A quick thought on Synchronicity and Busking...

Synchronicity is a funny thing.  Today I heard a busker playing Neil Young's Heart of Gold at the Farmers Market on United Nations Plaza.  I tipped him, thanked him for playing one of my favorite songs, and moved on to the next fresh fruit sampling booth having a great free snack in the long November shadows under pure blue skies.  A moment ago, I was standing in a Walgreen's staring at 30 different kinds of dental floss and loud and clear over the intercom...of course, Heart of Gold is playing, rocking my world, sending me bounding back to my hotel room to write this blog on synchronicity and it's relative frequency in the world of the busker.  Such as the Autumn Leaves synchronicity that took place in my last little story.  Songs appear at the strangest and generally most significant times I find.  It's like spiritual sport after awhile, taking my cues from the universe.

Early November and sounds of Autumn Leaves

Yesterday and today's busking adventures have been synchronistic, cosmic and highly entertaining.  Last evening as I came out of the "singing tunnel", my ears were happy to hear my friend Ron Coolidge blowing  Cyndi Lauper's Time After Time from two blocks away at his spot on one of the corners of historic Union Square.  There is a statue in the middle of Union Square that has been there since the late 19th century and was a primary meeting spot and a beacon of hope after the great earthquake and fire of 1906 that left San Francisco in shambles.  I enjoy relaxing in Union Square after my busking shifts are through for the day.  This evening I pretended like I was in a rainforest in the middle of the city thanks to the palm trees in the park and the automatic sprinkler system.  I have an easy going imagination.  Helps when you lead the lifestyle of a busker!  

So Ron and I chat for a moment about all things busking which became more of a conversation about the ethical implications of buskers having their own "turf."  He mentioned in particular a saxophonist who in his eyes has been moving in on his spot.  They've been playing that game that buskers play sometimes, the "that's see who gets here first tomorrow!" game.  Anyhow, I know the aforementioned saxophonist and jokingly predicted that he and another friend of mine would be down in the 4th St. tunnel where I was headed to play.  Sure enough I was right, but that's jumping ahead of myself a little bit.  As we talked, I recalled the night a while back when I had been playing jazz with my friend the Jazz Buddah and we had been whipping up a version of Carole King's It's Too Late.  That particular evening I bumped into my trumpet wielding friend and told him about my jam that night.  As I walked home that evening towards Chinatown his trumpet echoed out a spontaneous and very good version of It's Too Late.  

We finished our conversation and Ron thanked me for reminding him of that tune.  As I continued on my busking quest Ron's trumpet sounded out a fresh version of It's Too Late and my night began to take focus.  As I thought about these great women songwriters and Ron's crystal clear sounding trumpet began to fade, the tones of an anonymous tenor saxophone began to grow more clear and like the perfect fade out/fade in I was immersed in this anonymous busker's version of Autumn Leaves.  Tis the season for the great jazz standard Autumn Leaves.  I've been playing that one a lot lately and having lots of fun with it!  Anyhow this tenor man was in between the Macy's buildings and the echo from this tenor saxophone made it apparent to me that I was walking through an urban canyon...

As I reveled in this version of Autumn Leaves, ducked down the escalator past the Mac store and into the Powell St. BART station.  There in the 4th St. tunnel, as predicted, were my friends the Jazz Buddah and the formerly mentioned saxophonist, my friend Aaron.  Observing the synchronistic events of my evening so far I couldn't help wearing a huge grin on my face as I approached my friends.  I stayed till the end of their song, greeted them and told them my little story about all the horn players in perfect "just out of earshot" distances away from one another.  I told them I was headed to the Mission and to have a good busk.  As I walked to the turnstiles and the escalators that would take me down two more levels underground, I listened to my friends improvise a very swinging and tasty version of...you guessed it...Autumn Leaves.

A Busker on Every Corner of the Corner

I write from my tower of song in Little Italy, "the Beach" as Kerouac called it, across from Chinatown, San Francisco, U.S.A., at a 3 way intersection infamous for buskers being on every corner of the corner. Right now at roughly twenty after four on a sunny November afternoon there is a busker, energetically playing what appears to be a homemade set of bongos and singing "Proud Mary."  Only in California...where people's sense of perfect timing and synchronicity seem to be raised to new heights.  And so he provides the background for my late afternoon musings as my clothes tumble dry around the corner and I get ready for my evening busk.

As the sun dips below the Pacific Ocean horizon the San Francisco skyline lights up before my very eyes.  Passed the Cathedral-like steeples of the National Shrine of St. Assisi, the modern day pyramid, erected just a couple years before my birth in 1975, the Trans-American Pyramid lights up like a Christmas tree.  A moment ago, in the twilight dusk of the Beach, another moment of California-style synchronicity occurs as I walk out of the laundromat and around the corner singing the Beatle's "With Love From Me to You", complete with Paul McCartney falsetto, and suddenly out of some North Beacher's abode comes another Fab Four song "Glass Onion" blasting out the window, and at that moment began to feel the oneness between myself and the city and everyone in this wonderful city.  Strolling through Little Italy on my way home on Veteran's Day, I felt a healthy sense of patriotism.  There were American flags rippling like a Hollywood movie picture against the setting sun sky.  American flags on buildings on my block and up the way on the Gothic rooftops of Knob Hill skyscrapers.  Then to remind us of our cultural diversity in this international melting pot, Chinese flags rippling against the pink sky in Chinatown, and Italian flags painted on every lamppost on my block.  

And so off I go on my busking trail.  Still some chores around the old hotel to take care of but then I will walk my way through Chinatown, through the Stockton Street "singing tunnel", and then off to an acoustically resonant underground railway station where I will tune up and play some fiddle music for the good people of SF.  I will probably end up in the Mission after awhile to check in with Classical Revolution, a twice a week classical music renegade experience and listen to some chamber music in the comfort of a coffee house.  Unless of course I catch busking fever which happens frequently and is a very welcomed sensation by yours truly.  Till next time friends, stay on your paths, as I will be on mine, and thank you for supporting your local buskers.  

The Busking Quest Continues-Reflections of ZEN

Back on the busking trail and feeling the true prize of busking more and more as the past couple days have unfolded themselves.  The true prize is the Zen.  That point in time when I am simply there.  Playing music, but almost outside of myself, observing myself playing the fiddle.  And then it happens...like a flash.  A sensation of total well-being.  I love to feel like a conduit for something greater.  The bigger picture.  The divine message.  Flowing through the universe, looking for open conduits to share the light.  It's wonderful when that moment happens.  I've learned new depths to my patience through busking...allowing any tense vibes or insecurities to float on by to make way for the good stuff.  The point in time where as a busker I can feel the oneness between myself, the people I am playing for and the people that I consider and think about when I am playing.  If I am fortunate, I can allow myself to be guided into a state of non-thinking.  There the music actually lives. I can then experience music as a language.  The universal language, as Music has become known.  I believe Music is the language that not only links all sentient beings but also other forces and beings in the universe.