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Last Day Busking
Sep. 19th, 2013 04:40 pm"Hey, we're playing at the Copper Queen on Sunday. You're still welcome."
Beneath my busker's smile, I spend what feels like a good ten seconds wracking my brain until something clicks. That's right, this was the "come to our acoustic-only jam/any instrument you plug in becomes an electrical appliance" guy who'd approached me last week. "Oh, that's so kind of you. But I'm probably going to be busy packing - I leave town in a week."
Unfazed, he smiles and tossed a dollar in my case - a full third of my take for the hour. "Ah well. You're welcome if you change your mind." And with a nod, that I return, he wanders off.
I'm picking out the opening to "Dust in the Wind" when Albert speaks up. "You don't belong with them."
For all that he shows up nearly every week to listen, Albert doesn't say much, and I nearly drop a note in surprise. "How do you mean?"
He shrugs, his western-style fedora bobbing as he moves his head back and forth. "They're nice folks, but they've got no talent."
I'm a little surprised - Albert is a self-professed lover of live music, and aside from the creepy cultist-Christian family that occasionally sings at the weekly farmers' market - "There's only so much singin' about God a man can take" - I've never heard heard him speak a word against any local musician. "Hey, I'm not going to to diss on someone else's music-making," I point out.
He shakes his head emphatically. "No, not like that. They have a good time. They're fun to listen to. But...you've got someone playing Bach, they don't belong with someone playing kazoo. You know?"
Beneath my busker's smile, I spend what feels like a good ten seconds wracking my brain until something clicks. That's right, this was the "come to our acoustic-only jam/any instrument you plug in becomes an electrical appliance" guy who'd approached me last week. "Oh, that's so kind of you. But I'm probably going to be busy packing - I leave town in a week."
Unfazed, he smiles and tossed a dollar in my case - a full third of my take for the hour. "Ah well. You're welcome if you change your mind." And with a nod, that I return, he wanders off.
I'm picking out the opening to "Dust in the Wind" when Albert speaks up. "You don't belong with them."
For all that he shows up nearly every week to listen, Albert doesn't say much, and I nearly drop a note in surprise. "How do you mean?"
He shrugs, his western-style fedora bobbing as he moves his head back and forth. "They're nice folks, but they've got no talent."
I'm a little surprised - Albert is a self-professed lover of live music, and aside from the creepy cultist-Christian family that occasionally sings at the weekly farmers' market - "There's only so much singin' about God a man can take" - I've never heard heard him speak a word against any local musician. "Hey, I'm not going to to diss on someone else's music-making," I point out.
He shakes his head emphatically. "No, not like that. They have a good time. They're fun to listen to. But...you've got someone playing Bach, they don't belong with someone playing kazoo. You know?"
