10 IssuE 7 VERTIGO Road test: BUSKING worDs rAj wAkelinG
i get tired of hearing people carry on about the lack of talented buskers in Sydney’s Central Station tunnel. It’s easy enough to laugh, shove your fingers in your ears, or briskly walk on by, but are we so uncompassionate that we have to then head to class and whinge to our mates about it? Before you slag off Asian-puppet-man, or the over-zealouskeyboard-guy whose repertoire seems to consist entirely of female pop ballads, think about how awkward, intimidating, embarrassing, and downright demeaning it can be to do ANY- THING in a public forum. A singer by trade, I rocked up to my first busking gig with a dusty old saxophone, no sheet music and no neck strap. It had been seven years since I last blew a tune on that sax, and after this experience it will probably take me another seven years to build up the courage to do it again. Getting started was the hardest part, and I spent the first five minutes softly blowing warm air into the mouthpiece, vaguely remembering that was a good thing to do before you started playing for real. With my enduring photographer at the ready by the opposite wall of the tunnel, I already felt completely exposed to the judgmental eyes and ears of the morning commuters. I wasn’t even afforded the companionship of other buskers. Most had packed up and left following the 9am peak, leaving just me and didgeridoo-acoustic-guitar-man, who was all the way up the other end of the tunnel. There was nothing left to do but start honking. I worked my way up and down and up and down a C blues scale (the only scale I could remember, other than C major), throwing in some amateurish twiddly bits here and there, and occasionally letting rip with a high-pitched jazz wail that all too often ended in an even higher-pitched avant-garde squeek. I’m not sure whether it was the sheer embarrassment of the situation, or a vain attempt to convey some sense of emotion, but I realised after about ten minutes that I had been playing with my eyes closed the entire time. I broke the habit briefly, seeking out some eye contact with surly-trench-coat-man and thanks-but-no-thanks-hot-chick, before committing myself completely to arched-back, closed-eyes Kenny G mode. And then, from out of nowhere, came the sound that made the whole endeavour worthwhile, to the tune of three dollars and forty cents. I figured it was best not to sneak a peak at my satisfied customer—I didn’t want to ruin the vibe. Efforts validated, train ticket paid for, I decided to retire and leave the rest of the shrapnel to the real buskers of Sydney. So for one crummy blues scale across a measly half hour, at a slow time of the day, I made three dollars forty. At that rate I could have made $57.80 had I played for a full working day. That’s not going to get me lobster, but I wouldn’t go hungry if all I had to my name was my yakety sax. With that in mind, can we really begrudge those who do this everyday in the hope of scraping together a few extra bucks? Not to mention those who do it for the sheer delight of performing for anyone who cares to listen. . VERTIGO IssuE 7 11
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