Of Guitars, Harmonicas, Street-Singing and Curious Dogs

I went downtown today and played my guitar and harmonica and sang for about 3 1/2 hours non-stop. A LONG time to do that kind of thing. (Sorry, no pictures. Janette and the girls stayed home for the regular Monday "tea time" with the women at the flat) The Kunkel family is extremely tight on the finances these days--girls need school uniforms, we all need to eat, and the student loan was held up because of some computer or technical issue. So I decided to go use the only real skill I've got and make a few "quid" for the fam. I can't carpenter, plumb, or lawyerize. But I can play the guitar and harmonica, and sing.

It's not something I necessarily really wanted to do -- stand on a street with my guitar case open and 100's of people walking by, most of them not stopping to listen or even look.

How do you give away something precious when people won't stop to receive it?

But I sang and played anyway, watched the people walk by, literally every color and size and type of person you could imagine under the sun. . . .

The children would always look. Many would want to stop and listen, if even for a little bit. Some parents would relent and stop with their children. Most would pull them along--"we have something to do, somewhere to go. . ."

I got into the groove, and fell into "the zone" which is a wonderful place to go-- the music and song swell within you and you just ride the wave of the tune and the feeling in it, and you reach out with it to anyone who goes by. I'll always enjoy that, no matter where I'm at.

But I noticed something interesting: I got money from very few people. And of those who gave, none of them dressed rich, or well, or looked like they had much to give.

There were people eating on the sidewalk at two restaurants nearby. Many of them sat there for over an hour eating and listening to me play. Most of them gave nothing.

A young woman was sitting with her friends, and I could tell she was listening intently. In fact, she started mouthing the words to the Alison Kraus song, "When You Say Nothing At All," when I sang it. I couldn't believe it! I didn't think there would be anyone who knew that in Edinburgh.

She came over as they were leaving, and in her hands were two apples and 1/2 of a russian chocolate bar. She said, "I have no money left. But would you take these?"

I said, "Yes. I have two daughters who'll love the apples and chocolate."

She smiled and put them in the guitar case next to the few pence people had thrown in.

I said, "Cheers." (for those who don't know, a term used loosely in the UK for everything from saying thanks to goodbye to excuse me)

I played a lot of harmonica with the songs, just because for the average passer-by it adds so much to a tune. . . . that, and I love doing it anyway. As I got more and more tired, and it seemed that more and more people were walking by not paying any attention, I got more and more bluesy.

This culminated in a rip-roaring rendition of an old bluesy rock n' roll tune that I cut my teeth on when I taught myself to play the guitar at age 14. The infamous "I'm going to Kansas City."

My favorite line is singing, ". . . they've got some crazy little women there and I'm gonna get me one."

By the time I was done with that, my fingers were like pieces of raw meat and had passed beyond the "oh man it hurts bad" stage. They just throbbed. The beer that people were drinking at the outdoor tables looked really, really good. I'd forgotten to bring water.

A bum came rambling up during the next song, with his dog. He was drunk. The bum, not the dog. But the dog--a cute little half-grown mutt of some kind--started sniffing at my harmonicas on the ground to the right of my feet. I slid over, still playing and singing, and pushed the harmonicas between my feet. I like dogs. I don't like dog slobber on my harmonicas.

The bum stood--swayed--next to me and kept offering me a cigarette from a pack that was empty because he was smoking the last one. I kept nodding at him, but I decided the song was too good to just stop. A young couple over at the cafe were pulling out their camera. The dog started sniffing in the guitar case. I was thinking to myself, as I kept time on the guitar and leaped into the harmonica bridge, "Please don't throw up or pee in my case." When a dog has to pee, it can happen suddenly. You know, the old "mark my territory" quick lift. . . . He didn't do it, but he did stick his nose in the case and snozzle it.

The couple at the cafe took a picture, laughing.

They didn't put any money in the case either.

And the bum and his pup tottered off. The pup wanted to stay, but for the sake of the guitar case (and the health of the pup) I'm glad they went.

It was an interesting day.

At least I didn't get rained on.

And I made minimum wage (5 pounds an hour) for doing something that I love to do--at least, I think I love to do it on a sidewalk with people walking by and dogs eagerly trying to do something illegal in my guitar case.
Dust