The first time I busked in the London Underground, I was terrified. It was Oxford Street station, about ten in the morning. I opened my case just up the stairs from the train platform, strapped on my guitar, hit an A chord, then waited. A minute later, I heard the screech and hiss of a train coming in, felt the warm whoosh of air flooding up the stairs, followed by the stampede of footsteps. This was my cue. I started singing the chorus of “Karma Chameleon” by Culture Club.
It was January 1984, and I’d dropped out of college for the second time. The plan was to move to England, form a band and become hugely successful. Like Chrissie Hynde of the Pretenders, or the Stray Cats, I thought it was my destiny to be discovered by the Brits.
I went over with a musician friend of mine. But after two weeks, he decided that London wasn’t for him and he moved back to New Jersey. Though I didn’t know a soul, I decided to stay on. There was really nothing for me at home. I’d left school, quit my job, sold my record collection and all my instruments. To go back would be to admit I’d made a mistake. I had to at least ride out the four months on my visa, if only to prove to myself, my parents and my friends that I’d tried to make it in the big city.
I rented a tiny room above a pub on the south bank of the Thames, near the Vauxhall tube station. Really tiny. And really cold. London cold is wet and it penetrates into your bones. Befitting its size, my room had a tiny heater. It was coin-operated. 25 pence gave me about twenty minutes of warmth from a gas flame. Because it was gas (and because I couldn’t really afford to keep feeding the coins in), I went without heat during the hours I slept. To achieve some semblance of warmth, I’d layer myself in shirts and sweaters, zipping it all under a green army issue jumpsuit I’d bought before the move. I was Sgt. Michelin Man. Then I’d crawl under a heap of sheets and blankets and shiver myself to sleep.
The one beautiful feature of my room was the window, which looked out across the Thames on the Houses of Parliament and Big Ben. At sunrise, I had my very own Monet, in purple and orange and gray.
For breakfast, I’d eat a bowl of muesli with hot milk, then plan my day. For the first month, I mostly just walked around the city, feeling free, writing in my journal, trying to work up the courage to start busking. Though I’d been playing guitar for a few years, I’d never really sung much before. At least not in front of people.
So, “Karma Chameleon.” It was a pretty easy one to sing, and I felt halfway confident with it. The first time I heard the clink of a coin hitting the felt bottom of my guitar case was a thrill. I’d made money playing music before, but there was something about the till ringing while I was performing that was special. It gave me more confidence to sing out. So did the reverb in the tubes, which was cavernous and could make even a small voice like mine sound full and rich.
I learned that there was a system behind busking (today in London, you have to apply for a busking license). For the prime, money-earning spots, you had to arrive early in the morning and sign up for your half-hour. Some spots you could have for an hour. It was very competitive, and if you missed the sign-up, you’d have to settle for a less-coveted spot, like in the underground sidewalk at Warwick Avenue, or outside in Piccadilly. It was winter and both of those spots were guaranteed to leave you with frozen fingers. Believe me, I played them more than once.
I busked on my own for about a month, singing hits of the day by Howard Jones, Thompson Twins, Spandau Ballet, plus some oldies by Elvis and Buddy Holly. I got to be friends with some of the other buskers. I even teamed up with a guy named Nick to form a duo. We learned that we could make a lot more money by harmonizing on Beatles and Everly Bros tunes.
It was about this time that I started to make my first attempts at writing songs. Nothing has really survived from that time, which is just as well, because I’m sure it would be embarrassing now. But I loved the whole experience in London. Living on my own in that tiny room, walking around the city, riding the trains, writing in my journal, busking, making enough money each day to buy groceries, then cooking myself a little meal in the shared kitchen at the pub, sleeping in that cold room – all that was integral to me becoming a songwriter and musician, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
