Billy Bragg, fiery left winger and writer of gorgeous, idiosyncratic songs, began his career taking to the London streets, cleverly outfitted with an electric guitar and a backpack amplifier complete with stereo speakers stuck out on armatures on either side of his head. In 2007, he even led an event called the Big Busk in London, in which he played street musician standards along with some 500 close friends.
There is, therefore, something a little dissonant about Bragg playing big indoor stages. Not, of course, that he shouldn't—it's a very fine thing to see him without traffic noises. When he last stormed the Calvin in Northampton, it was clear that his solo electric guitar stylings and very British tenor translate very well to spaces other than the street. He filled the place with a remarkable amount of sound, and proved equally entertaining between songs, when he seemed to comfortably chat with a thousand strangers.
Bragg's style is in a lot of ways the product of busking (the clever word for playing music in the streets). That turned my thoughts to the practice of street performance, as delivered by that vast and often unsung crop of performers who regale strollers with their sounds.
As a longtime musician, I've had the chance to visit some interesting places, open a guitar case and croon for my supper. In England, no one stopped to listen, yet my guitar case quickly filled with money—it was as if the audience of passersby operated via stealth. In Switzerland, people inevitably gathered for a while, though competition from Andean bands (the same pan flutist on every corner, it seemed) was impossible to overcome. In Texas, word seemed to spread instantly that a party was underway when my bassist and accordionist pals came along, making for a good time that surpassed in its simplicity the joys of playing on a stage.
Busking is not a discipline for the faint-at-heart—you usually have to sing loudly without blowing out your voice and play an acoustic guitar with equal gusto. It's not easy to turn from anonymous pedestrian to center of attention, at least for me. All of which means many a busker bawls out tunes with more force than finesse, making the street musician the enemy of quiet enjoyment everywhere.
There are those who embrace the noise—in medieval Europe, beggars without musical talent played the rommel pot, a vessel with a drum head on top and a stick poking through the drum head which was rubbed and moved back and forth vigorously, creating a hideous noise rather like a pig trying to recite the Gettysburg Address. Apparently, in skilled hands, this led to crude rhythmic accompaniment, and in other hands it led to the busker receiving a nice paycheck to move along.
Just like the rommel pot player of old, the modern busker exists in a weird place on the social spectrum—playing on the street is not begging, but the more prudish among us seem to find it distasteful in a similar fashion, especially if the busker seems to be unkempt in a way that implies homelessness. On the other hand, good musicians of every stripe often supplement their incomes in just such a fashion, giving the endeavor a nice dose of respectability. Boston's subway was the longtime haunt of Peter Mulvey, who went on to a career as a guitar-wielding folkie with the Valley's Signature Sounds.
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Busking in Northampton, probably the busiest Valley locale for street players, isn't a half-bad gig. I have played gypsy jazz there from time to time with the Advocate's Cinema Dope columnist Jack Brown (who also plays rhythm guitar in Valley band Swing Caravan) and others, so I've seen firsthand that the best days can bring a surprising number of George Washingtons, dancing kids and interested listeners. Bad days bring hurrying passersby and the inevitable bike-cop permit check.
Brown says of the Northampton experience, "It's one way of scoring gigs." And, he adds, "It's a way to pick up a few extra dollars for something I would be doing at home anyway."
Never knowing what to expect is certainly a part of the charm—one day, busking netted the two of us a gig offer from a booking agent who never would have come calling otherwise. Some days bring wild-eyed attention from those who wish to sit in on unlikely instruments they can't play well, and others end in a few dollars and a sunburn.
Advocate listings editor Tom Sturm also shared his busking triumph, the "foot bass," a Goldbergian contraption which enabled him to accompany his guitar playing and singing with bass strings hit by foot-operated mallets.
Most of the current regular buskers in Northampton don't evidence quite Sturm's level of ingenuity, though there are intriguing exceptions. Most use the traditional guitar plus voice setup, though of course musicians with steel drum, saxophone, fiddle or banjo make regular appearances, too. A recent look revealed both a keyboardist with a wheeled piano, and even a harp. The talented "bucketman" regularly appears these days, adorned with a cape, accompanying himself with a five-gallon plastic bucket.
The permitting process for busking is rather a large headache. There is no audition, although particularly painful renderings of "Like A Rolling Stone" in front of downtown shops argue it wouldn't be a bad idea. The process used to be free, but it now involves traveling to the Department of Public Works (a fair hike from downtown), paying a $25 fee, then heading to the Northampton police station to get final approval. The latter can be an interesting prospect—the last time I visited, I must have been asked four times if I intended to play electric or use drums (intention to maul perfectly good vocal music, it bears noting, is not a matter for interrogation).
Northampton's only psychedelic Dixieland band, Primate Fiasco, gets around the lack of drums and electricity on the streets by working with First Churches Northampton, using their grounds and electricity to put on something in the neighborhood of a concert in the middle of town. Others (including Brown's band) are on the schedule there to do the same soon, adding a whole new sheen of respectability to the proceedings.
In the meantime, the non-electrified contingent continues in full force. A recent midday stroll offered, among others, a non-musical busker (Robin Vogel, the "Juggling Fool"), a guitar duo, and perhaps the most often-spied regular, Daniel Evans. Evans possesses a silvery tenor (despite, he shares, having a case of emphysema), and accompanies himself with acoustic guitar on tunes from the era of Elvis and Chuck Berry through more Motown stylings and even '70s soul.
Listening to buskers offers an experience that's just as unpredictable as visiting the streets as a performer. Your sensibilities may well be assaulted by noises you never thought a human could (or should) make, but you might also discover new sounds and great performers you wouldn't have thought to listen to otherwise. That's worth the risk of hearing a terrifying rendition of "Louie, Louie." Strolling the streets on a busy day, you get a sort of alternate map of town, a voyage in which sounds fade up, reach full flower, then fade as you approach another performer. It's something worth paying attention to, an intangible reward for engaging the musical world in the best, and time-honored, way: without the filter of a booking agent or a record company.
