A BRIEF HISTORY OF BUSKING: FROM YONKS TO YIKES

1860 ORGAN GRINDER

Buskers, such as I, have been around for yonks. The term, busking, was first coined (pun intended) in the 1860s, from the Spanish, buscar (to seek), in reference to the Roma as they trekked along the Mediterranean Coast, singing and playing their lutes and harps for the Spanish and French and any others who would listen along their way.

Whenever I busk, I stand as a proud member of the buskerhood (pun intended), having an aggregate of antecessors:

In 11^th Century Russia, we were known as the Skomorokh.

SKOMOROKH

We, Bhavai, a popular folk theatre in India and Pakistan, have a 700-year history.

BHAVAI

In Medieval France we were known as Troubadours and Jongleurs.

TROUBADOURS

In Old Germany, we were the Minnesingers and Spielleute.

MINNESINGERS

We were the Chindon’ya in mid 19^th Century Japan.

CHINDON'YA

In Mexico we were, and still are, the Mariachis.

MARIACHIS

And Christmastime we are still A-Wassailing. Figgy pudding, anyone?!

WASSAILING

Buskers take many shapes and setups. I have seen puppeteers, knife throwers, living statues, keyboard players, accordion players, face-painters, freestyle rappers, print sellers, poetasters, magicians, ouija board readers and taro card readers. The popular pitches for these buskers tend to be in public places having large volumes of pedestrian traffic, subways, train stations, and urban parks.

LIVING STATUE 

My business model for busking is as follows.

I tend to loll always somewhere outdoors, usually in front of a vendor or in a park, either around noon hour or suppertime. Cap-a-pie, I am hatless with tousled hair, wearing either a white long-sleeved collared shirt or t-shirt, faded blue jeans, and leather work boots.

I strum my guitar whilst blowing my harp, but sometimes I play my banjo. Other times I play my didgeridoo. And when I am weary of making music (Yes, it happens!), I just take out my pencil and sketchpad and draw people’s portraits.

DRAWING IN MARRAKESH

When I am busking some people, especially dance, will dance to my songs. Some people want selfies, some people want to play my guitar (which is not always a grrrr), some people just to chitter-chatter. 

The times they are a changin.’ The artisti di strada have been performing for yonks, but nowadays some of our ilk are ditching the street to test-drive the toll roads on the information superhighway. These cyber buskers are uploading their selfie-videos to YouTube, and then wait for the consumer cryptocurrency deposits to their PayPal accounts. I am not a cyber busker, but I will neither besmirch nor belaud those of us who are. I am just an old-school busker thrumming at the nexus between time past and time future.

YIKES.

BUSKING IN AMSTERDAM MANY YEARS AGO

BUSKING IN MARRAKESH

 

ALL GOOD THINGS MUST COME TO AN END: BY HOOK OR BY CROOK OR BY THE AMERICAN VOTER

 

ON PUMPKIN WAY, WASCANA CENTRE

Hallowe’en pumpkins have come to an end, and so has my guitar busking come to an end. I am not a brutto-tempo busker. When the Canadian winds blow cold, my busking is fini until springtime.

Sad? Yes and no.

“All good things must come to an end” (Geoffrey Chaucer, 1374). Like reading the last page of a good book, or like watching the very last episode of a popular television series, good things do end. This I know from personal experience.

In my efflorescent academic youth, I was a member of the Time-Life Book Club. Each month a little-known work by a great author, or a great work by a little-known author, arrived in my mailbox. This was the norm for a few years until one day the books just quitting coming. Was I a delinquent account? Nope. Was there a mailing glitch? Nope. Factoid: I had completed the series. Time-Life had no more books (for me). I had run and read the course. I was stunned.

My wife and I used to have the weekly ritual of watching The Mary Tyler Moore Show. We did this for years. And then one week it was gone. Unbeknown to us, we had watched the last episode. The Mary Tyler Moore Show was fini, and we were stunned.

Personally, these examples are cheesy. On a universal scale, too, all good things must come to an end. Things such as relationships in love and life stages come to an end.

All romantic relationships, from puppy love ‘til death do us part, end. Love is a powerful emotion, and when it ends, figuratively and literally, it is heart breaking. And what becomes of the broken hearted? All the people I know who have had broken hearts move on to break other hearts. Alas, my puppy-love heart ached when it was sayonara to Saffron, sayonara to Fronteen, sayonara to Maria, sayonara to Suzanne et al et al et al. These were salad puppy loves, but even the most endearing and complete loving relationships end. All lovers eventually succumb. Such is life. Such is death.   

I wish I had a time machine. There are days I pine for when my kids were little. I fondly remember being a much younger parent, traipsing about with my kids in outdoor minus 30-degree weather, trudging through the snowbanks helping them to deliver their flyers. I fondly remember the walking along the beaches in plus 30-degree weather, just beachcombing and looking for shells. I remember our endless summers together. And then it ended.

MY TIME MACHINE WOULD TAKE ME BACK TO MOMENTS SUCH AS THIS!

My kids are now grown and gone. My two oldest live in British Columbia. My third oldest lives in my city, Regina. And my youngest lives in Asia. Still we gather in summer, though not nearly as for long as those days gone by. I feel lucky to get just a week together to hike, and even luckier, too, to get together for a couple days of beachcombing.

Naturally, at my age existential dread is commonplace. Now, in the winter of my life, I am very aware that I’ve more years behind me than in front, and I worry about that. But my existential dread goes beyond that of egoism. Murmuring, sotto voce, I worry about my adult children. I worry, I worry, I worry. I worry about their relationships. I worry about their physical health. And I even worry about their financial health.

To live is to suffer is the skinny of Zen. Zen suffering means that every moment that one is breathing is an opportunity to suffer, to fret, or to be distressed about something. Suffering ends upon death.

To specifically suffer over my children is the product of evolutionary psychology, that goes along with loving my children. Evolutionary psychology, our creative design, is oblique. Evolutionary psychology dictates that our only reason for being, is to procreate and continue the species. Suffering over children is an evolutionary safeguard to help keep them safe, so that they, too, can procreate and continue the species.

Yes. My existential dread becomes more conspicuous as I age. Hmmm. Though this does not feel like a good thing for me, I suppose it ought to be catalogued as a good thing for my offspring. Like all things related, this dread will end when I end.

Yes. All good things must come to an end. 

Factoid: All good and bad things must come to an end. But whether things are good or whether things are bad is a very subjective call, depending on one's perspective. Of course, for Kamala Harris and Tim Walz et al, the good things have come to an end.

KAMALA AND TIM

But for Donald Trump and J.D. Vance et al, the good things have just begun.

On this topic, I must channel James Carville (1992): 

It's not the candidate -- It's the economy, stupid! 

(Whatever the perspective, kudos to anyone who runs for public office, for they do so at the real risk of being publicly ridiculed or besmirched. Even if some campaigns are that ilk of a circus or a sideshow, the act of voting is the beating heart of a democracy.)

DONALD AND J.D.

Meanwhile back at the buskspot, the Great Pumpkin has come to an end, and the Mountain Magic is about to begin!

MISSION RIDGE SKI RESORT, SASKATCHEWAN

 

 

 

 

THE CRAZIES: AND NOT JUST ON HALLOWE'EN!

 

DANCING BOB

Walking to work on the north shore of Wascana Lake this morning, for ten or so minutes I was in lockstep alongside this huffing heavyweight adult woman who was puffing a lit cigarette held in her right hand, whilst guzzling a Big Gulp held in her left.

“Really?!” I thought to myself. But is it any of my business that she smokes? Only if I am puffing second-hand smoke, I suppose, but this was not the case. We were outdoors in the wind. And who am I to be commenting on that giant 300 calorie fountain drink she was quaffing? Just because I never indulge, does not mean Big Gulps are not good (for her).

Wascana Lake is the spectacular heartbeat of my city, Regina, in Saskatchewan, Canada. Factoid: I am a thrice-daily consumer of the paved path surrounding the lake, which is also shared by cyclists, runners, skateboarders, and even dancers. In summertime I run ‘round the lake on the path in the morning, I cycle ‘round the lake on the path over the noon hour, and I walk ‘round the lake on the path every evening. My point in this essay will not be how much exercise I get on that path, but rather, how many familiar strangers I meet and judge on these exploits. And I shall write how they physically appear, and what I imagine them to be thinking. Pathetic huh (pun intended)!

Could it be that my inductive slice-of-life thumbnail sketches represent anything substantial? Or will they just simply project some of my shallow biases? With the latter notion being the more likely, I shall even attach subjectively corny nicknames to add to such superficiality! Notez bien, dear readers, that all the undermentioned peoples acknowledged in this essay are real, and any likeness to any of them is by design, and not by coincidence.

Practically every occasion I am at the lake, a Paul Bunyan look-a-like rides by on his ten-speed. I am thinking he must ride this circuit a hundred times a day. He is a giant of a man, riding full-out on his Tour de Wascana, donning ‘neath his flashy helmet and over-size goggles, a colorful garb of a cycle jersey, bib, shorts, long socks, and clip-in shoes. Bunyan’s riding costume girdles and yet at the same time draws direct attention to his broad bulge bursting through his tight-fitting attire. What I see is a blur of obesity swooshing by on his skinny ten-speed, frantically pedaling in a hope to lose a very large number of belly pounds.  

And there is Eric Von Zipper, of ‘60s beach party movies fame, on his green electric bike. Eric has that hog-rider look, a Nazi helmet on his noggin, while donning a black leather biker jacket, cut-off blue jeans, and leather work boots. Von Zipper, having always a lit cigarette hanging on his lower lip, hence the nickname, is quite the auditory spectacle as he glides around in the country music blast emitting from a boombox attached to the back fender of his bike. Whenever I see Eric Von Zipper, I imagine him to be a delusional Easy Rider cosplay. By his dress and demeanor, I do believe that Von Zipper cannot afford a Harley, but despite this economic deficiency, fancies himself to be this hell-on-wheels, electrifying badass.

The Dingalings on their fat bikes are frequent riders of the park. With their matching bicycles and matching costumes, prompt me to believe they are a married couple. But coupled or not, this middle-aged hard-to-like duo is truly a couple of dingle-bells, literally. They ring their bicycle bells continually when they are pedaling behind pedestrians strolling along the path. Rather than ride around people, they ding-a-ling-a-ling until those in front step off the path to let them pass. Decked out in their gaudy garments, these Dingalings treadle about with unbound entitlement.   

Immortan Joe, the inline skater, is straight out of a Mad Max movie! Cap-a-pie, he sports a Mohawk hairdo, shirtless with a tattooed upper torso, and wears only bikini briefs. In zig-zag fashion, he towers over everyone on the path. This skeletal Immortan Joe is well over six feet tall, and on his roller blades, he is close to seven feet. Immortan Joe never slows down. Every time he passes by is like a brush with death. When I see Immortan Joe I see an exhibitionist plying and crying for attention.

Most everyone in Regina is familiar with Dancing Bob, who is pictured atop this blog entry. A celebrity in his own right, Dancing Bob has run (and lost) for Mayor in the civic election four years ago and is running again for the mayors this year. (Dancing Bob’s main platform was that Wi-Fi was the product of an international deep-state collusion of distress created to profit pharmaceuticals everywhere on the planet.) Wherever there is a crowd, there will be Dancing Bob. Bob and his entourage of conspiracy-theory rounders are a summer evening constant, an ever entertainment party, grooving and jiving and banging to the many passers-by. But belie the clamorous beats of canned music is Dancing Bob’s group-think propaganda of fake news, solar geoengineering, weather modification, poison jabs, chemtrails, and a host of other conspiracy theories.

And then we have Karaoke Elvis, my last character to mock. Every evening Karaoke Elvis parks his creamy Chrysler 300 at Legislative Landing, right in front of the Queen’s Gardens, at Wascana Lake. Seemingly to match his creamy colored Chrysler, Elvis wears a puffy cream shirt, bell-bottomed cream pants, and cream-colored cowboy boots. On his head he wraps a cream-colored bandana, and atop that, a cream-color cowboy hat. Karaoke Elvis attempts to emulate the real king of rock and roll via his megaphone broadcast, complete with curbside vocals and Elvis the Pelvis dance routines. As extroverted as this seems, Karaoke Elvis talks to no one. In fact, whenever people do approach him, as they often do, Karaoke Elvis clams up, jumps into his creamy Chrysler, and rolls up the windows until they go away. I believe Elvis to be truly disturbed egomaniac.     

“Comparison is the thief of joy” (Teddy Roosevelt). But not in my case. When I compare myself to those I caricaturize, rather than to those I commend, I do experience some personal joy, if even for a nanosecond. Yikes! Which mental disorder am I suffering?! (I cannot find this malady in my DSM.)

In this concatenation of “crazies,” I have besmirched regular consumers of my favorite lake. This is so uncool, and yet I could not help myself. To express some remorse, I feel compelled to offer this retraction: These crazies I have chronicled are not peerless.

IN THE WIND AND THE SUN ON THAT WASCANA PATH, I AM ONE OF THEM!

Marching in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE today is my all-time favorite neighbor’s daughter and her doggo.

After my martial arts class last night, I took a couple of pictures in the same neighborhood where my gym is located (ASCENDANT MARTIAL ARTS).

HAPPY HALLOWE'EN, FELLOW CRAZIES!

  

 

TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER -- SO LET'S MAKE IT LAST!

 

HIKING BUFFALO POUND, SASKATCHEWAN

TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER, begat in the 5^th Century BC teachings of an Indian religious teacher, Siddhartha Gautama. TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER was reiterated by the English playwright, William Shakespeare, who wrote, “Count no mortal fortunate till he has departed from this life free from pain.” TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER surfaced yet again in the “1800s” with German philosopher, Arthur Schopenhauer, who wrote that “All life is suffering,” and with another 1800s German philosopher, Friedrich Nietzsche, who wrote verbatim, “To live is to suffer; to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.”

TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER is the skinny of Zen. If we are breathing, we are to some degree, suffering. From the time of our birthdates, the very essentials of our existence are fraught with sorrows from disease and despair, old age, and death.

Yes, indeed. The nature of human beings is finite and always on the way to death, and yet we labor endlessly to make our lives last as long we can! Why is this so?!

I am guessing we are never quite ready to die, or at least, not ready to die ugly. The anti-aging market has consumers collectively spending trillions each year on facial products and skincare, but staying young is much more than simply buying sunscreen. Big dollar spending also includes the anti-aging regimens in the physical and mental exercise markets.

And yes. I am one of those consumers.

Nowadays, for little old and delusional me, to stay young and look good demands a personal accountability in all things physical, mental, and even metaphysical.

Moonlighting as a vampire has become my official vocation. For years I have taken my physical and mental health seriously, but as of late, I am taking my heart and mind very seriously too. Is it because I have achieved septuagenarian status, making sense of my existential dread sufferings? Maybe. Or maybe I have finally bumped my head to the realization that my personal health, is beneficial, not only to myself, but also to those others who feel they are close to me. Whatever the reason, I know my being here counts, and I do not want to suffer the rest of my days counting my days.

But moonlighting as a vampire takes it toll (pun intended) with considerable effort. Daily, I continually and vigorously attempt to do the right things in almost every regard to stay among the living.

For my physical health I am a man for all seasons. In summertime I spend considerable days guitar busking and free-diving or swimming. In autumn I spend the weekends hiking and the weekdays playing disc-golf. Ski, ski, ski is my wintertime mantra, and in springtime I hit the gym hard in anticipation for my beach body summer.

CANADIAN PRAIRIE AUTUMN 

To enhance my mental and metaphysical health, I am a four-season inkhorn. This blog and my latest novel are always on my mind and my thoughts accordingly are extended through my writings. Because I am an avid libertine reader of anything philosophic and Zen-to-go, it is precisely from these readings that I am prompted to offer these precis: TO LIVE IS TO SUFFER and NIETZSCHE IS PIETZSCHE, BUT SARTRE IS SMARTRE.  

All these behaviors that I exercise (pun intended again) are internally agonistic. Attempts to extend my life strongly suggests that I AM AFRAID TO DIE. And yet in the meanwhile, ironically, I am ever ready to pack up and hike or play anywhere at anytime, suggesting that I AM NOT AFRAID TO LIVE! 'Tis quite the demarcation, I know!

Yep. To live is to suffer, and I WANT TO LIVE AND SUFFER FOREVER.

VAMPIRES

And, as for appearances and for the record, I would rather moonlight as vampire than as a zombie!

Hmmm.

ZOMBIE WALK IN WASCANA PARK

 

 

CURE-AS-FOLK

PLAYING AT THE CURE

My snappy title, CURE-AS-FOLK, shamelessly mimics, the title, QUEER AS FOLK, an American television series (2000-2005). QUEER AS FOLK, the television series, celebrated the lives and passions of a group of gay friends. CURE-AS-FOLK, my brand title for gathering a group of guitar-slingers on THE CURE stage, serves as a fundraiser for those victims of disasters that have reached international attention. (THE CURE is the coolest and most inclusive bar in downtown Regina!)

To date I have organized CURE-AS-FOLK fundraisers for the war victims in UKRAINE resulting from the Russian invasion, for the flood victims in PAKISTAN, for those victims of the earthquakes in SYRIA and TURKEY, and now the PALESTINE war victims in GAZA.

Every CURE-AS-FOLK fundraiser follows my signature modus operandi.

First, I garner a gig-date from THE CURE KITCHEN + BAR, in downtown Regina. As soon as the date is confirmed, I begin my recruitment of ten or so other FOLKSTERS, who also write and perform their original folk songs. For each of these gigs I set upon the stage two tall barstools (two performers hit the stage at the same time, then take turns singing their original songs, copying an Elvis Costello television show format), two direct inputs (each performer must have an acoustic guitar with a pickup), two microphones on microphone stands (one for each performer). 

In Andy Warhol fashion, each performer has an opportunity for close to fifteen minutes of fame, under which time to enter the stage, sing four three-minute original songs, then exit the stage

Gig time, I worship the clock. I cannot control the clock, but I can control every performer’s time on the stage. Because I am over fastidious in this regard (my clock control), every guitar-slinger that I recruit must agree to all of my authoritarian commands before accepting my gig invitation:

• MUST HAVE GUITAR TUNED BEFORE HITTING THE STAGE. Nobody is paying to watch someone tune a guitar.
• MUST NOT PUMP UP THE CROWD. For example, “Are you ready to rock, Regina?!”
• MUST NOT PUMP UP YOURSELF. For example, “You can catch more of me on my livestream … blah blah.”
• MUST NOT MENTION ANOTHER VENUE. It is uncool to be advertising for other venues – the stage you are on is the only one that counts.
• MUST SING ONLY ORIGINAL SONGS. Original songs are, precisely, my raison d’etre for such gigs. It beseems my CURE-AS-FOLK brand, to offer quality originals, rather than commonplace covers.  
• WHEN I GIVE THE TIME-OUT HAND SIGNAL, IT IS TIME TO EXIT THE STAGE. Finish the song and be gone.

NOTE: This particular format has certainly evolved and has proven positively effective for me these past 16 years. I know this to be true simply because I keep getting more offers for more of these gigs.

Factoid: Any performer who chooses not to comply with any of these above-mentioned edicts during their performance on stage, will be expunged from joining any future gig tickets of mine. Hmmm. So far over the years and performing alongside a hundred gig-mates, I have expunged only six. And of those six, four were for cause and two for getting drunk and unruly both on and off the stage.

Up until this last gig, our take has always been $300.00, give or take a fin or two. This last CURE-AS-FOLK fundraiser for PALESTINIANS IN GAZA, brought in close to $600, pretty much double that in past fundraisers.

AS PUBLISHED ON INSTAGRAM AND FACEBOOK AND IN THE CURE WINDOW

Factoid: Be it a three hundred dollar take, or a six hundred dollar take, it is but a dram in the bucket. But in the terms of our saving-the-world perspective, NO DRAM OF KINDNESS, HOWEVER SMALL, IS EVER WASTED (AESOP modified).

THE CURE OWNERS: L-R KELLY, JAKE, MORGAN, JOSH

Meanwhile, back in the BUSKERHOOD, I have had several people and even a couple of books march in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE this week:

BARON AND SELF BUSKING AT THE QUEEN CITY MARATHON

AND HERE COME THE RUNNERS!

A MURAL BEING CREATED RIGHT BEHIND OUR BUSKSPOT

MURAL ARTISTS, ANDREW AND MIKE

Andrew (Robertson) is a contemporary and famous Canadian oil painter and muralist. With him in this picture, was his acolyte, Mike.

THINK. Yikes. How could I not read a book with such a title, especially when catalogued in the Philosophy section of the bookstore😊

ZEN AND THE ART OF MOTORCYCLE MAINTENANCE, published in 1974, has become an American classic. I read it in 1974 and have read it several times since. I used to be a motorcycle guy, riding a Suzuki 80 cc Sport when I was fifteen, and later a 1974 CB750 Honda when I was in my ‘20s. This is my favorite book ever. Read it and you will know why!

 

 

MY ENDLESS SUMMER: A PHOTO ESSAY

WASCANA POOL LAPS

 People are always asking me, “So, Neil, are you thinking of retirement anytime soon?”

Factoid: The stats show that significantly more people die during their retirement years than during their years as a working stiff (pun intended)! Immortally armed with this awareness, I have decided that if I never retire, I might never die, or at the very least, delay my dying.

And so, to answer the retirement question, I shall continue with my well-rehearsed broken-record response:

“I WILL CELEBRATE MY RETIREMENT AT MY CELEBRATION OF LIFE!”

Enough existential dread. For my blog entry today, I shall reproduce and sketch my so-far endless SUMMER of 2024!

DIVING WITH BARON AT ELKWATER LAKE, ALBERTA

SWIMMING WITH FAMILY AT OKANAGAN LAKE, BRITISH COLUMBIA

HIKING AT PASQUA LAKE, SASKATCHEWAN

HIKING THE ROCKIES

And busking this summer, marching in my CHAUCERIAN PARADE, I have met lots of characters (with my NEW FOUND GUITAR)!

MY ALLEY GUITAR

My neighbor found this guitar in the alley behind our downtown high-rise. It was thick with acrylic paint and mud. I scraped off the paint (hence the unusual design from the stains), attached new strings, and voila! This acoustic Yamaha is now my busking guitar! 

ACCORDION BUSKER, JOHN, JUST HAD TO STRUM MY GUITAR
DURING THE CHANGING OF THE GUARD!

OFTENTIMES GIG-MATE, DEVON, AND DAUGHTER, IRIS

FORMER COLLEAGUE, BRIAN, AND SON

FORMER GIG-MATES, JAY AND BOND

MEETING NEW FRIENDS WHILE BUSKING

EVERYONE LOVES MY NEW FOUND GUITAR!

MY FRIEND, AMAR

Also this summer, I just had to get the lead out!

ANGELS FROM TORONTO!