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.  

North Beach Busking Base

Here I sit in my North Beach home.  I live in a hotel room in the Little Italy section of San Francisco.  I have a turret room, that is to say a round room that sits on the corner of a three way intersection.  It's my "tower of song" as Leonard Cohen might see it.  Chinatown is essentially across the street from my turret.  Off in the distance through one window I see Russian Hill, through another window I see Knob Hill, the next window over I see downtown with the magnificent and sometimes even mystical Trans-American Pyramid at the dead end of my street, and the next window over I can see Telegraph Hill where the Coit Tower overlooks both the Golden Gate Bridge and the Bay Bridge with impressive views of Angel Island and Alcatraz.  All these great views from my little turret.

Little Italy is a nice place to live.  Lots of Italian and French/Italian bakerys, outdoor dining, and plenty of gelato places where I like to treat myself to the occasional sorbeto.  Lots of cafes and Italian restaurants and countless places to get a delicious slice of pizza.  People visit this neighborhood from all over the world and I've been very happy to call this neighborhood home for the last seven months.  I work pretty hard sometimes to make the bills as a busker, and rent is not exactly cheap in San Francisco, but this is a beautiful neighborhood to live in and is a motivating force in my daily efforts as a busker.  If I ever need more motivation, I just take a walk around my neighborhood.  Climb up Telegraph Hill and stare at the Bay and the two "great bridges."  Then wind my way down the bay-side of the hill where there are lush gardens with gigantic flowers, plants and rosebushes that look like they came from outer-space.  Then I remember one of the reasons that I am working hard.  To maintain a happy life in a vibrant neighborhood such as North Beach is definitely a goal that keeps me pushing forward.  When I wake up and see awesome architecture like the gothic buildings on Knob Hill and the imposing skyscrapers of downtown being lit my the morning sun busting through a veil of ocean fog, I am happy to be here and to start another day.

I live on the corner of Stockton, Green and Columbus.  Typically, I start my busking day with a walk through Chinatown which begins right across the street.  It's always a stimulating and colorful walk and sometimes even a bit of a challenge to work my way up the street past throngs of Chinese people buying and selling fruit, fish and everything else imaginable, pouring out of stores and into the street.  By the time I hit the Stockton Tunnel, which I call the "singing tunnel," I am usually a bit relieved to get out of the crowd.  Sometimes I grab a cheap black bean roll as a snack while I am walking.  I like bakeries of ALL nationalities, and their are no shortage of Italian, French, Chinese, Mexican bakeries plus a plethora of "Ma and Pop" donut shops.   It's hard not to sing when you walk through the "singing tunnel."  The acoustics are so great!  Late at night I like to sing doo-wop a cappella classics from my teenage years of a cappella singing.  A few weeks ago I recorded a super-falsetto version of the Lion Sleeps Tonight with my Macbook flipped open and since it was late night post busking, only a couple cars went wooshing by and I got a funny recording.  

When I get through the tunnel I am downtown in the financial district.  A couple blocks later I am walking through Union Square where I usually see my friend Ron Coolidge playing his trumpet on the corner.  He's the one who introduced me to North Beach in the first place.  I was staying at the Fisherman's Wharf hostel, desperately craving some privacy and needing more sufficient rest then the hostel would allow, and I ran into Ron one night while I was out busking.  He was playing his trumpet with such precision and great tone, with the command of a classical musician.  At first, I just listened to him for about twenty minutes or so.  Then after I tipped him and we got to talking, he told me about all these hotels in North Beach where people were living.  I moved into the Hotel Europa the very next day and have been in the neighborhood ever since.

A couple blocks past Ron's corner at the park I am at Market Street and ready to go underground and see what the happenings are in the BART(Bay Area Rapid Transit) station.  If it's quiet when I get downstairs my adrenaline starts pumping a bit as I know there is probably an open spot and it is time for my next show to begin.  I get as excited as I can about sharing my music and hope that my enthusiasm is contagious.  I crack my case, rosin my bow and tune my fiddle.  I keep a lucky two dollar bill in my case for bait and begin to play the best that I can.

I leave the rest to fate.