1. Busker Management

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    June 25, 2019 by admin

    Color has returned to the Women’s Gate.  Swathes of yellow stellas, red and pink begonia and emerging red roses have joined the gomphrena and cleome that I saw being planted almost 2 weeks ago.  The dogwood blossoms have transformed into grape-sized seed pods on long stems.

    Orange day lilies tower above the rock of peace; I can’t read the plaque on that rock without a shudder or a laugh at all the wars these so-called peaceful countries have waged since joining with John Lennon to “Give Peace a Chance.”  Dusty pink astilbe and yellow archangel round out the catalog of flowering plants.

    As I descended the stairs to Bethesda Fountain, I located the source of the amplified guitar I was hearing.  It’s Colin, the singing cowboy, returned to the park for the summer, playing “Layla.”  I sat down next to him, waiting for him to finish.  Two policemen on horseback clopped through the fountain area and up the path toward the boathouse.  Colin kept singing.  When they’d passed, we started to laugh.  You never know when the authorities will enforce the rules about amplification.

    Colin was done, but someone else was waiting to play, a percussionist with drumsticks and a tambourine.  He said he’d only play for 30 minutes, so I moved to the opposite side of the fountain and warmed up.

    After 30 minutes, he was gone and I moved back to center stage with $3 in my case.

    I’d spent more time with 2 walkaways than with all the people who gave me money combined.  A young Bangladeshi man, wired to his phone with a headset, was live-streaming to his family back home.  “They think you’re terrific,” he said.  “Say hello to them.”  I said hello.  I sang a song.  I put a lei around the young man’s neck and had him dance.  “I love New York,” he said.  “Everyone has been so kind and helpful.  And now here you are, so welcoming to me and my family, thousands of miles away.”  He shook my hand vigorously, then moved on.

    A group from the photography club of PS 7, in the Bronx, also stopped to dance.  Six kids danced to “The Hukilau Song” while their classmates took photos.  After the dance, their adult supervisor hurried the kids along to the next photogenic venue.

    At center stage, I laid out my paraphernalia again, then heard a violinist tuning up.  He too was amplified.  I approached and told him I’d been waiting for the drummer to leave; he could move to the opposite side of the fountain if he wanted.  “Oh, while we’re talking,” I said, “that amp…”

    “I know, I know,” he interrupted me.  “I’ve already been told.”

    I began singing, and before long a man walked by and put a dollar in my case.  Soon after, a kid of 8 or 9 put in another dollar.

    A little girl stopped to inspect my case.  “Have you got time for a hula today?”  Her mom and dad were nearby; they nodded their permission and gave her a dollar for me.

    A little kid smiled at me and gave me 10 cents.

    A 40-something from North Carolina, for whom this was not her first hula, danced an expressive, sultry hula, then gave me a dollar. She was followed by a preteen whose hula was somewhat stiff. She also gave me a dollar.

    A group of kids from California walked by.  “Has this group got time for a hula today?”  The tour guide posed the question to his charges.  No one seemed to want to dance, until a young man of 15 or 16 stepped forward.  When no one joined him, I said, “It’s you and me, man.”  I’d barely begun “The Hukilau Song” when some other kids walked up, put on leis and joined the first in a hula.  Altogether, 5 kids danced, ending in wild applause from their friends.

    “You deserve a tip,” one of the kids said, dropping a handful of change into my case.  “You are awesome.”  A couple of other kids also ponied up.  I tipped my hat to the tour guide.

    A 12-13 year-old boy broke away from a gathering of kids with a $10-bill in his hand.  “You need change?” I asked him.  He looked at me as if I were crazy.  “Great, thanks a lot,” I said.

    “Congratulations.”

    A young girl from Boston gave me a dollar for a hula.

    Another young girl came up with a dollar.  Her name was Caitlin, and she had recently moved from Arizona to Florida.  She danced to “Little Grass Shack,” and had done so with such delight her grandmother was moved to give me another buck.

    After my set, I moved to the shade and counted out $21.38.

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  2. Feel Free to Give Advice

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    June 13, 2019 by admin

    A volunteer gardener was laying out flowering plants behind the benches at 72nd St.  I recognized white nicotiana and cleome, and asked for the name of a ping-pong ball sized purple flower on a tall, skinny stem:  gomphrena.  In the background, the perennial stella d’oro lilies and hollyhocks sported different shades of yellow.

    I set up at Bethesda Fountain, and soon an Englishman was hovering about, waiting for me to finish a song.  “Do you know any George Formby songs?”

    “I know of them, but I can’t play them.”

    “But you must.”

    “I tried to learn ‘With My Little Ukulele in My Hand,’ but it was too complicated.  Here’s an old music hall song,” I said, and played the chorus of “Give Me a Ukulele.”  That was good enough for him, and he gave me $2.

    A large number of high schoolers in matching gray tee shirts encamped at the southeast corner of the fountain to rehearse for some kind of show or pageant.  I tried at first to soldier on, but I couldn’t compete with their amplified soundtrack and the crowd of assembled curiosity seekers, so I sat down at the fountain and waited.  There were 30 or more of them, performing choreographed dance numbers, with lifts and dips, hand-springing boys and high-kicking girls.  This went on for about 20 minutes, then they came together as a chorus, boys in the back and girls up front or kneeling, to sing “My Country Tis of Thee.”

    Oh, good, I thought, this must be the finale.  I stood up, ready to resume my set, when they broke into the second verse.  I sat down again.  “America, the Beautiful,” came next, followed by a choirmaster’s idea of a socko finish, higher and louder repetitions, ending with a major chord that lasted for what seemed an eternity.

    After I’d resumed playing, an old man with a ponytail, tie-dyed shirt and beer belly, pulled a harmonica out of his pocket; he wanted to play something with me.  “What key are you in?” he asked.

    “F-sharp,” I said.  “I tune it down a half tone to increase my range.”

    “I’ve got a C and a G harmonica.”  I put on a capo to get back to G, but I couldn’t find the right chords for him.  Before he walked off, he gave me some advice.  “You’ve got to seed the pot,” he said.  “Throw in a 5 or a 20, that’ll get you the bigger tips.”

    In fact, I seed the pot with 2 singles, but to make him happy I pulled a fiver from my wallet and tossed it in.  It crossed my mind that he could have provided the 5 or 20, but I said nothing.

    A woman walking by gave me a dollar.  A mid-teen girl with her mom gave me 2.  I’d been watching her watching me.  I could tell she liked the music, but she refused to hula.

    Beer belly came back.  “So did it work?”

    “No.”

    He shook his head, deeply disappointed in me.  “When I busk in Key West it always works.”

    “Must be me,” I offered, happy to see him leave.

    As I packed up, a well-dressed man with a tall, skinny blonde on his arm, asked, “How much for the purple one?”  He pointed to a solar-powered hula girl.

    “Five bucks.”

    “For the purple one?” asked the woman.

    “Yes,” the man assured her, handing me a five.  I packed up the hula girl in a plastic case and gave it to him.  Despite losing 30 minutes to the pageant rehearsal, I was pleased with my $12 take.

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  3. As Beautiful as a Day in June

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    June 12, 2019 by admin

    After my annual wellness visit with my GP on the east side, I entered the park south of the Metropolitan Museum at 11 am, about 90 minutes earlier than usual.  I followed the path south and ended up at the Alice in Wonderland Statue near the sailboat lake.  When all other locales are occupied, I sometimes try my luck busking here; I’ve been asked to leave by Conservancy workers more than once.  Across the road to the boathouse, past my maple, I found Bethesda Fountain free of other buskers.

    Since last I played here, they’ve placed the water plants in the fountain.  The day was as beautiful as a day in June can be, warm air, cool breezes and happy people everywhere enjoying New York.  A little girl in her daddy’s arms came up to me with a dollar in her hand.  Another little kid with another dollar soon followed.

    Four teens on a school trip from Colorado talked themselves into a hula.  One of the boys said he once danced the hula in Hawaii, so I moved him to the middle of the line and told the others to follow him, but it was the girl on the far end who, like “Honolulu Baby,” knew her stuff.  For the second verse of “The Hukilau Song,” they grabbed hands and did a wave, which pretty much followed my hula instructions: use your arms to simulate waves.  Each of them gave me money in bills and change.

    Four 30-something women stopped and rummaged around in each other’s backpacks.  It often happens that I see people reach into their pockets or open their purses.  It’s a virtual certainty that it’s not to get money for me.  Instead, out come phones, mostly, water bottles, sunglasses, and change purses for coins to throw in the fountain.  But after the picture-taking and suntan lotion application, these most improbable women each gave me a dollar.

    An Indian man and his wife came up to talk.  “You play very well,” said the wife, as the man gave me a dollar.  “And you sing very well,” he added.

    Two 20-something women in hijab played around the fountain.  They struck funny poses for countless selfies.  “Have you got time for a hula today?” I asked.  Giggling “no” with their hands over their mouths, they continued taking pictures.  I engaged with some other people, but saw that one of the women had put a few singles in my case.

    A boy and girl of about 5 sat around the fountain with their parents.  The boy came over to inspect the solar-powered hula girls.  “I’m Logan,” the boy said.  “And that’s my sister Lily.  I’m a minute older than her.”

    “Hi, Lily, would you like to dance the hula?”

    She was a slender child in pigtails and glasses.  “Not really,” she said.  “I’m nervous.”

    “Give it a try, I’ll help you,” I said, slipping a lei around her neck.  Logan had already grabbed one.

    “We’re going to a big party on the beach in Hawaii, called a hukilau,” I explained, then broke right into “The Hukilau Song.”

    Mom and dad remained at a distance, cell phones at the ready.  The twins danced the hula, more or less.  After I’d collected the leis, they ran to their parents, got a dollar each from dad and ran back to give it to me.

    Last were a group of preteen Texans who only wanted a picture with me.  I dressed them in leis for the photo.  Together they put over $5 in my case.

    My daily total was $28.06.  I have no idea where it all came from.

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