I’d busked with friends on occasion, but now I was a lonesome traveler in Switzerland and needed a few franks to help me get by. There were plenty of minstrels duking it out in Basel and I admired their confidence. I was used to playing in rock bands with massive amps that served as a solid, sonic buffer between me and the audience, in contrast to the streets where there’s no shield whatsoever. But that’s just what made it so enticing, real, authentic. You couldn’t hide behind your equipment; no technology to manipulate your sound or make you appear like a demigod.
I was only armed with a ukulele, but I could play a bunch of catchy songs on that Hawaiian baby — three chord affairs of fun. Once and for all I was determined to overcome my innate shyness and give it a strum and holler.
Down the road from me I could hear a hardened regular playing jigs and reels on an English concertina. I’d dropped a few rappen his way earlier on as a show of support, secretly hoping the deed would serve as a good omen for my own forthcoming gig. I put my open ukulele case on the cobbled pavement and tuned up. I felt naked, exposed. People stopped, stared and waited. Possibly the diminutive instrument intrigued them. All set, I launched into Going Up The Country by Canned Heat. By the end of the song I already had a few coins blinking happily in my case. Encouraged, I immediately followed it up with In The Summertime by Mungo Jerry – bold and loud.
But my street debut was short-lived. The concertina guy from down the road pushed his way through the growing crowd, stood right in front of me, hocked a loogie on my sneakers, and said, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I watched the magnificent greenie slide like a mamba onto the pavement. “I played here first. You’re in my zone. Now, fuck off.” He had a Scottish accent, and his ruddy face flushed with rage.
“Sorry, man. I’ll just move a bit farther up the road. It’s fine by me.”
“No, you get the hell out of here. You’re taking away my customers. And you’ve got a bloody, loud voice, you know that!”
“Come on, cool it.” I snapped back. “An hour ago I dropped a few coins into your bag.”
“Stick it, I don't need your bloody money.” His thick-fingered hand dug deep into his weathered, leather bag, and he chucked a fist of coins in my face. He spat again and strutted off. Rattled as I was, I quickly picked up the wayward coins, packed away my ukulele, and hurried to the nearest Café for a cappuccino, glad to escape the jostling crowd that had enjoyed the fracas more than my music. If nothing else he'd taught me something about street etiquette amongst minstrels.
When I counted the money I saw that one of the coins my livid rival had flung my way was a five frank piece -more than all the money I’d earned during my entire two song set! “One more cappuccino,please!”
Eric G. Müller is a musician, teacher and writer. He has published two novelsas well as a collection of poetry, and numerous short stories. His website can be found at: www.ericgmuller.com
I was only armed with a ukulele, but I could play a bunch of catchy songs on that Hawaiian baby — three chord affairs of fun. Once and for all I was determined to overcome my innate shyness and give it a strum and holler.
Down the road from me I could hear a hardened regular playing jigs and reels on an English concertina. I’d dropped a few rappen his way earlier on as a show of support, secretly hoping the deed would serve as a good omen for my own forthcoming gig. I put my open ukulele case on the cobbled pavement and tuned up. I felt naked, exposed. People stopped, stared and waited. Possibly the diminutive instrument intrigued them. All set, I launched into Going Up The Country by Canned Heat. By the end of the song I already had a few coins blinking happily in my case. Encouraged, I immediately followed it up with In The Summertime by Mungo Jerry – bold and loud.
But my street debut was short-lived. The concertina guy from down the road pushed his way through the growing crowd, stood right in front of me, hocked a loogie on my sneakers, and said, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” I watched the magnificent greenie slide like a mamba onto the pavement. “I played here first. You’re in my zone. Now, fuck off.” He had a Scottish accent, and his ruddy face flushed with rage.
“Sorry, man. I’ll just move a bit farther up the road. It’s fine by me.”
“No, you get the hell out of here. You’re taking away my customers. And you’ve got a bloody, loud voice, you know that!”
“Come on, cool it.” I snapped back. “An hour ago I dropped a few coins into your bag.”
“Stick it, I don't need your bloody money.” His thick-fingered hand dug deep into his weathered, leather bag, and he chucked a fist of coins in my face. He spat again and strutted off. Rattled as I was, I quickly picked up the wayward coins, packed away my ukulele, and hurried to the nearest Café for a cappuccino, glad to escape the jostling crowd that had enjoyed the fracas more than my music. If nothing else he'd taught me something about street etiquette amongst minstrels.
When I counted the money I saw that one of the coins my livid rival had flung my way was a five frank piece -more than all the money I’d earned during my entire two song set! “One more cappuccino,please!”
Eric G. Müller is a musician, teacher and writer. He has published two novelsas well as a collection of poetry, and numerous short stories. His website can be found at: www.ericgmuller.com
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