My dearest Van Hammerheads! Your dark lord Van Hammersmith is here again, eating military hardtack crackers and drinking discount brand beer, dispensing opinions (not wisdom) and thoughts (not knowledge). I am very happy to announce that today I will be answering my first fresh question in YEARS. That's right, these past few questions have been from the archives, but my man Seamus has come to me at the very end of 2013 looking to hear what VH thinks.
Remember, I will answer your question too. Email me. My name is vanhammersmith. I am at hotmail.com. Just remember that I won't answer your email, but I might answer your question here on this website. And then, somehow, I will be your friend. Remember to like me on facebook and follow me on twitter, because I'm a goddamn social media whore.
Hey Van,
Your column is the tits, long time fan. I have a question for you. What is your take on busking? Have you had any experience with it youself and do you have any tips on where, when and what to play? I live in Santa Rosa, CA and just started experimenting with it myself. I have had some luck and managed to pull in about sixty bucks over a period of four sessions. I'm not doing it just for the money, more for the fun and experience of it, but it is still nice to pull in some extra cash if I can.
Looking forward to hearing your ideas,
Seamus.
Oh, Seamus. Yes, I have ideas, and yes, you are going to hear them, because you have joined a very special under-class of the human race. What would Karl Marx say about buskers? Probably something like each according to his available spare change, to each according to his ability to make you smile on a street corner.
Yes, you are going down, down among the classes. You will become either a talented dabbler in the "street arts," or just slightly above hobo status.
By the way, some of the most memorable buskers I've come across have been hobos. Although not proper hobos, because I've heard that "hobo" is actually based on the term "homeward bound," which suggests down-on-their-luck fellas hitching rides in box-cars across the continent with their shit wrapped up in a hanky tied to a stick, trying to get back to Whiskey Road, Arkansas where dear ol' Pa makes "Crazy Juice" in a barrel in the barn and there's a fresh young thing down the dirt road that will chase you with a shotgun for leaving her after that first roll in the hay, but then she'll remember why she fell in love with you in the first place: because you play the spoons better than any dumb bastard in three counties.
And you assholes are saying "Spoons?" And I'm like, yeah, spoons, dummies, because if you're busking, just about anything will pass for an instrument. I've seen guys with the most broken-down shit you can imagine out there playing. Half a tambourine. The old standing-shuffle-clap dance. Anything passes.
I remember one time I was working a day job as a shipping clerk. We kept the back door open because it was so hot in there, and there was some goof who stood at the corner of the block all the time playing a slide whistle. You know: deeeeyoooooooweeeeeeeyoooooooweeet. He knew "Amazing Grace" and I think a Christmas song. I no longer remember which one. The thing was, he was brutally horrible at it, and although he could usually eventually find each note, he had a the rhythm/timing/tempo/etc of a five year old after eating three pieces of birthday cake and a can of soda.
Imagine stupid little Timmy-Johnny standing there with pink frosting all over his face and his eyes bugging out, singing the song he knows for Gammy and Gramps: "AMAZINGGRACEHOWSWEETTHESOUNDTHATSAVEDAWRETCHLIKEMEEEEEEEEE!"
Now imagine this atrocity is being performed on a mickey-fickey slide whistle. We used to talk about what we wanted to do to that guy. Beating him to death with stuff was mentioned a lot, and as you can expect, we often speculated on whether he could play slide whistle using his farts after we shoved the thing deep up his ass. That's right. His ASS.
I also remember a guy who played a two string ukelele in front of a grocery store. I used to pass him on my walk home every day. Jolly fellow. The first time I saw him I was tripping on acid and he was wearing a top hat and had a long scary beard. I almost jumped out of my skin when he smiled at me. I thought the Ukelele Satan had come to claim my soul. He probably collected more coins after losing the freak-show outfit. But he didn't play songs. He just twiddled his last two remaining strings. I always thought, man, why not use some of that change to get some new strings? How much are ukelele strings? A dollar? But he probably wanted a beer with that dollar.
Thing is, he should have viewed that dollar as an invenstment. With better strings, maybe he would have sounded better, collected more coins, and been able to buy even more beers. But whatever, he's the pro.
So maybe, Seamus, you've ahead of the game just having a guitar. Although I've also seen buskers with good guitar rigs with no idea how to play. "Imma play G all night. Imma get rich." I knew a girl who wanted to learn guitar herself so she could go down and teach the busker on the corner near her apartment how to play another chord.
Anyway, here are Van's tips for busking. Liquor stores are all right, but a bit obvious. Grocery stores are good. Street corners in busy shopping districts. The obvious spots. Places with good foot traffic. Play stuff people will recognize, but not "Amazing Grace" and not Christmas songs all summer long. Classic rock. Beatles. Standards. Sing if you can, but if you sing badly, just play. If you play badly, don't got to the same place too often, or you'll get "This guy again?" attitude.
Smile. Smile like you love just playing. Smile and make eye contact with people, and let them know that you're there for the fun, not the money. And try not to look like a hobo, but also don't try to look like you're some rich dick-hole out having fun with the 'poors.'
I don't know what the busk scene is like in Santa Rosa. I only remember passing through that town once and stopping in a little bar, hungrier than hell, and asking to order food. They didn't serve food, but brought me a plastic cup with some popcorn in it to go with my beer. Oh well. That's life on the road. If Santa Rosa is like the rest of the world, just have a good time, look like you're having a good time, and try to make other people have a good time. That might make them want to give you some change.
Have I ever busked? Just once. Drunk. At a funeral. I was asked to leave.
By the way, if anyone wants to use "Drunk at a Funeral" as an album or song title, I think that would be pretty cool.
All right, everyone. Get your guitars and get out there. "But Van, it's cold out." I said GET OUT THERE! You've got music. They've got nickles and dimes. GO.
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