I rarely give money to buskers. I see them all the time. They get on the trains, usually with a little karaoke box and whatever instrument. Then out comes the hat. I've become quite skilled at blanking them actually. I just stare dead ahead like I'm deep in thought, even if they address me directly.
I take the commuter train occasionally, but not for work. That's because yours truly, Greg Grendle, doesn't have a job.
For me to even acknowledge buskers, they have to be very good or very shit. I once saw a guy who sang so bad and looked so miserable, it just cracked me up. There's a value in that so I gave him a coin.
I thought I'd give busking a try. Surely being a shit busker would require very little effort.
I have a mate that plays the violin. Sort of a mate anyway, his name's Steve. He drinks at my local. I gave him a call and he said to stop by. He lives on an estate up the road. Big old block with small windows and a concrete garden in front.
He opened the door and lead me through a narrow corridor to his room. Very neat and tidy. There was some classical music playing. The violin lay ready on the bed with its bow. He picked it up and handed it to me. Strange looking thing really. He said I could borrow it for a couple of weeks but if I damaged it he would, his words- 'smash my fucking face in.'
He wasn't joking. Steve might like a bit of classical but he's a scary bastard. Double hard and dead serious. I tried to lighten him up once with a bit of banter in the pub. I said that of all the instruments in an orchestra, the violin was easily the gayest. He didn't laugh but just stared at me. Then his mouth tightened and he went red, still staring. I knew he was pissed off so I just looked down at my pint. I could feel him staring at me.
Anyway, I pressed the violin into my neck and pushed my chin down on it. It looks quite big like that. I pulled the bow across the strings and the awful sound was instantly mirrored by Steve's face. I stopped.
He didn't have a spare case so I carried it in my hands as I left his flat. I came out of the lift and crossed the little garden. A bunch of kids was hanging out by the gate and as I approached one of them called out 'hello beethoven!' at which I gave them an ironic smile. Not so bad this estate I thought, until I got closer and one of them said 'giz a tune then cunt' and then as I walked off towards the gate the others began shouting obscenities at me. Cretins.
Once at home I was able to get some serious practice in. I never had music lessons as a kid but I think I've got a pretty good ear. It was nearly Christmas so I tried to figure out Silent Night. It actually took quite some time to figure out the beginning, so I didn't bother with the main part. I figured I could get away with just repeating the first bit.
-
I got myself out of bed the next morning and put on some trampish clothes. A woolen jumper, white shell-suit bottoms and a pair of black leather brogues, which were hardened and twisted like an old tree trunk. I didn't have any fingerless gloves, which would've been a nice touch, but a rotten old scarf completed the look nicely. I headed off for the train.
When I got to the platform there were quite a lot of people around even though the rush hour was long over. I stood waiting, violin in hand. I noticed that people on the platform were already moving away from me. The train rolled in. Through each window I saw all the miserable looking passengers, illuminated by the strip lights, hanging on to the greasy poles and overhead straps.
I stepped on to the carriage and found a good spot where there was just enough space for me to play. I put the violin under my chin, placed the bow on the strings and with a long, pitiful face, drew down slowly on the bow to play the first note.
As I did this the doors beep-beeped and then closed. As I stood in the middle of the carriage, already well into the silent night intro, the train jolted forward with all it's weight.
Funny, the one thing I hadn't considered, before this experiment, was, seeing that most musical instruments require two hands to play, how buskers manage to stand up while the train is moving?
I took off. It certainly felt like it anyway. I hit at least three people I think. One lady actually fell down to the floor and another guy into the people behind him.
The violin?
Fell on it. Crushed it with my forearm as I hit the floor.
-
I approached the estate. I had the remains in a plastic carrier bag. I told myself it was better to at least give him back what was left, and besides I didn't have the money to fix it. If that was possible, which honestly, it wasn't. At least he wouldn't think I'd nicked it.
I saw one of the kids hanging by the gates and had an idea. I approached and he turned to look at me. I held up the bag and offered him two quid if he would take it back to Steve.
'two quid, do you think I'm a little fucking kid or something'
He was. I sighed and pulled out a ten pound note.
It was after all better than taking a chance and having my face smashed in. Needless to say I haven't been to my local for a while, but then, this was far more interesting than sitting in the pub. Good work.
Thursday 10 December 2009
Tuesday 1 December 2009
Aragorn Love Machine
Just the other day I was hanging out at a Jon's place. Pretty typical really. 3 in the afternoon, curtains drawn and the TV flickering in the smoke. Every now and then we rolled a joint or made some tea.
Jon had just put on a DVD and I thought recognised the guy in the film. He stood tall and straight. Majestically even. He was Muscular. He had long flowing hair and an angular, stubble flecked jaw.
I was sure it was him.
‘that’s whatsisname' I said.
Jon looked at me and said 'what?'
I pointed at the screen.
‘Aragorn, son of Arathorn.’
We watched.
I tried to imagine him with a sword, wearing a cloak and an amulet. I say tried to imagine, because in this particular film he was totally naked and thrusting into the behind of a women whose facial expression flashed between shock and indignation.
We waited, for quite some time, for another shot of his face. When it appeared, snarling, euphoric, we both sat forward.
It wasn't him. But it got me thinking- What must it be like to be famous?
I decided that it was time for a little adventure. It was after all only 3 in the afternoon. I was going to dress up like a disguised superstar and check people's reaction.
Jon dug out a pair of shades. Big black ones, perfect. It was a typically grey afternoon so I'd definitely stand out. Next was a black winter scarf. It was in no way cold outside. Jon was surprisingly good at this actually. It seemed to give him a sense of purpose for a few minutes.
I wrapped the scarf high up around my neck so it covered the lower part of my face. The look was just great. I headed off down to the local shops.
On the way I tried to put on a suspicious, slightly hounded sort of air. I think it was pretty authentic because I noticed plenty of people staring at me as they passed in their cars. One guy even gave me a double toot and called out something that was muffled by his car windows.
The first stop was the newsagents. There was nobody else in there when I walked in apart from the guy behind the counter. A haggard old guy with a 40-a-day face. He fixed a humourless, puzzled stare on me.
'Cold out is it?' he said
I chose to ignore this and picked up a gossip magazine from beside the counter.
'That's all' I said, with what I hoped was an air of celeb authority.
'three quid' he said and held out his hand. I could see that his eyes narrowed like he was trying to see through my shades. That's celeb, I said to myself.
Next up was the bakers.
This time the old lady recognised me immediately as I walked in.
'Everything alright Greg?' she asked
OK, I do know her. Being recognised, however is very celeb so I decided the best thing to do was make a quick exit. Without saying a word I crashed out of the shop and ran off, leaving the door shaking behind me.
I stopped a little up the highstreet and looked around. I wondered if anyone famous would live in a suburb like this. A high street full of pound shops. Crap everywhere. Seemed unlikely.
I decided to go back. Leave it to the pros. I'd get Jon to rewind the DVD, and perhaps make some more tea. Nice.
Jon had just put on a DVD and I thought recognised the guy in the film. He stood tall and straight. Majestically even. He was Muscular. He had long flowing hair and an angular, stubble flecked jaw.
I was sure it was him.
‘that’s whatsisname' I said.
Jon looked at me and said 'what?'
I pointed at the screen.
‘Aragorn, son of Arathorn.’
We watched.
I tried to imagine him with a sword, wearing a cloak and an amulet. I say tried to imagine, because in this particular film he was totally naked and thrusting into the behind of a women whose facial expression flashed between shock and indignation.
We waited, for quite some time, for another shot of his face. When it appeared, snarling, euphoric, we both sat forward.
It wasn't him. But it got me thinking- What must it be like to be famous?
I decided that it was time for a little adventure. It was after all only 3 in the afternoon. I was going to dress up like a disguised superstar and check people's reaction.
Jon dug out a pair of shades. Big black ones, perfect. It was a typically grey afternoon so I'd definitely stand out. Next was a black winter scarf. It was in no way cold outside. Jon was surprisingly good at this actually. It seemed to give him a sense of purpose for a few minutes.
I wrapped the scarf high up around my neck so it covered the lower part of my face. The look was just great. I headed off down to the local shops.
On the way I tried to put on a suspicious, slightly hounded sort of air. I think it was pretty authentic because I noticed plenty of people staring at me as they passed in their cars. One guy even gave me a double toot and called out something that was muffled by his car windows.
The first stop was the newsagents. There was nobody else in there when I walked in apart from the guy behind the counter. A haggard old guy with a 40-a-day face. He fixed a humourless, puzzled stare on me.
'Cold out is it?' he said
I chose to ignore this and picked up a gossip magazine from beside the counter.
'That's all' I said, with what I hoped was an air of celeb authority.
'three quid' he said and held out his hand. I could see that his eyes narrowed like he was trying to see through my shades. That's celeb, I said to myself.
Next up was the bakers.
This time the old lady recognised me immediately as I walked in.
'Everything alright Greg?' she asked
OK, I do know her. Being recognised, however is very celeb so I decided the best thing to do was make a quick exit. Without saying a word I crashed out of the shop and ran off, leaving the door shaking behind me.
I stopped a little up the highstreet and looked around. I wondered if anyone famous would live in a suburb like this. A high street full of pound shops. Crap everywhere. Seemed unlikely.
I decided to go back. Leave it to the pros. I'd get Jon to rewind the DVD, and perhaps make some more tea. Nice.
Wednesday 25 November 2009
Squeaking Trolley Lady
Yesterday afternoon, I decided to follow an old lady pulling a squeaking trolley.
I heard her coming as we approached each other on the high street. That baby was loud let me tell you. OK, perhaps I'm exaggerating. I do that. It was however a clearly audible, repetitive, whining squeak. Slow, like the lady.
Her trolley was just perfect. It's going to sound like a really clichéd trolley- two plastic wheels on a metal frame with a blue tartan, upright bag. That's how it was. She pulled it behind her.
What must it be like I thought, to walk about so slowly with this squeak in your ears. Unless she was deaf of course, which admittedly was a possibility.
I suppose the most authentic experiment conditions would have been to find my own squeaking trolley, but, you know. I decided to follow her along the high street and stay as close as possible.
First of all the pace was pretty tricky. I walk fast, and it felt uncomfortable to be moving so slowly. Especially as I was within touching distance of the old lady. Luckily there were shop windows just beside us so I could occasionally look into them, not forgetting of course, to concentrate on the squeak.
We plodded on and then she turned off into a side road. It was a quiet little street and suddenly our proximity seemed a bit strange. She seemed to become more aware of me because her head kept turning to the side a little. I got my mobile out and started fiddling around. There's just nothing like it for those tricky situations. While doing this I sensed her stop, turn around and look at me. I kept my head down and she eventually turned back again and carried on walking. I followed.
We walked a little further and then she caught me off guard. She turned around quickly and we came face to face. Not knowing what to do I decided to pull that chaplinesque move of just looking away like there's nothing happening. OK not really, that's a bit childish. It would have been great though wouldn't it.
I just said excuse me and walked around her. I'd had a good few minutes to feel the experience. Most interesting.
I heard her coming as we approached each other on the high street. That baby was loud let me tell you. OK, perhaps I'm exaggerating. I do that. It was however a clearly audible, repetitive, whining squeak. Slow, like the lady.
Her trolley was just perfect. It's going to sound like a really clichéd trolley- two plastic wheels on a metal frame with a blue tartan, upright bag. That's how it was. She pulled it behind her.
What must it be like I thought, to walk about so slowly with this squeak in your ears. Unless she was deaf of course, which admittedly was a possibility.
I suppose the most authentic experiment conditions would have been to find my own squeaking trolley, but, you know. I decided to follow her along the high street and stay as close as possible.
First of all the pace was pretty tricky. I walk fast, and it felt uncomfortable to be moving so slowly. Especially as I was within touching distance of the old lady. Luckily there were shop windows just beside us so I could occasionally look into them, not forgetting of course, to concentrate on the squeak.
We plodded on and then she turned off into a side road. It was a quiet little street and suddenly our proximity seemed a bit strange. She seemed to become more aware of me because her head kept turning to the side a little. I got my mobile out and started fiddling around. There's just nothing like it for those tricky situations. While doing this I sensed her stop, turn around and look at me. I kept my head down and she eventually turned back again and carried on walking. I followed.
We walked a little further and then she caught me off guard. She turned around quickly and we came face to face. Not knowing what to do I decided to pull that chaplinesque move of just looking away like there's nothing happening. OK not really, that's a bit childish. It would have been great though wouldn't it.
I just said excuse me and walked around her. I'd had a good few minutes to feel the experience. Most interesting.
Train food
The other day I saw a fat guy eating on the train.
I love it when you see fat people eating. It just makes sense.
So anyway, there he was, sitting on one of the pull down seats. He was pretty fat. I mean, not massive, but just fat enough to squeeze into a pigeon hole labelled 'glutton'. Rather than, say, 'businessman on the move'. Saying that he didn't look out of place in this suburb.
There was his choice of food as well- Kebab and chips, in a flip-top carton.
The people around him seemed a bit pissed off by the pungent, fat and onions smell, which, lets be honest, can be pretty enticing at times.
The carriage was busy. I was standing up. The lady sitting next to him was definitely ticked off by the smell. The expression 'ticked off' came to mind there because of the way she kept sniffing and scrunching up the side of her face.
I felt like it was time for an adventure, and, I'll be honest, the fat and onions smell had sunk it's hooks into my stomach. I got off the train at the next stop and headed for a kebab shop. There's always a kebab place near the station so I knew it would be a doddle to find one. Sure enough, when I came out onto the street there was one right there.
Lamb Kebab, Chips and a can of Fanta. Cooked before my eyes and placed in a plastic bag, as fine as silk.
I got back on the train and found a good spot on a pull-down. Most of the other seats were taken. The fat and onions smell had already started to fill the carriage as I opened the bag. I pushed in the tab on the carton, the top flipped up, light as air, and the smell hit the other passangers square on the nose.
Now I had to decide on some conditions for this experiment. Namely, what kind of behaviour was appropriate.
Indignant: looking people flat in the face while loading strips of meat into my mouth.
Or apologetic: delicately picking out chips, humble-faced.
I go for the middle ground and attack the kebab while keeping eye contact to a minimum.
I hear some tutting over to my left. I keep chewing. When I look up I notice a few people looking at me. I take another bite and look back down to the ground. I notice a strip of onion stick to my shoe. Another bite. People get on at the next station and a guy stops near me. I can tell he's watching me. Strange how we can tell. I keep chewing.
I move on to the chips and start to get the heavy stomach. It's a nice but slightly guilty feeling. My throat feels a bit greasy so I crack open the Fanta to freshen up.
Yes, A most interesting experiment.
I love it when you see fat people eating. It just makes sense.
So anyway, there he was, sitting on one of the pull down seats. He was pretty fat. I mean, not massive, but just fat enough to squeeze into a pigeon hole labelled 'glutton'. Rather than, say, 'businessman on the move'. Saying that he didn't look out of place in this suburb.
There was his choice of food as well- Kebab and chips, in a flip-top carton.
The people around him seemed a bit pissed off by the pungent, fat and onions smell, which, lets be honest, can be pretty enticing at times.
The carriage was busy. I was standing up. The lady sitting next to him was definitely ticked off by the smell. The expression 'ticked off' came to mind there because of the way she kept sniffing and scrunching up the side of her face.
I felt like it was time for an adventure, and, I'll be honest, the fat and onions smell had sunk it's hooks into my stomach. I got off the train at the next stop and headed for a kebab shop. There's always a kebab place near the station so I knew it would be a doddle to find one. Sure enough, when I came out onto the street there was one right there.
Lamb Kebab, Chips and a can of Fanta. Cooked before my eyes and placed in a plastic bag, as fine as silk.
I got back on the train and found a good spot on a pull-down. Most of the other seats were taken. The fat and onions smell had already started to fill the carriage as I opened the bag. I pushed in the tab on the carton, the top flipped up, light as air, and the smell hit the other passangers square on the nose.
Now I had to decide on some conditions for this experiment. Namely, what kind of behaviour was appropriate.
Indignant: looking people flat in the face while loading strips of meat into my mouth.
Or apologetic: delicately picking out chips, humble-faced.
I go for the middle ground and attack the kebab while keeping eye contact to a minimum.
I hear some tutting over to my left. I keep chewing. When I look up I notice a few people looking at me. I take another bite and look back down to the ground. I notice a strip of onion stick to my shoe. Another bite. People get on at the next station and a guy stops near me. I can tell he's watching me. Strange how we can tell. I keep chewing.
I move on to the chips and start to get the heavy stomach. It's a nice but slightly guilty feeling. My throat feels a bit greasy so I crack open the Fanta to freshen up.
Yes, A most interesting experiment.
Desert Aisle
I tend to go to the supermarket in the afternoon. There are fewer people about bacause they're all working. I'm not. I like to look out for discounted items close to their sell-by-date. There's just nothing like a bargain, and besides, a dole check only goes so far. I'll be honest with you, occasionally I drop things into to pocket if there's nobody around. Every little helps.
A couple of weeks ago I was struck by a strange sight when I turned into the frozen food aisle. A girl was facing the large open freezers, quite close, with her eyes closed. She wasn't holding her hands out towards the freezer as you might expect, but kept her arms straight by her sides. Her trolley waited a few feet away in the middle of the aisle.
I paused for a few seconds, expecting her eyes to pop open, but she just carried on standing there. She looked about 40 and wore a business suit, although her long wavy hair wasn't quite neat enough to fit the look.
As I started to walk towards her she must have sensed me because she opened her eyes. She seemed a little startled, but actually, now I think of it, not really. She just turned back to her trolley and continued down the aisle.
-
This afternoon I was back at the same supermarket. It was pretty quiet. I was in the large freezer aisle again and though about the lady.
I walked over to the her spot and looked down into the freezer. It was full of lightly misted, multi-coloured packet-meals. I picked up a frozen lasagne and dropped it into my trolley. Then I looked around and seeing as there was nobody I decided to close my eyes for a few seconds. It felt strange at first and after a second or two I reopened them. I called myself a pussy and tried again.
Eyes closed. There was still a glow from the powerful overhead lights, giving me that strange kind of vision that is black and white at the same time. I became more aware of the piped-in music, also coming from high up in the ceiling. Typically banal classical music. Surely she wasn't listing to that. I tried to ignore it.
The feel of the cool air was there but not strong. It gave a false freshness to the aisle.
I kept my eyes closed for what seemed like ages. The background music started slowly fading behind the hum of the open freezer. It seemed to get louder and louder. It was deep and rich, with a slight bass vibration. Very nice.
It started to feel like several minutes, but I just stood there listening. The sound was changing. It began to resonate like a digeridoo. I no longer felt strange to be standing there. Then I heard someone coming so I opend my eyes and carried on up the aisle.
That was about it really, but it made me think. Maybe there were some interesting experiences to be had in this boring suburb. I mean, it really is boring, but you never know.
A couple of weeks ago I was struck by a strange sight when I turned into the frozen food aisle. A girl was facing the large open freezers, quite close, with her eyes closed. She wasn't holding her hands out towards the freezer as you might expect, but kept her arms straight by her sides. Her trolley waited a few feet away in the middle of the aisle.
I paused for a few seconds, expecting her eyes to pop open, but she just carried on standing there. She looked about 40 and wore a business suit, although her long wavy hair wasn't quite neat enough to fit the look.
As I started to walk towards her she must have sensed me because she opened her eyes. She seemed a little startled, but actually, now I think of it, not really. She just turned back to her trolley and continued down the aisle.
-
This afternoon I was back at the same supermarket. It was pretty quiet. I was in the large freezer aisle again and though about the lady.
I walked over to the her spot and looked down into the freezer. It was full of lightly misted, multi-coloured packet-meals. I picked up a frozen lasagne and dropped it into my trolley. Then I looked around and seeing as there was nobody I decided to close my eyes for a few seconds. It felt strange at first and after a second or two I reopened them. I called myself a pussy and tried again.
Eyes closed. There was still a glow from the powerful overhead lights, giving me that strange kind of vision that is black and white at the same time. I became more aware of the piped-in music, also coming from high up in the ceiling. Typically banal classical music. Surely she wasn't listing to that. I tried to ignore it.
The feel of the cool air was there but not strong. It gave a false freshness to the aisle.
I kept my eyes closed for what seemed like ages. The background music started slowly fading behind the hum of the open freezer. It seemed to get louder and louder. It was deep and rich, with a slight bass vibration. Very nice.
It started to feel like several minutes, but I just stood there listening. The sound was changing. It began to resonate like a digeridoo. I no longer felt strange to be standing there. Then I heard someone coming so I opend my eyes and carried on up the aisle.
That was about it really, but it made me think. Maybe there were some interesting experiences to be had in this boring suburb. I mean, it really is boring, but you never know.
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