Diary Of A Busker Day 383

Diary Of A Busker Day 383 Tuesday June 4th 2013 Winchester High Street 1. Opposite Vodafone. Time: 1:38-3pm 2. Opposite Oxfam. Time: 3:16-4:05pm

A person who falls into a rather large category, that of old-lady-regular-whose-name-I-don’t-know, drops by. She reckons I’ve picked a good spot, in front of the shop window. ‘Women can come to look at clothes while they listen,’ she says. ‘Yeah, they can look at a dress and listen to some old ( I was going to say ‘song’, then I thought for a second)…thing, like me.’ ‘Oh, you’re not old! You’re like a child…to me!’ Ha! What a nice old lady regular (whose name I don’t know). I’m not sure I’ve got a photo of her, I’ll have to check.

A bit later I meet a smart-arse musician, or ex-musician/drongo. A man of about sixty, white hair – a bit long for his age, moustache, dark glasses. He stands in front while I play Albatross and afterwards he starts talking, but because it’s more like he’s mumbling and because I’m half-deaf, I don’t understand what he’s saying. And because I’m not keen on old rocker types – because they all seem to be obnoxious and arrogant, he annoys me. Unfortunately, he makes a contribution so I feel I have to be pleasant. I then play Girl, during which I ask if he knows the year it’s from, like I do lots of times if there’s someone standing there and I don’t know what else to say. He knows the year and also the album it’s on, but then, at the end, he tells me I’m doing a wrong chord, or rather, there’s a chord at the end of the middle bit I’m not doing. I know he’s wrong –  ‘Are you absolutely sure of that?’ ‘Yes.’ He’s wrong. He’s taken a change in the inversion of the vocal harmonies in the second half of a chord and he’s calling it a chord change but he’s wrong because THE  CHORD REMAINS THE SAME, but there’s no way I’m getting into all that out here, and anyway, he shouldn’t say that to me. I mean, it’s bad form and all that, to criticise someone working hard in the street, for goodness sake.
Anyway, I think he sees my blood is starting to boil so he wanders off to talk to some people nearby. A few minutes later, during The Rain Song, which takes awhile to put in the right tuning, he’s back, leaning against the wall to my right, and he’s mumbling again and smirking away, too. At the end he says ‘Yeah, you need something a bit more up-beat.’ I ignore him and start tuning back up to normal tuning, then he drifts off.
I think I need to augment the sign on the bucket, so along with the CD prices and the other things I keep meaning to add (PLEASE NO EUROS, SMALL CHANGE), I need to put …AND if you’re a MUSICIAN, and ESPECIALLY if you’re an AGEING ROCKER, DO NOT UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES ADVISE ME HOW TO PLAY. EVEN IF YOU THINK YOU KNOW BETTER. But I’ll need a bigger bucket to fit all that on.

In the break, I chat to Alan, on the beat with his McDonalds rubbish cart. I mention the young bloke down at TINC who I don’t think likes me, or ANY buskers for that matter. Alan says to ignore him or anyone like that – ‘People come here because of the buskers, do you know that?’ I say I didn’t, although thinking about it, I do remember Demelza saying that the other day. ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘and the council – they like to have buskers here. It draws people into the town and they go to all the shops, as well. Oh yes, take no notice of him.’ I say ‘OK, I will, or I won’t, rather.’ I reckon Alan knows what he’s talking about – he’s been around doing this long enough.
Down at Oxfam, that bloke isn’t at TINC – it’s the other one, the taller, darker one. I do a short set of less than an hour, as I’ve got Tom and Owen’s lesson a bit later.

Near the end, a Jerry Garcia lookalike drongo turns up carrying a penny whistle. I ask if he wants to busk; I say he can if he wants to, as I’m just finishing up. He says yes he would like to play, but with ME. I really don’t want to have to play with him blowing on his toy flute next to me. I don’t know, maybe I need to get a sense of adventure…but I can’t have it, not even for five minutes, so I tell him I’m only doing a couple more songs. He says he could do Norwegian Wood with me. I don’t say anything…he says ‘You look worried’. I bloody am worried! ‘No, sorry. I’m just playing here on my own, OK?’ He walks off, dejected, and I feel a bit sorry for him – he seemed a nice enough drongo, but I’m not having it.

Earnings: £19.18