Diary Of A Busker Day 349 Friday April 5th 2013 Winchester High Street, corner of Monsoon. Time: 2-3:15pm
Temperature: 8.5 degrees. On the way in, I come across the mandolin busker playing under the Westgate – the first time I’ve ever seen anyone playing there. I mean, it’s so far away from the hub of excitement and entertainment; The Buttercross, for goodness sake! I decide to stop and say hello and start by saying at least he’s got some shelter if it starts raining. He says it’s full up (with buskers) down the road; there’s a ‘big, loud group’ at The Buttercross – I bet that’s Guy and his Threepenny Bit. I suggest the spot way down the other end, at C&H, because of the restaurant tables opposite, but he seems to think he wouldn’t be right for down there. I say he’s certainly not too loud, not nearly as loud as me. He says ‘Yeah, but your stuff is more mellow.’ Oh well, I tried. He seems like an OK bloke, anyway. Before I move on, I ask his name – it’s John. About thirty seconds later, I remember I’ve got my camera with me, mainly to weigh the bucket down, like a few days ago, as it’s so windy today, and I think that would have made a good picture; John playing in the Westgate…but I can’t be bothered to go back. I need to be playing somewhere, myself.
A bit further on I can hear Demelza belting it out at The Buttercross – so she’s here, too! Then I see Guy and his lot, sitting on The Buttercross steps so they’re obviously taking it in turns, same as I’ve done a couple of times. So it’s down the road…and there’s a beggar opposite Vodafone so I set up around the corner at the same place where I met old Brian the other day, and got his photo.
A somewhat unkempt 60 year old man stands in front of me during Apache and at the end he says ‘Oo d’you think’s the best guitarist in the world?’ (Here we go) ‘I don’t know, you mean alive now?’ ‘Well…anytime’. ‘Hmm…Chet Atkins…he’s dead though.’ ‘Chet Atkins, country and western, wasn’t ‘ee?’ Oh dear, another poor chap in need of education. ‘Well, not really. He did lots of different kinds of music, you know, the fingerstyle…(I do a couple of bars of La Vie En Rose)…that’s not country.’ ‘Yeah…well, lots of people say Jimi Hendrix – he was the best.’ ‘Yeah, I know, but he played a particular style. You know, lots of people used to say Eric Clapton, but that’s just one style.’ ‘Yeah…’oo was the guy…’ He now points to his head, then his finger goes from the left to the right side of his forehead, indicating a headband, so he’s thinking of Mark Knopfler. He can’t remember the name – all he knows is the headband bit. ‘Oh, Mark Knopfler,’ I say. ‘Yeah, ‘ee’s great.’ ‘Yeah, he played with Chet Atkins, you know. Lots of people think Tommy Emmanuel’s the greatest.’ (long pause) ‘Oo?’ ‘Tommy Emmanuel…he played with Chet Atkins. I saw him in Basingstoke about a month ago, he’s just…brilliant.’ ‘What’s ‘is name?’ ‘Tommy Emmanuel. Australian.’ ‘Never ‘eard of ‘im.’ ‘No?’ ‘No, but it’s a gift, isn’t it – you’ve either got it or you ‘aven’t. My mate, now – ‘ee picked up a guitar an’ ‘ee can play ‘ouse of the risin’ sun, like that, you know.’ ‘Really’ (it’s not a question) ‘Yeah, now me, well, I ‘aven’t played in ’bout fifty years. I just didn’t…’ he trails off. I give the usual reply – ‘Well, you know, you’ve got to keep at it, and it’s a lot of work – a lifetime, I can tell you,’ I tell him. ‘Yeah…well…I won’t keep ya,’ and off he goes. No contribution offered; not for the playing (a lifetime’s work) or the wisdom and advice (not quite a lifetime’s worth).
That young guy who was paranoid about some people where he lives giving him weird looks, walks by. In fact he walked by twice, right past me and never acknowledged me. Strange people. While I’m playing Wheels, a Geordie man says ‘Can you make your muscles go like that?’ I must have looked confused. He tries again – ‘You know, that thing that Hughie Green used to do when they were playin’ Wheels!’ I think he means Tony Holland but I know what he means. ‘Oh yeah, right. No, alas, I can just about manage the guitar!’ He leaves then returns after some minutes while I’m doing the zither-like arrangement of The Third Man. He says one word – ‘Penicillin’.
On the way up the road, I can hear Guy’s lot banging away and just as I pass Timpsons, the busker-hater bloke steps out, sees me and says ‘Good luck’ – he must think I’m looking to play up there. As he doesn’t usually speak to me, and to confirm that he actually has, I say ‘What’s that?’ He says ‘They’ve been there all bleedin’ day!’ Good.
On the way out of town, I thought I might get a photo of John if he’s still at the Westgate…but he’s nowhere to be found.
Earnings: £15.92 (including one CD)