Diary Of A Busker Day 156 Thursday September 15th Winchester High Street (1. opposite The Body Shop, Time: 2:55-5:28pm, 2. opposite Oxfam, Time: 5:58-6:36pm).
Unusually, I decide to begin the day at the busier (but vehicle noise-free) part of the High Street. A young busker – I think this is Ben, whose Gibson one pickup guitar I played recently, stops by. He brings forboding thoughts. “In a couple of months we’ll all be around the big fire in a drum singin’ Christmas carols!” “Not me! I don’t want to do another winter – I’m too old!” “Yeah! You gotta, man! It’ll be great – get the old wood burnin’!” “What?! Who’s going to bring the wood?”, I say (It’s illegal, surely – starting a fire in a barrel. It must be – everything’s illegal now, Health and Safety and all that silliness). “Anyway, I can’t play in the cold, and before you say it, fingerless gloves don’t work. You know I do this fingerstyle stuff – the material gets in the way – in between the fingers. I’ve tried it – no good. I gotta get something else sorted out, before it gets cold.” Indeed, but what? It’s praying on my mind more and more – the “fear”.
Omara, a young black girl who befriended me a few months ago drops by. She’s bought me a chocolate bar – a Kit Kat. “It’s good for you”, she says. She’s got some of those really small earpieces/headphones in her ears, like thousands of other people walking around. I ask her what stuff she listens to. “Gospel music.” “Gospel music?” (I might introduce her to Purple God Woman Wendy). “Like what? Mahalia Jackson?” – the only Gospel singer I know. “Who?” – she’s never heard of her. I tell her she was around in the 50s and 60s. Omara reels off a load of names of the ones she knows – I’ve never heard of any of them.
I’m about 30 seconds into Ol’ Man River – a peaceful tune, when a fire alarm goes off. I can’t work out where it is but it might as well be on top of my head – it’s so loud. I stop playing and wait for it to stop…after three minutes, it’s still going. I can’t stand it – I even take off my hearing aid from one ear. I pack up and say “See you – I’m getting outa here!” to Otto, the local Drongo , today with war paint on his face. He’s been sitting behind me, against a wall – out of it. I bet he can’t even hear it. As I’m walking away, the alarm stops, which is typical. however, sod it – I’m taking a break.
On my return from the cathedral grounds, I head down the road and play to more or less no one, apart from a Chinese girl on the bench opposite. She seems to be enjoying the music…but after 15 minutes, gets up and walks off. Just after, two blokes are on the bench…they too walk off…to be replaced by a middle-aged couple. The man gets up, comes over…and donates! He likes my Paul Robeson (it’s Ol’ Man River, again), and starts going on about a Steve Winwood concert, then his 12-string guitar he’s got at home. This is more my territory – I tell him I’ve got six 12-string guitars. This man has a strong accent which I can’t quite place. I ask where he’s from. “Czeckoslovakia…we hev not so much…fighting war? – there now, you know.” “Ah, right. That’s good. Anyway, you say you like 12-string guitars?” “Yes, I like very much.” “Well, I play the 12-string guitar alot. I have a new album …(I get a cd from my bag), here (I hand it to him), there’s lots of 12-string guitar stuff on this!” “Oh, thenk you, how much I owe?” Nothing my foreign visitor – you and your wife are nice, friendly people. “OK, I will look at it”, he says. “Yes, and you can hear it too! By the way, what’s your name?” “Uri. George, in English”. Well, you learn something everyday – Uri is Czechoslovakian for George. George Geller.
Earnings: £28.34p.
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