1.09.2004
bad street performers
i like street musicians to be as lousy as possible. at least 95% of the time (the guy who used to play ennio morricone-ish guitar/flute at the L stop when i lived in brooklyn is the badass exception to this). back then, there was this guy that used to be out on 8th avenue every day. i'd walk past him on break from the worst job of my entire life, and the scene would look something like this...
he'd be moderately well dressed in a sport jacket and slacks that were easily 30 years old. tweed and earth toned-- tragic-comic in a way that evoked old hollywood. his gray hair was curly-- adding much to his harpo-marx-hobo breed of aura. he had a leathery face, but remained strangely innocent, as well as virtually expressionless. he seemed unaware of, or indifferent to, anyone around him. and he seemed equally indifferent to money.
his instrument was-- more or less-- the drums, which consisted of a functional snare and high hat, as well as a series of rusty pots and pans. i don't think he ever even hit the pots and pans, actually. instead, he'd just bang away on the snare and use the high hat as an occasional crash, usually three in a row (ratt-a-tat-tatta-rat-tat crash! crash! crash!, over and over and over again).
this man could clearly not play the drums. a co-worker once said that he played like someone who had forgotten how to play correctly, but i don't buy it. he sounded like me horseing around on my friend ed's set in high school (i could hardly even pull off the kick/snare intro to gnr's "paradise city," to contextualize). instead it became one of these strange instances of brilliant absurdity. perhaps not unlike the tantrum of a homeless man, but self-contained and mildly dignified. a refreshingly spontanteous rupture into what would otherwise be a fifteen minute oasis in a desert of deep, deep employment banality (i.e. my work break). but that's another story...
i think the bar is set a bit lower, here in philly, on street musicians. in new york the dynamic was an either/or of professionalism or bat-shit insanity (to borrow a phrase from jon stewart). in philly, you have people who are assumedly learning how to play in public. instead of the other-worldy appeal of rhythymless harpo marx, you are forced to maintain a strange sympathy to such a performer. the appeal is more nostalgic, since the gesture is more child-like. today, i walked by a man on my way to the train playing awkward, abbreviated trombone. it took me a minute to figure out that what i was hearing was intended to be music. and then, a few seconds later, i recognized the song. it was bob dylan's "blowing in the wind." that's about the most interesting thing that's happened in my life today.
he'd be moderately well dressed in a sport jacket and slacks that were easily 30 years old. tweed and earth toned-- tragic-comic in a way that evoked old hollywood. his gray hair was curly-- adding much to his harpo-marx-hobo breed of aura. he had a leathery face, but remained strangely innocent, as well as virtually expressionless. he seemed unaware of, or indifferent to, anyone around him. and he seemed equally indifferent to money.
his instrument was-- more or less-- the drums, which consisted of a functional snare and high hat, as well as a series of rusty pots and pans. i don't think he ever even hit the pots and pans, actually. instead, he'd just bang away on the snare and use the high hat as an occasional crash, usually three in a row (ratt-a-tat-tatta-rat-tat crash! crash! crash!, over and over and over again).
this man could clearly not play the drums. a co-worker once said that he played like someone who had forgotten how to play correctly, but i don't buy it. he sounded like me horseing around on my friend ed's set in high school (i could hardly even pull off the kick/snare intro to gnr's "paradise city," to contextualize). instead it became one of these strange instances of brilliant absurdity. perhaps not unlike the tantrum of a homeless man, but self-contained and mildly dignified. a refreshingly spontanteous rupture into what would otherwise be a fifteen minute oasis in a desert of deep, deep employment banality (i.e. my work break). but that's another story...
i think the bar is set a bit lower, here in philly, on street musicians. in new york the dynamic was an either/or of professionalism or bat-shit insanity (to borrow a phrase from jon stewart). in philly, you have people who are assumedly learning how to play in public. instead of the other-worldy appeal of rhythymless harpo marx, you are forced to maintain a strange sympathy to such a performer. the appeal is more nostalgic, since the gesture is more child-like. today, i walked by a man on my way to the train playing awkward, abbreviated trombone. it took me a minute to figure out that what i was hearing was intended to be music. and then, a few seconds later, i recognized the song. it was bob dylan's "blowing in the wind." that's about the most interesting thing that's happened in my life today.
