Busk A Move

(Photo via the BBC)

“Busking,” according to Wikipedia, is “the act of performing in public places for gratuities.” The name comes from England, where street performers have been called “buskers” since the 1860s. To busk comes from the Spanish verb, ”buscar,” which means “to seek.” Buskers perform all around the world, and have since time immemorial, but the word itself only has wide use in the UK and in NYC. Everywhere else, they are called street performers.

Most people think that buskers are only musicians, but any street performance qualifies as busking, including dancing, acrobatics, puppeteering, living statues, mimes, street artistry, juggling and fortune telling. If you are entertaining on the street, performing in public, generally without a permit or permission, and accepting donations for your art or craft, you are busking.

A dive into historic busking takes us to the medieval troubadours and French jongleurs on up to modern mariachi bands in Mexico, from 19th century organ grinders and one-man-bands to breakdancing in the park. We, as humans, in cultures all over the world, all enjoy, or at least tolerate, those who try to entertain us. I mean, if you think about it, even Christmas caroling in the mall, with people dropping change into the pot, is busking.

(Tracy Chapman performing in Harvard Square in 1995. Photo: Tracy Chapman)

Many artists who began as buskers went on to become successful popular performers, including BB King, Tracy Chapman, Rod Stewart, Ed Sheeren and George Michael. The great Josephine Baker began her career dancing in the street for money, and even Benjamin Franklin was a busker - going out to the streets of Philadelphia and reading his essays, performing songs, and selling his writing.

New York City may not be the busking capital of the world, but it’s certainly a contender for the title. There are musicians a-plenty, outdoors when the weather is nice, and in subway stations and on trains all year round. I’ve heard plenty of great music in the city, and some sadly pitifully bad music as well.

The city must have cracked down on subway performances big time in the past few years, because there aren’t really that many anymore. I remember years ago, you couldn’t leave your house and get to your destination without being serenaded or otherwise entertained, often as many as three or four times on a long round trip, whether you liked it or not.

Busking is generally seen as a form of panhandling, the difference being a panhandler asks for money with nothing in return except some kind of emotional response, but a busker gives you a song, or some form of entertainment for your cash. I’ve paid for plenty of good performances in the subway as well as on the streets, over the years.

As a singer and musician, I always appreciate those who have true musical talent. There used to be several African American singing groups who rode the subway lines. They were usually four or five middle-aged guys, with a bass, one or two baritones or tenors and a singer singing falsetto. They would travel from car to car, stop at the doorway to the car they just entered, and start singing. Depending on how long it took to go between stops, they could easily do a couple of short, usually up-tempo songs.

As any singer can tell you, acapella singing, that is, without accompaniment is really difficult. One has to be quite musical, and a good ear is paramount. These guys were good. They must have practiced a great deal or been active as a group for a long time, because their delivery was pitch perfect, and their harmonies were tight. They always got my money, as well as the money from many other people in the subway car. Even some of the people who sat in the train scowling at everyone relaxed and enjoyed the music. Depending on the group, they would sing 50’s songs, or 1960s-70s Motown hits, or gospel music. It was all good.

(Photo via shiyueli.wordpress.com)

I’ve heard musicians from China and Japan, from Peru and other Latin American countries, European concertina and accordion players, West African kalimba players, and lots of drummers from everywhere. African drummers, black American drummers, Polynesian drummers, and more than a few teenagers banging on an array of empty pots and joint compound buckets.

Most drummers are male, but I’ve also seen all-female groups. I saw the best drum show by an all-female drum corp in downtown Brooklyn last year. Most of the world’s cultures drum, it may be the closest thing the world has to a truly shared world language. A group of great drummers is always a good thing.

There used to be an older gentleman, African American, who would go from car to car and sing in a high tenor, almost a falsetto. He always sang classic American songs from the 1940s and 50s, the kind of music that Ella Fitzgerald and Sarah Vaughn would sing. He never said much, he’d just come into the car and start singing. There was something so sweet and poignant about his voice and his singing. Even your most hardened New Yorker would hush, and just listen. I always felt he had a story to tell, perhaps a life of pain and loss, something that led to him spending his senior years busking in the subway, singing his heart out to strangers for money. He’s been long gone, I always wondered what happened to him.

My favorites were the black classical musicians. We expect the kids who come in rapping, or even the gospel guys. I appreciated the guitarists and the drummers. But when a teenager came in with a violin or sat on a stool and played his cello, whether in a subway car or on a platform, my wallet would always open, and I always had a word of encouragement. This was a kid who was breaking the stereotype. Sometimes they played jazz violin, that was fine, too. But if they stood there and played Bach, or a bravura technically difficult violin piece, or a particularly beautiful legato piece with an achingly beautiful melody, they made their instrument sing. Everyone in the car or standing on the platform would applaud, and gratefully pay for the experience.  

Of course, busking is not just for musicians. We’ve all been places where mimes make us homicidal, we’ve seen the living statues in parks and in front of landmarks or in plazas. Back in the 90s, especially, you couldn’t go anywhere in NYC and not see kids laying down a large cardboard box and breakdancing. They even did it in the subway.

(Photo via City Room)

I have to say, they were my least favorite subway performers. They would come into the subway car, make people get out of their way, turn on the boombox with some loud music and then dance and do flips and spins from one end of the car to the other. OK, I’m impressed that you can do flips, and on a moving train, to boot, but they took too many risks. One miscalculation and you crash into your captive audience, hurting both yourself and other people. I’ve seen kids miss and land on the ground. It had to hurt.

They were always proceeded by the barkers who would come into the car before the dancers yelling “Showtime, showtime,” and you could hear people groan. There were usually two or three dancers, the rest of the crew was moral support, there for money collecting and getting people out of the way. This trend seems to have petered out, because even though I am on the subway far less than when I lived in NYC, I still ride the subway line that they liked best, the A line, because it has the widest cars and gave them the most room. I haven’t seen them in years.

I haven’t seen the comedian who used to do his routine on the A train for at least 10 years, either. I’m not exaggerating on the time. As a younger man in his 30s, he would ride the cars, telling jokes about his fat wife. I somehow doubt he had a wife, fat or otherwise, but this was his schtick. “My wife’s so fat, she doesn’t wear Calvin Klein jeans. She goes to Omar the tentmaker.” Then he would laugh at his own jokes. He had an entire 20-minute routine, all about how fat this woman was and his life as her henpecked husband. I don’t think I ever cracked a smile, ever. I don’t like fat jokes, and I don’t like humor that ridicules people.

He was on the train for YEARS. Usually late at night. I often had rehearsals, or I might have been out with friends and came home after 10pm a lot. That was his time. People were tired after a long day, too tired to move or do anything other than listen to him. He had a very penetrating voice; I can still hear him as I’m writing this. In all the years he would do his thing, he NEVER changed his routine. He never changed his jokes, never told new stories, or found another topic to expound on.

I remember after many years had gone by, before I moved to Troy, I was on the subway, at night, and he came in. He was much older now, as years had gone by. I had almost forgotten about him. But there he was, and the minute he opened his mouth, I knew it was him. And don’t you know? He had the SAME routine. “My wife’s so fat, she doesn’t wear Diesel jeans, she goes to Omar the tentmaker!” Oy. Well, at least he kept up with the times in his choice of denim branding.

(Fisher King dance scene via Movie and TV Stack Exchange)

A subset of street performing, which doesn’t generally stand around to collect funds, is the art of flash mobbing. I love a good flash mob. It takes a lot of coordination, planning and timing, and has to be undertaken by performers who have no problem standing in a public place and being the first to break into song, play an instrument, or dance. Of course, after they start, the rest of the performers emerge from the crowd of spectators and join them, until everyone in on the mob is there, and they perform their piece. Then they quietly pick up their instruments, or just walk off, melting into the crowd, once again one with the masses of people going about their business.

One of my favorite scenes from the Robin Williams movie “The Fisher King,” is the scene where he goes into Grand Central Station during rush hour and is in the middle of the crowd of commuters who pass him as they rush to their trains, the subway, or just through the building. Grand Central is an immense vast space, able to hold thousands, and every day, you can watch people moving, just as in the movie.

But then, as Robin William’s character watches the woman he loves walk through the station, the commuters all become dancers in a huge ballroom, joining with partners as they waltz around the vast hall, twirling and spinning, gazing at each other, part of a wonderful dance. The music plays on and Williams’ character laughs with wonder and joy. Then, reality comes back, the music ends, the dancers turn back into commuters, pushing through the crowds to their destinations. No one looking at anyone else or interacting in any way. The magic is over, the flash mob is done. It’s an incredibly powerful and beautiful scene.

(Ode to Joy flash mob in Spain. Photo: Classical FM)

One of my favorite flash mobs takes place in Europe. Any time someone posts one of these online, I watch it, even the ones I’ve seen several times. They make me happy, and grateful for the gift and the beauty of human expression.  I especially love the one, filmed in the Catalan city of Sabadell, where a chorus and orchestra perform Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy,” the choral finale of his powerful 9th Symphony.

People are milling around a popular tourist square in this Spanish city. There are kids running around, tourists taking pictures, and local people passing back and forth. A lone double bass player walks to the center of the square and begins playing a line of music. It’s the “Ode to Joy” theme. He plays the line and then another player comes out and joins him. People in the square start to gather and pay attention. More orchestra members join them, violins, horns, cellos, winds, even percussionists, including a kettledrum. A conductor comes out of the crowd and leads the orchestra.

Suddenly, members of a chorus appear and line up behind the orchestra, which has reached the end of the instrumental portion of the piece. The theme is played and the chorus begins singing. Of course, by this time, a huge crowd has gathered. Toddlers are clapping along, old people are beaming, and tourists are aiming cell phone cameras. The famous and familiar tune is sung, the orchestra is playing at full volume, and it’s just glorious. When it’s over, and they take their bows, they then just all melt away, and the plaza goes back to its normal routine. I love it!

Photo: Decaturartsallience)

Busking can be a tough way to make a living. People pass you, they talk over your performance, they stand and watch some incredible talent, and most people never drop a dime in the music case, or the can or cap. If you are performing illegally, as most are, you can be arrested, your earnings confiscated, and your instrument, if you have one, can be impounded. It’s certainly not a glamorous life.

But sometimes, a busker can be a part of a moment or a memory that will last a lifetime. It can be a perfect moment, one of those special times that only happen in New York City, and make you glad you put up with all of the problems and tribulations of living in the city, just so you could have this moment.

I was standing on the platform of the downtown A train at 59th Street, Columbus Circle in Manhattan. It was late, perhaps around 11 pm. I was alone. I was going home after a rehearsal, or maybe I had been out with friends, I don’t remember. I was standing on the platform, waiting for the train. There were others on the platform as well, and I could see about the same number of people across the tracks, waiting for the uptown trains.

The platform for that particular line is very long, as the A and D trains, which run on that track are very long trains, which carry a lot of people. A busker was somewhere on my side of the tracks, I never saw him, he must have been on the other end of the platform. He was playing guitar and singing. He had a good speaker system, as his music was easily heard up and down the track on both sides of the track.

Because it was late, the trains didn’t run all that often, at that time of night it was common to stand on the track for 20 minutes to half an hour, maybe more. The busker was singing popular ballads, songs by Billy Joel, Paul Simon, Elton John and the like. He had a nice voice and sang the songs well. It was good background music for the end of the day.

One song ended and he began singing another. It was Carole King’s gift of song, written for her good friend James Taylor, and a huge hit for both, especially him, “You’ve Got a Friend.” The singer sang through the first verse, his voice carrying throughout the platform. There were no other sounds, no trains in either direction, no one shouting, no competing boom boxes or other distractions. It’s long been one of my all-time favorite songs, so I was humming along.

He got to the chorus, as he sang it, I could hear other people singing. I looked around at the other people on the platform. Most of them were staring into space, as people do on the platform, and they were singing along. “Winter, spring, summer or fall. All you’ve got to do is call, and I’ll be there, you’ve got a friend.” Many heads were bobbing to the rhythm, and bemused smiles were on faces. “You’ve got a friend.”

I don’t know if the unseen busker knew the spell his song cast, all I know is that from that point until the end of the song, which includes a repeat of the chorus, we all stood there and sang along. We smiled at our own memories, we looked at each other, we understood the shared peace, the New York specialness of the moment and we sang. For five minutes on a dirty subway platform on a New York night, everyone on that platform sang along as friends. The song ended, the subway came, we got on and disappeared into our worlds and into the night. It was the ultimate New York City flash mob.

(Busking somewhere in the NYC subway. Photo via Medium)