Auyon and I just got back from a great Friday night busk in Northampton (“busking” is performing on the street for tips, which is my steadiest source of both income and joy), and once again we had our share of strange encounters and meaningful moments. I’ve been thinking for a while that it would be good to chronicle our busking adventures somewhere, and so this is officially the first entry of my busk journal. Once there are a few more entries I’ll worry about exactly what form their compilation will take.

Recently, I’ve probably been busking an average of twice per week, often with some configuration of other band members, and each time meeting with unusual success. In Boston, a few weekends ago, I had my must lucrative night ever, making upwards of $40/hour (thank you Newbury Street) and giving out my entire reserve of business cards. A week ago, in Northampton, Harris and Auyon and I were signing autographs for a crowd of German exchange students within maybe two minutes of playing, and we made enough to consider — strongly consider — going out for sushi. The prior weekend, Auyon and I had dedicated a song in broken Spanish, over the phone, to a man’s ex-girlfriend living in Miami, and somebody we didn’t see threw us a crumpled five dollar bill from a window somewhere in the apartmentmosphere.

Busking in Northampton

More often, though, busking lends itself to more simple, everyday pleasures, but happening in rapid succession, so as to give the impression that life is like one big hug: A couple give each other a loving look during a romantic song; a kid tells you enthusiastically that he, too, plays guitar; someone smiles and sings along as they walk by; an infant attempts to dance along; a group of German girls ask you to sign autographs… Ok, maybe the crazy stories are a big part of the fun, but then what’s truly amazing is the frequency and consistency with which those awesome, seemingly preposterous things will happen, and tonight was no exception.

As we picked our pitch (“pitch” = busking location) and set up to play, Auyon was particularly set on getting sushi this time, and particularly confident that we were going to be able to afford it (busk-for-dinner rules stipulate that you can only spend on your meal that which you just earned). We had no time limit for dinner, really, but cold weather is never ideal for the instruments or our playing of them, and so the goal was really to earn and to eat.

After thirty minutes, we’d earned about $4, nobody had stopped to listen, and I had broken the G string on my guitar (a relatively new string… this is the unfortunate price of busking in October) with no replacements. Several other buskers and street vendors had chosen nearby pitches, saturating the already noisy street with both acoustic and financial competition. Auyon, sushi bubbles disappearing above his head, was crestfallen. Then, a glimmer of hope: a young man in a t-shirt sat and listened to a song, looking like he might donate to the cause. When we finished the song, he applauded, approached and asked if we could play anything “funkadelic.” Jigga-what? Auyon started playing something of questionable funk on his mandolin, while I thought carefully about how to respond, and stalled by saying things like “no” and “probably not.” But suddenly, something Auyon played sounded sufficiently funkadelic to our new friend, and he started break dancing. He was good, with all kinds of hand stands and freezes and locking and popping, and he certainly didn’t care about the people nervously trying to pass by without getting breakdance’d in the face. After 5 or 6 minutes he stopped, exhausted, and we exchanged pleasantries. His name was Louis (I think), from New York, and he’d come to Northampton hearing that it was a good place for the arts. He thanked us for the music, expressed his regret that he hadn’t earned us any money, and then went on his way. Our circumstances still less than ideal, and sushi now a sure impossibility, we remembered for a moment what busking was all about, and decided to keep playing, G string or no G string, and to simply out-perform the competition.

Under new divine management, we did quite well for the next half hour, making about a dollar a minute until finally we decided we had enough to treat ourselves like kings. We walked over to the sushi place, ready to seriously deliberate over which rolls to order, and probably talking about how awesome we were. In retrospect, it’s pretty funny, but for some reason we decided that a twenty minute wait was ridiculous, and we opted to eat elsewhere. Sadly — and I say this with no ill will toward the establishment or toward our very friendly waitress — we ended up spending all of our newly earned cash on a meal that neither of us enjoyed very much, and we left the restaurant, again, crestfallen.

Determined not to leave the night a failure, and with some time yet before the end of busking hours, we decided to keep playing and see if we could cut our losses. Instantly, the vibe was better than it had been pre-dinnerlude. The location was better, the street was quieter, and I was beginning to get comfortable with the absence of the important, but certainly not crucial G string. Our minds were attuned to the music rather than to our stomachs, and people seemed far more inclined to stop and listen to a song. Some stuck around for three or four or five.

At one point, a very pretty blonde girl stopped and listened for about five minutes, almost directly across from me, smiling and singing along to “Crazy” by Gnarls Barkley, and for the rest of the night she was all I could think about. (I’m the sort of person who declares his everlasting love for a girl that he’s just met, and Auyon’s the sort of person who then frowns at me and attempts to explain what love means, so it was a nice bit of affirmation that on this particular occasion he supported me in feeling as such.) That was right around when we hit our peak crowd, and then gradually it faded away as the brisk air reminded people of their destinations. We continued to play for a while, encountering some old friends and making a few new ones, until a pair of cops informed us we were playing after hours. We packed up and, as has become customary, got back in the car with a freshly renewed, broadly applicable enthusiasm for everything.

Finally, and this is too often overlooked as a crucial part of the complete experience: the post-busk. We arrived home to find Sam and Harris in the living room with Jay Cox-Chapman, a good friend from school in town for the night, and we dutifully bro’d out the remainder of the evening with good beers, good company, and good conversation. When you’ve essentially been yelling at strangers for three hours in the cold, this is exactly what you want to come home to.

And to the girl, if you’re reading this, maybe we’ll see you at the Amherst gig? Maybe you want to grab coffee? Too much? Ok, I’m stopping before this gets any tackier.