Busking For You

Let me invite you into the lonely life of travelling musician .
Come on in ,
I am a busker and the world is my stage . The streets are an open door for each performance . Thousands of people hear me play everyday .
You may even have been one who heard me , the busker .
Let me take you into the Western Suburbs of Sydney in Australia .
In a small music shop I buy a set of new strings for my acoustic before taking my spot under the tunnel at the railway where the rush hour begins .
I play them a few sings as they race for a bus or a train . Now and then someone stops and throws a coin in my open guitar case .
I smile and acknowledge their donation .
A fellow musician stops and briefly talks to me .
I ell him my plan to busk around Europe .
He smiles and says ,
“Cool “
Then makes his way to where ever .
Then as a train pulled in to station the announcement of where it was going and how many stops it would make took me away somewhere with it and I made a dash to get that train . I grabbed the money from my case and placed my six string in and rushed up the steps to the platform .
I boarded and took a seat beside the window . Thick morning dew covered the glass and as I tried to squint through little droplets of water made their slow trickle down the window until suddenly they sped up and raced all the way to the bottom of the glass . Just before the bottom of the window they ran into each other and became one before disappearing into the window frame . The rush was gone , their story told . The morning sun arose over small rooftops and buildings as the train rolled along the track .
I felt a sense of the blues come over me so I took my guitar out from its case and plucked a couple of the strings to a rhythm of the lonely clickety clack of the train on the track . I was really getting into this twelve bar boogie when suddenly the train screeched to a stop at Parramatta station . I quickly put my six string back into its case and waited for the driver to open the door .’
I jumped off the train and made my way from the platform to the exit gate where a ticket collector stood wearing this green hat and grey overcoat .
As I made my way to him I began this well rehearsed sketch .
A frantic search through my pockets for my weekly train ticket . Looking stressed and apologetic I explained to the ticket collector about leqaving my ticket on top of the piano .
I worked everytime . I usually waited until a large crowd of people were gathered around the exit gate . The usually were impatient and the ticket collector often enough would say ,
“Ok . No Problem . Go on .“
There was I the only one without a ticket with a guitar case and a smile .
For some reason I don’’t know why but I seemed to attract some weird looks at times from people .
I loved to hear that ticket collectors whistle as he sharply blew a pitched message to the train driver to make his departure from the station .
As I made my way past the exit gate and out into the main street traffic jammed the crossroads at Argyle street and Church Street . At this time of the morning Parramatta was like a crash car derby race through the concrete jungle . The busy buzz of pedestrians and the hum and hustle of life on the move had begun . That’s just the way I liked it .
The trick of successful busking was catching your audience .
Picking the moment was the special thing .
It always worked in every place I busked . Getting there on time as the crowd arrived and blending into their scene . The early morning commuters and business people with day full of organised paperwork already crammed into their headspace made it easy to get through into their life .
The natural easy sounds of a six string and a voice reverberated through their ears into the walls of their heart and somewhere in the tunnel of their existence the sound of the busker provided a nice presence for them .
That is what every audience should expect . I was aware of the importance of this vocation and stood in an aloof thoroughfare with my songs to fill the sky and the only way I knew how to bring music into the lives of many .

The streets can be hard and often reality hits hard . The busker is not always a welcome sight or sound in the city . At times someone comes along and tells you to move along . At times the busker can find that people are not so nice when they rob the money from your guitar case . After years of knocking around from pillar to post , I ended up getting bashed up a few times . The busker has no insurance or sick leave . No one will pay damages or hospital fees . When I get enough of the hard times I like to disappear to the coast and soak up the surf , and sea . Busking is a great thing and I don’t ever want it to become a negative thing . That’s why I escape when I find a bad voice on the street . I love busking in Australia as its always warm and sunny .
Sometimes I love busking on a beach to no one just as the sun comes up . Its an experience all right .With nothing else to do but share that moment life can become a beautiful space between the shadows that cover the sand and glare of light through the soft coloured clouds that welcome the waft of first morning light .

A poem
A Lonely Sunrise

When I wake up each day I wake up alone .
I wonder when you are going to come back home .
Are you missing me like I'm missing you ?
Does the flame burn the same when you're lonely and blue ?
It's a lonely sunrise without you there .
Tears fall like raindrops and there's no one there to share.
The sunrise in my eyes glistens brightly ,
it's a lonely sunrise each morning that blinds me .
I can't hide how I feel with a disguise .
My love I can't take another lonely sunrise .

By Paul McCann

I’ve been saving and almost have enough for my air fare .
I’m shortly going to the UK to begin my journey busking through Europe .
Wish me luck , say hello .
I could be busking for you .

The End