Mayfair

busking


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.

My first job


I got my first job when I was thirteen years old, working Saturdays at a local record shop called Looney Tunes. This was in the mid-1970s, and the shop sold new and used vinyl, along with what was euphemistically called “paraphernalia.” Rolling papers, roach clips, bongs. I was so naïve at that age that I didn’t even know what a bong was for.

Not that I had to know.

My duties at Looney Tunes included opening boxes of new records, keeping the bathroom clean, running out for sandwiches at the Greek deli around the corner and most importantly, making sure the album racks were in alphabetical order. That’s how I got the job, actually.

As a customer, I was in there every Saturday. As I’d browse, I’d be alphabetizing, almost unconsciously. A Blue Oyster Cult record mistakenly put in the Blues Magoos section? Back it would go. Gentle Giant fraternizing with Genesis? Not for long.

The part of my personality that craves order and logic was in place at an early age, and I had a natural aptitude for filing.

Also, I had a little crush on the young woman who worked at the store. Since I was shy around the opposite sex, I would ask her questions about albums while I browsed, without really looking at her. “Which Strawbs album would you recommend?” “Have you heard the latest David Bowie record?” Over time, I think she took a liking to me, as did the two guys who managed the shop. When one of the managers noticed me straightening out the racks, he made a joke about needing to hire someone like me. And that’s how it began.

Since I was too young to be legally on the payroll, I was paid in records. Which was fine by me. Mostly, I’d take home arm fulls of used discs, because I could try them first. If I didn’t like what I heard, I’d bring them back the following Saturday. This is how I learned about music. It was an ongoing study program.

In time, as I became more comfortable at Looney Tunes, I’d answer customers’ questions and make recommendations. I can remember how great I’d feel when someone came in and asked, “Who sings that song with the line that goes “Let them eat cake she said, just like Marie Antoinette . . .” and before anyone had a chance to reply, I’d be marching a copy of Queen’s Sheer Heart Attack to the customer. Or better yet, someone would be trying to decide between the Allman Brothers’ Eat a Peach and Live at the Fillmore East, and I’d steer them toward the latter, which is a better album.

A few blocks down the street from Looney Tunes was another record store called Graymat. We were hip, they were square. I would only go into Graymat as a last resort, if Looney Tunes was out of stock of some album that I had to have right that minute. The clerks there were snooty and didn’t know Steely Dan from Steeleye Span. Their prices were also about a dollar higher on albums. It became a matter of pride to know that I was working at the cool record store, and when occasionally, one of the Graymat clerks stopped in Looney Tunes, I gave them an equally snooty, “Can I help you?”

For two years, I spent my Saturdays at Looney Tunes (toward the end, it was renamed The Record Exchange), listening to music, keeping the racks in order, and building up a huge record collection. The shop eventually went out of business. I never really understood why, though I think it had something to do with the managers not paying their bills.

For me, it was a completely wonderful experience, and one that shaped my love of music and record collecting. Even now, certain records can take me right back to those Saturdays at the shop. Crime of the Century by Supertramp. Court and Spark by Joni Mitchell. Selling England by the Pound by Genesis . . . suddenly I feel the urge to reorganize my CD collection.

What I’m Listening To


What I’m Listening To:

The Feeling - Join With Us
David Bowie - Bowie at the Beeb
Shirley Horn - Travelin’ Light
Harry Nilsson - Nilsson Sings Newman
Peggy Lee - The Best of the Singles Collection
The Everly Brothers - Heartaches & Harmonies box set
Luiz Claudio - Intimidade
Paul Simon - Paul Simon

What I’m Watching:

Look Around You Season 2 DVD

What I’m Reading:

The Thirteenth Tale - Diane Setterfield

EBS Space

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For our Korean fans, our television special for EBS Space will be broadcast on Tuesday, February 26th. Please check
your local listings.

Bowie blog


In the MOJO Blog, I have a piece about David Bowie’s line of clothing at Target:

Bowie blog