Several years ago, I read an article about Joshua Bell, a world-class violinist who played at a DC Metro station in the guise of a street busker at a DC Metro station. (I can’t find the original Washington Post article, but I was able to find this and this) Over the course of 45 minutes, Bell played a $3.5 million dollar Stradivarius on a street corner. Commuters tipped him a total of $32. Two nights prior, Bell had performed at a sold out show where seats went for $100 or more.
Ever since reading that article, I will admit I have paid more attention to performance by street artists as I walk down the street. The odds of me hearing a Joshua Bell or someone of his caliber are next to zero. Even if he was there, I don’t think I’d be able to recognize the level of excellence that I was hearing. It would be the same as putting a $20 glass of wine in front of me and a $2,000 glass. I might be able to tell that one was better, but I doubt I’d know that one was supposedly world-class.
Despite my inability to properly appreciate that caliber of talent, stopping for a minute to hear the performers has definitely given me a new appreciation for street musicians. From the guy who used to play the same 3 chords over and over at the Courthouse metro station in DC to the guy who played an instrument that I’ve never seen before in Munich, street musicians come in all levels of skill. Sometimes they sing, sometimes they keep the beat with their feet, sometimes the miss a note and keep going like nobody noticed. You never know what you’re going to get.
The other morning, on my way to the Picasso Museum in Malaga, Spain, there was a guy playing the guitar on a bench not far from the cathedral. It was relatively early (10:00 AM on a Sunday is early in Spain), so the street was fairly quiet. A lone walker here, someone walking their dog there, and me. Something about the way this guy played the guitar conveyed so much emotion and love. It wasn’t quite flamenco style, but it was along those lines. He paused when a friend of his came walking by, and he stood up to chat. He was an older gentleman, hunched from years of whatever, many teeth missing and the rest stained in colors that don’t appear in the rainbow. He bummed a smoke from his friend, put the unlit stick in his mouth, and picked up his guitar to play more. It was moving. It was soft, it was passionate, it picked up the pace when it moved him, and slowed down when he wanted it to. I struggled for years to play Three Blind Mice on a guitar, and to hear the tones that came from his instrument reminded me of why women always go for the guitar player.
I listened to him for several minutes, taking advantage of the fact that I wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. I even took a short video on my phone, knowing that the medium could never convey the emotion that he played. Eventually, I decided to move on, and I dropped a few euro into his case; his first tips of the day. He grinned a semi-toothless grin at me and thanked me. I could hear his music follow me as I walked down the street.
