Diary Of A Busker ~ Day 93

Diary Of A Busker Day 93 Saturday May 7th Ladbroke Grove, London (outside The Elgin public house, Time: 1-5:45pm)

A curious one, this – something of a hybrid in that it’s a combination of a ‘proper’ gig, for which I received payment! – unusual in London, I have to say, to the eternal shame of 99% of landlords – and a busking session. The pub, The Elgin, is run by an old aquaintance, Robin Smith, who was one of a band of Scouse musicians terrorising south London twenty years ago, the same time I was living there. Hmm…I ruminate on how fate is a strange thing – Robin now runs a popular pub on the busy and ever trendy Portobello Road while I busk on street corners. Hmm… So from one to four o’clock in the afternoon, I am ‘contracted’ to perform an informal set at one end of a rectangular area at the side of the pub. At the other end there is a guy roasting sausages and hamburgers – in short, it’s a barbeque. Mr. Smith says it’s also okay for me to put my collection bucket in front of me, which is good as I’m hoping to cover the train fare and not dig into my contracted fee for this. Because I’m not sure how loud I’ll have to be – but I’m pretty sure Portobello Road is louder than Winchester High Street, I take my bigger busking amp and also no less than two guitars – my usual trusty 6-string electric busking guitar and also my lovely 12-string acoustic I use for doing my own songs – I might do some of them, I’m not sure yet. I leave my house in the morning and three trains later, I’m at Ladbroke Grove – a part of London I haven’t been to for twenty years, apart from when I saw Duck Baker at a tiny club a few years ago. But I remember those olden days – when I was still pretty young. I used to cycle all around London. I had a weird sort of ghoulish interest in some of the post-war London murderers, in particular John Christie, the necrophiliac who lived in Rillington Place, just around the corner from Ladbroke Grove underground station. He buried the bodies in his back yard and in the wall cavities in his house. The police got him in 1953 but not before they hanged an innocent man, Timothy Evans, in one of the most infamous miscarriages of justice. Ludovic Kennedy wrote a book about it and there was a film made in the actual house in the actual street before they tore it all down, rebuilt it and changed the name – to Bartle Rd, I think. I remember I was really fascinated by all that! Why do young people get obsessed by weird criminals?! In fact, if I remember, The Elgin was one of the pubs that Timothy Evans used to drink in. The other was the Kensington Park Hotel, or the KPH, I think he called it… anyway, it looks like the police are here again. They’ve sealed off a road I need to cross to get to the pub which means I have to walk around the block. I think I’m going in the right direction but still ask the way, to make sure. I ask eight people, not one knows as they are all from somewhere else in the world. There are thousands of people about and much, much noise – it’s Portobello Road and it’s Saturday afternoon! There’s a small steel band combo outside one pub. I finally get to my destination – The Elgin and greet my benefactor/employer for the afternoon, Mr. Smith. I dump my bags which were getting heavier and heavier and cool down with a glass of Coca-Cola – on the house! …and after a quick think and a consultation with Mr. Smith, I decide it’s probably better to stick with the well-known ‘crowd pleasers’, and ditch my own songs as I’m none too sure a nine minute song about a balloon and another about visiting a funeral home to view the corpse of a childhood sweetheart are appropriate for a sunny afternoons’ barbeque… But why the police presence? Mr. Smith tells me there’s been a bomb scare, which doesn’t surprise me, as the Yanks – our allies, have just killed that bad arab man, Mr. Bin Laden. Bomb scares in London used to be linked to the IRA – I remember playing in a restaurant in London Bridge around 1993 with my old mate Paul, when they blew up a car which was parked just outside. I suppose it’s someone else’s turn now.

    On to the music…I set up and start with La Vie En Rose, after which a couple of people clap. I play the Third Man, after which one person claps. My benefactor, who is sitting with his two children who have have just finished their burgers, leaves. I think he just wanted to make sure I wasn’t rubbish! I find out later his children don’t like my music – I don’t blame them, I was in my thirties before I got into fingerstyle stuff and Chet Atkins.  I play for two hours straight through, the smoke from the barbeque blowing over me all the time. I don’t mind this as it’s quite a pleasant smell and this is all a welcome change from the usual – struggling to make a few quid in Winchester High Street. A young Polish guy gives me a five pound note! I’m certainly meeting my fair share of Poles this week, first Bath, now here. I get one of the oddest requests ever, even more bizarre than Freebird, it’s a request for Metallica – Nothing Else Matters. No. I’ve never even heard it. Just before three o’clock a French man wants “any Beatles, I love Beatles!” and he gives me a TEN pound note! “Sure Monsieur! Just let me find my capo” …it’s gone, I haven’t brought it or it’s lost, I can’t do the song…I find it! I CAN do the song! I play Here Comes The Sun. I decide to take a two minute break so I switch my amp off….then when I switch it on again, the light goes on then off and won’t go on again. I panic – what if my amp’s gone? I have another hour to do. I open the battery compartment and there’s all this liquid or acid or something on the batteries. I take them out with my fingers and a pen. Oh dear, I’ll have to get some more so I tell the barbeque guy I’ll be back soon. The first newsagent doesn’t stock batteries and the second doesn’t have the right size – what’s wrong with this place, this is one of the biggest cities in the world?! But I get some from the third place I go to, near the tube station. I return and… the amp works. Good. I do another hour which takes me to ten past four, just over my contracted time although, in busking terms, I’ve just warmed up. I’ve had a pleasant time, the weather’s been fine, I’ve managed to get sixteen pounds in the bucket and my own arrangement of The James Bond Theme went down well. I pack up and go into the bar where a gentle man of Rastafarian persuassion engages me in conversation. He’s a musician himself (naturally), and just finished his bit somewhere else – I’ve a sneeking suspicion he’s got something to do with the steel band combo, earlier. Where are the other buskers, he asks me. What’s this? What does he mean? He points to a sign that says FREE COCKTAILS, BARBEQUE AND BUSKERS. So it does, but no, it’s just me today. It’s paypacket time! A friendly young Australian guy (naturally) hands me the cash, for which I thank him. “No worries!” he says. It’s good to be properly paid, I’m not used to it and it puts me in a benevolent frame of mind and a good mood, despite the loss of my hearing-aid which is a bit of a permanent small cloud over me at the moment. I ask No Worries if he would mind if I do another set – while I’m here! “Yeah, you play as long as you want, mate! – can’t pay you anymore though.” I say that’s fine, I don’t want anything else. So I unpack all my stuff, set up and do another set – after all, I’m well-rehearsed by now! …this takes me to five forty-five. I get another four quid in the bucket – good, that’s sorted the train fare, like I was hoping. I pack up again and then I’m off, back to Waterloo, on the train with a bunch of shaven-headed, swearing, football fans – some of the men were quite boisterous, too. I get back to Winchester at half past eight, my back done in – I’m too old to be carrying an electric guitar, a 12-string Jumbo acoustic guitar and an amplifier all over the place. On arrival at home, Mr. Smith has left a phone message – maybe I can come up again? I hope to, it was a nice change. It’s a shame I have to go to London to get paid decent money but no place in Winchester is interested – I’ve tried them all. I can’t believe I can’t get a gig in my ‘home’ town! Anyway, when I took my guitar out of the bag, all I could smell was the smoke from the barbeque.

   Busking earnings: £20.00