Dispatches From the South: Buskers

One of the more pleasant aspects of living in Horsham, at least for me, is the number of buskers I pass while going about my Saturday errands.

I don’t recall seeing many buskers back in the States, though I am sure they must be there. But even in a city the size of Albany, they were thin on the ground. One generally had to go to New York City to find any really unique street performers. In my little town, however, there are generally two or three offering a variety of diversions on any given Saturday.

A few of my favorites:

There is a guy who sits cross-legged on the pavement (for this alone, he has my respect) playing a guitar and singing in a pleasant, if unremarkable, voice. His unique trait is singing popular songs at a tempo so slow I have to stop and listen for a few minutes before I come to grips with what it is he is singing. Because of this, I always have some loose change ready for him; he really brightens my day.

Over the past two years, a young man has appeared, setting himself up in random locations. Originally, he sat on a box with an old, battered guitar in his lap. There were no strings on the guitar and all he did was thump his hand on it. Thump…thump…thump…thump. This went on for hours. His tenacity, if not his chutzpah, captivated me. I always made sure to tip him. He disappeared for a few months, but has lately returned with a child’s toy drum that he now beats a primitive rhythm on. This leads me to believe he is a performing artist who is using the proceeds of his busking to buy better instruments. Again, I cannot resist dropping a pound in his hat every time I pass by him; I’m eager to see what his next step up will be. Maybe someday he’ll actually have a real instrument and perhaps sing a bit.

A few months ago, during the coldest part of the year, a drifter I called Doug (after Doug Fluitie, the NFL Quarterback) stopped in town for a few weeks. He played, as you might have guessed, the flute, or more precisely, the penny whistle. He wasn’t around on the weekends competing with the regular buskers; instead, he played in the dark evenings, sitting alone in the shelter of the HSBC entrance. My wife and I would hear him as we took our after dinner stroll through town and the haunting melodies he played—usually melancholy Irish ballads—were the perfect compliment to the barren streets and bleak weather. The notes would float in the still air, echoing off the storefronts, infusing the night with such an exquisite eeriness I always made sure to pay for the pleasure. And then, if his cup held enough money, he would stop, go for a coffee, and then start up again when he finished, or was thirsty again. I was sorry when he moved on; I hope he returns again next winter.

My all time favorite, however, is this guy:

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing as I watching him walk down the street and set up. Then he started his act and I finally caught on. You don’t find this sort of entertainment wandering around the streets of Albany, and it’s one of the many little things that makes living here such a pleasure.

Author Info - Mike is an American living in Southern England in Horsham. Mike blogs weekly on Thursdays about Life in the UK. Check out Mike's recent book, Postcards from Across the Pond as well as his awesome blog. Read more from this author