"...But A Change Is Gonna Come."

 

I guess I can pick up the action from around 10 PM, Friday night, April 14th...
"Are you guy's clocking in or out?" asked Tanya Huang, who had been playing for at least 9 hours, at that point...
"I always feel ashamed of the 'long hours' I put in whenever I walk past you," I said, in an attempt to be facetious...
But, being the literal-minded individual that she is, she raised an eyebrow and retorted: "Long hours?!" as in: You must be kidding me, I've been here since noon and almost ten hours later, you are on your way out to play for maybe 3 hours, then call it a night?

Yeah, but I don't have a mortgage on a house, plus a vehicle to pay for; along with setting aside a few thousand, so I can take the month of July off to fly to China, to see family, with arms laden with gifts from America. Plus, she has a dog to feed...

"I would need a nylon string guitar like Dorise (Blackmon) used to play in order to be able to play for as long as you do," was my excuse. It's true that a steel string guitar can have you playing like the marathon runner who is running flat footed at around mile 20 because he no longer has any "spring" in his step, nor can he feel much below his knees; after playing for 3 hours...
For that is what I learned after Jacob and I had played for (I think he said "3 hours and 16 minutes" according to his phone -at least that's how long the stereo recording he made of us, using 2 of the things, wound up being).

I would also need to not use alcohol as "liquid encouragement," should I endeavor to achieve Tanya-like levels of endurance. I was telling Jacob about how she was made to practice the violin every day, beginning at the age of 4, and ultimately increased that to the same 12 hour stretches that she now does on Royal Street.
"You get used to it, I guess."

I think that; like that Viktor Frankl guy, who barely survived a stay at Auschwitz, or one of those Nazi concentration camps, she somehow gleaned "the meaning of life" via that discipline/ordeal. Somewhere in the middle of a 12 hour practice routine, a little bird alighting on a branch outside the window, might constitute a thing of such beauty, as to make that whole day special, type of thing...

I can't remember who it was that said this; but someone once said, upon hearing Tanya play: "When I see someone that good on a violin, I feel a deep sadness and think: Here is a woman who never had a childhood..."

Enough of me being a "3 hour busker" apologist, for now.

But the steel strings on my guitar (which are a monstrous .13 mm. gauge right now) proceeded to sap the strength from my fingers, by the time I was lobbying for us to knock off at that 3:16 time mark. One lesson I took from the experience was that a 3 hour jam session at Jr.'s apartment, playing either his electric guitar with only 3 strings on it, or my own, is no substitute for the kind of workout, that busking for the same duration on the acoustic, would supply.

"This Is Sounding Better Now, But That Might Just Be The Weed..."

Another thing that runs counter to the 12 hour busking session is the smoking of pot at some point, which delivers the mixed bag of, making you think you are sounding better, which encourages you to play longer, while at the same time distorting your perception of the passage of time, so that a check of your watch reveals that you, in fact, played for no longer than usual; it just seemed it...

Smoking weed conjures up the analogy, to me, of the brain being pretty well evenly soaked with creative juices but, after you smoke, it being squeezed like a sponge, so that all the ideas rush out in a torrent. But then, after the hand squeezing it relinquishes its pressure (pretty consistently around 80 minutes after smoking, in my own experience) the brain is left kind of arid -absorbent to new ideas; but giving the impression that there isn't much more there to be squeezed from it...

With Tanya, it would be maybe some green tea before starting at noon, and then maybe paying a willing and ready skeezer $20 to guard her equipment for about 10 minutes, while she runs for fried chicken or sushi around 5 p.m. before settling in for the second 6 hour set.

Left: I think what was happening Friday was that, having painted her nails red, she hadn't factored in the 2 milligrams of extra weight that would be a burden on her fingers.
At this point, 10 hours in, she must be feeling like the jogger who puts little ankle weights on, in order to build up leg strength.

I sensed that she was laboring a little more in her playing; and like a tiny grain of sand inside a Swiss watch, the red nail polish was messing with her. I had a similar experience when I once acquired a 10 carat gold ring, which I placed on the ring finger of my right hand and then noticed that my strumming patterns had, inexplicably until I figured it out, become kind of erratic...

Like they were at points during Friday night's session.

One of the bad habits I developed, especially after getting my apartment, was that I tried to treat my time off from busking as sort of a weekend; and would switch modes mentally, so as to "forget about work for a while." One problem with that arose once I had become really good at turning that switch off, which was that it often wouldn't be until I woke up half hung over, with busking time fast approaching, that I might be revisited by a thought such as: "Oh, that's right, I knocked off last night after breaking a string (I'll need to put a new one on before going out -now, I might miss the 9:12 street car, and have to get on the next one, 25 minutes later than usual...).

Or maybe I had gotten back the previous night, and just shed my backpack and guitar into a heap on the floor, before turning my attention to a bottle of wine, some fish in a frying pan, weed and maybe some Youtube; having forgotten about a half pint of ice cream I had found, still frozen solid in the Rouses Market dumpster, when drunk enough to have had no compunctions about digging through the thing in plain view of tourists (that I'll probably never see again, so who cares?) but drunk, also, enough to have forgotten to take it out of a backpack, which now, 10 minutes before I'm supposed to go out, I find contains 2 harmonicas, each with its 10 holes filled with delicious rum raisin ice cream, in melted form...

I have reconciled the disparities between Tanya and myself; in the same manner that I've dealt with notions such as the one that I might never, in this lifetime, play any of Robert Shummann's piano works flawlessly, and with passion and emotion. Maybe just with passion and emotion...

I've consoled myself with the "truth" that, if I do "me" as fervently as Shummann did "himself," then we can be deemed musical equals. He might have envied my ability to rhyme words, or something. Plus, if being manic depressant and suicidal is the trade-off for being able to harmonize 4 notes in infinite ways, I might pass on that.

Although, I don't rule out myself having, some time in the future, a self contained music apparatus that I could quickly deploy so I could stop and jam with Tanya, on a few songs when I encounter her. It would probably be a diversion, of the bird outside the window sort, for her to suffuse that particular element of variety into middle of her 12 hour stint; and I think she might welcome the facility with bantering back and forth with tourists, making jokes etc. that I might be able to bring to her table -more than any flashy technical skills- although me playing the harmonica and guitar at the same time might keep her amused enough to consider it a pleasant little diversion. Then, she could throw me a 20 dollar crumb off that same table, should the market bear it -i.e. if about $50 went into her basket while we were noodling around; And that would basically pay for my whole existence, before I even arrived at Lilly's.

When Preparation Meets Opportunity

But I have learned that busking is practically a 24 hour job. The hours spent not actually playing shouldn't be spent trying to forget about work, as there are plenty of chores that should to be done at home, that are job related.

For example, keeping a comprehensive list of every song that you ever played and refreshing your memory on all 557(?) of them; at least once a week; so as to avoid another problem I had Friday, which was losing my way through a song I used to do "every night," back in 2010. I guess 13 years of rust is a bit too much to instantly rub and polish off of a song...
There were 2 or 3 times when tourists stopped to ostensibly listen, but then continued walking, without even tipping; and those incidents still cut like a knife..
Luciano Pavarotti once said something I paraphrase as: "If I miss I day of practice, I know it; If I miss 2 days, the audience knows it." So that is what was running through my mind, upon seeing a few people stop, listen then go...

A couple days jamming with Jr. constitutes a dereliction of the kind of practicing I should be doing. I'm going to have to consider only jamming with him on acoustic guitar and harmonica -that way I might realize an improvement in my busking skills as at least some recompense for the 3 hours spent up there; more than just a hangover the next day...

Jacob and I played some good stuff, in my opinion, before the .13 gauge strings caught up with me and I found myself snapping my left hand the way you would a towel, trying to get more blood to the nerves, or whatever...

Then, after sleeping until about 4 the next afternoon, Jacob and I jammed some more at my place and recorded some of it. I had about 3 hours before I had to be back out there busking at the time his ride came for him. I spent that time preparing to go out. I decided I would be lazy and take the trolley down there, rather than ride my bike with all my gear on me. That meant that I could wait a while longer before leaving, as the trolley can get me down there in half the time of the bike. I waited just long enough so that the first drops of rain were starting to fall on the Lilly Pad as soon as I had finished the first "Knocking On Heaven's Door." 

I decided to just drink up whatever little money I had left, out of rebellion against nature, stubbornness, and to flip that darned "forget about work" switch... 

Money

But, the elephant in the room has to be the fact that 3 hours and 16 minutes yielded a paltry $12.70 in tips. It was just one of those nights when tourists would stop and chat, and we would play them a song, and then they would thank us profusely; promise to "DropBox" us the video they shot; and then go on their ways; after leaving one dollar in our jar. Some nights almost everyone throws a 10 or a 20, but Friday wasn't one of them..

"I think we are in a recession, despite what anyone say's,"

I remarked to Jacob. The double-whammy of that inflation being that; people are now tipping less of a currency that is now worth less than it's been at any time in recent history...

What I Need To Do

Being more conscientious, and thinking like a busker, even when not on the job, as mentioned. This should include an actual post busking meditation wherein the events that unfolded can be sorted out and improvements made; given the benefit of hindsight.

Business

Case in point; one guy stopped and was ready to tip us using Venmo. My phone died in the middle of me checking to see what my Venmo "handle" is (It's "Daniel-McKenna-47") I couldn't remember if it had underscores or dashes and/or if the "k" was capitalized or not. And all that was a moot point because I was thinking that I was -49 and not -47. That gaff might have been the difference between a $12.70 night and a $62.70 one..

So, I need to call for a replacement phone to be sent to me -one with a longer battery life than 80 seconds...

Health

I should call the number on the back of the AmBetter card that came in the mail from the health insurance provider that I guess I signed up with through a guy I met on the street; a letter that informed me that I had until April 19th to provide them with "proof of income." That was a long way in the future when I got the letter. I need to ask them if I can get some print-out from the Food Stamp office to "verify" that I have no verifiable income...

And then I would have to ride over to that office, hoping that, on April 17th, they aren't backed up with 3 hours worth of people.

Career

Because I could spend some of those hours learning an Eddie Vedder song ("any Eddie Vedder song") because another couple stopped and asked us if we could play just that item.

There are busking "standards," one of which being "Knocking On Heaven's Door," by Bob Dylan -one of the first songs we did Friday; though I was rusty and shaking off cobwebs and trying to focus on it, while wrestling with the thought of: "Why is this a busking standard?" that was pestering me. But, once most of these songs are under your belt; it would then be advisable to build up a repertoire of songs by artists that you can "do" pretty well -one's with the same vocal range; and ones that are your favorites, which you have heard 1,000+ times. Maybe one's who are your favorites because you can sing along and sound "just like them," type of thing...

Then, once those boxes are checked; and all other things being equal; you might as well add songs that have, at one time or other, been requested by the nice people who stop to listen.

Some of these artists; in a neglected stack of them in my mind, that have never seen the light of day, because of the flipping of the "forget about work" switch; would be:

Oasis; Dave Matthews, Steve Earle, Townes Van Zandt, Leonard Cohen and John Prine; just off the top of my head, where they are stacked...

But this is ancillary to making more robust the list of artists I can "sound just like," that get requested also. What is my excuse for not doing at least 24 Elvis Costello songs, or a dozen Neil Young? A change must be made so that my busking self is sentient, even in the off hours. Otherwise, the audience will "know..."

As I was struggling to switch out harmonicas in my neck brace harp holder thing; I remarked to Jacob: "Tanya would lay out all her harps in front of her, then swap them out 80 times for practice, perhaps for 3 days in a row; so she would discover any tricks and shortcuts that might speed up the process, while the tourists who requested a song in a different harmonica key waited. She would also be testing the durability of the neck brace; is it going to break after just 75 harp changes? -type of thing..

Better Health

It might behoove me; perhaps after calling the number on the back of the AmBetter health insurance marketplace card, to go to some clinic and try to get some antibiotics for the swollen node in my throat, so I won't have to let it run it's course and swell until it bursts like a boil on the outer skin would.

New Again!

And, while I'm taking care of responsibilities that nobody else is likely to, for me, I might swing by the unemployment office and apply, as I did during the pandemic, for at least the minimum amount of benefits, as a verifiably unemployed person. The "worst" thing that could happen is they could hook me up with some kind of part time job, so as to save the state that money; and that would be just fine with me. It would protect me from the anxiety of showing up at a job and not knowing if I'm going to make $2.12 an hour, or $30.

Don't Let Your Left Arm Know What Your Right Arm Is Doing

And, there is always "the other" plasma donation center, over in Gretna, where I used to donate, until they told me my proteins were low and I would have to return in a week to give them another vial of my whole blood; and then wait up to 2 more weeks for the results to come back, along with the verdict on whether or not I could go on donating. At that point, I just switched over to the one in East New Orleans, where I was able to take advantage of their "new donor" deal that gave me $100 for each of my first 7 bottles of plasma. The place in Gretna had a similar program (a chance to make $1,000 your first month) and, having not been there in over 6 months -I think; I'll have to check- I would be taken in as a new donor; new again! 

I can see Jacob shaking his head over the last paragraph -he thought it was a divine blessing that my blood proteins ran low and now I'm "forced" into doing what I inwardly want to do- and I think he's right in that regard. I can do more in this world than sell my blood plasma. But, just realizing that I have the above options is a cushion against despair and/or any feelings of hopelessness...

Or, I can sit here like a bump on a log for 3 more years, at which point I will be old enough to get Social Security. Then, Sacred Heart Apartments, will start taking something like $275 per month out of that, seeing it as being "income," but; alternatively, I could return to homelessness. When that phase of my life commences, I'm sure I will thank my lucky stars if I'm still able to busk, and make up the $275 difference every month. 

Hopefully, I'll see an increase in my tip flow, whenever I'm a frail, old and gray, grizzled-looking cantankerous man (with a cane leaning against a wall nearby). An old man who plays a few good Eddie Veddar tunes, along with "Wonderwall," by Oasis...