The Third Man when there’s a dead body lying nearby? This isn’t Vienna in 1949. There’s no black market racketeering going on. It’s not even a film set. This is Winchester 2011, just after the arts and crafts market. Then I think of the scene in the Marx Brothers film when he’s taking the man’s pulse and he says “Either this man’s dead or my watch has stopped!” and I start laughing and then I feel guilty. When I come out, the ambulance men seem to have propped up ‘Roger’ so I think he’s going to be OK. Well, one of them says “I think you’ve had a few too many Sherries, Roger”, which is a bit of a weird thing to say to a dead man, so I’m guessing he’s alright.
It’s been a profitable day – without the thirty pounds from my hatted man I would have taken just under a tenner an hour – an acceptable rate, so it was definately worth coming in, despite an assortment of foreign coins cheekily finding their way into the bucket – One American dime (10 cents), a five Euro cent from Italy, a five Euro cent from the Netherlands, a gold twenty Euro cent from somewhere without a name and six Euro cent coins from a place called Letzebuerg.
Earnings: £69.65p