Diary Of A Busker Day 133 Tuesday July 19th Winchester High Street (1. outside Pizza Hut, Time: 11:45-12:47pm, 2. opposite Maison Blanc, Time: 1:25-2:25pm).
There are three sets of buskers out today, spread out evenly, so the only place for me to go is right down to Pizza Hut where I’m almost out of earshot of two guys, wearing long, furry coats, dark glasses and hats – one, a “Russian” style, the other a leopard skin trilby. These two posers are playing so-called “blues” on their guitars – not the virtuoso, finger-style blues of Robert Johnson or Blind Willie McTell, but the simple, lazy vamping so favoured by so many thousands of (predominantly) English musicians who haven’t got the patience (or talent) to do the impressive stuff. These two are more concerned with looking cool”. I’ve heard the same, mindless dirge played by so many over the past 30 years. It’s boring.
A lady on a bike pulls up. She’s well-spoken, or “posh” and she wants to know if I have another job, and do I do this “for fun”. I give her my hard luck story, which, due to repeated relatings, I can reel off in just under 5 minutes now. She tells me she “once asked a chap – he was playing the violin – very good, brilliant…well, I asked if he would look after my dog while I went into Sainsbury’s for a few minutes. I came out 15 minutes later – he was so angry, not because I’d been 15 minutes, but he said he’d got so much more money having a dog beside him.”
After an hour, the rain starts so I pack up, have my small orange under a tree in the cathedral grounds then walk back up the road to see who’s still there. It’s only Frank in the busy part of the High Street. I say hello and he stops playing. “Hey, I’ve got something that might interest you.” He gets up and picks up what looks like a load of rags from his cart. it’s something wrapped in some towels, “I found this in a dump…” he says, peeling off the layers. I eventually see a circular, flat shape and immediately know what it is – a 78 record of The Third Man – what else could interest me? I think how thoughtful it is of Frank to think of me, and start to feel a bit guilty about my recent cynical regard for him. However, when he reveals the object (I was right), instead of handing it to me, he says he’s bought it for a friend of his who has an old wind-up gramophone. Even during our short conversation when I mention that I have a record player that plays 78s, he still doesn’t do the decent thing. Thanks Frank.
Following my recent upset – let down the human nature of Frank, I head back to where I was playing earlier but the two blues posers have moved down a bit which means I too have to move down. I go down further than I’ve ever been – to opposite the “posh” Maison Blanc restaurant where, outside, they have a few tables and chairs set up. I become practically the (out) house guitarist.
One lady, a Jamaican, likes my Yellow Bird so much, it’s worth her parting with a £2 coin, “You took me back to my childhood.” she says.
Halfway through my set (another one hour spot before it rains again) a man who’s been sitting at one of the tables crosses the road. He says he’s a music promoter, likes what I play and has “alot of connections – in London, too.” He says he can get me work, playing for £300 to £400 a night. But not untill September. I say that would be helpful as I’m not looking forward to another winter out here. I assure him of my professionalism, “I’m always on time, smartly attired and I’m always sober.” He remarks that I do indeed appear quite smart and sober. “I have to be, playing this stuff .” OK, he’ll tell his PA of me and she’ll send me a message today. However, at the risk of sounding jaded, I have had a couple of similar occurances of this sort – people promising various things, only to see…nothing. He gives me his card, so if I don’t hear from him, he’ll hear from me. At the least, I managed to flog him my cd single, for £2, although I probably could have got £3, but £2 is fine.
Earnings: £25.46p.