CHAPTER 1
A Bitter Busker
Today I busked in Martin Place. For the longest time I was ignored by passersby. I was feeling depressed when a kindly woman remarked, "You sound really beautiful, even from down the street."
She did not even throw 5 cents into my basket. Usually I am fine with this. Not everyone is in a position to give money.
She was trying to be nice. I pointed at my basket, looked at her sadly, and said, "Nobody appreciates it though."
The woman looked uncomfortable. Instantly I regretted my words.
I put my bitter feelings into the next aria, Puccini's Vissi D'arte, which is about a woman who dedicated her life to the service of art and is begging God for her reward, and for rescue!
The coins started to flow into my busking basket. The audience does not want 90 per cent of you. They want your entire heart ripped out for art.
I am trying to evolve so I don't take bitter moments out on others.
After all, even a kind word is an act of generosity.
CHAPTER 2
Mayhem at Taylor Square
At Taylor Square in Oxford Street, I set up my amplifier and microphone outside the pub. There was a row of customers sitting on tables outside.
A man walked past, who had his back to the audience. He started unzipping his trousers, putting his hand inside his pants and fumbling with the contents.
I stopped singing and announced loudly, "Oh no, you are not going to start stripping in the middle of my song. No!"
The man smiled but continued his illicit behavior. He knew I was the only one who could see what was happening.
"Stop it. Just stop it!" I shouted over the microphone. Now that I had alerted everyone as to what was going on, the deviant departed.
Then, a shirtless man, with shorn hair and covered in tattoos, approached me. He only had about two teeth. His bottom lip was infected with a red, weeping abscess. He kept moving closer and closer. Soon he was only 50 centimeters away from me.
"Back off!" I told him in a raised voice, "You are making me really uncomfortable!"
The man stepped back to stand against the wall with the pub goers.
As I launched into my next song, the toothless, tattooed guy started singing along with gusto. Then, a grizzled elderly man outside the pub started to dance. It was a strangely joyful sight.
The other customers, well dressed and polite, smiled and applauded after a number of arias. Passersby were putting coins into my basket and everyone seemed to be having a good time.
A portly man came out of the pub. He offered me 20 dollars NOT to sing. I explained I had a busking license, and a right to sing here for an hour. I did not accept his bribe. He walked back into the pub.
Finally, a smiling man approached. He told me he lived in a nearby apartment building. He had heard me from up in the building and so had come down to give me some money.
In the end, I earned 57 dollars at that spot in Taylor Square where I was offered 20 dollars not to sing. I was glad those who enjoyed the performance outnumbered the "haters" but I won't be returning in a hurry.
CHAPTER 3
Blue Collar Angel
It was a Saturday morning. I had been busking in Belmore Park, not far from Central station. The foot traffic had been good that day, and I had done well. I was packing up at the end of my shift.
A young woman who was dressed in a pale blue uniform approached. She handed me some coins. The woman told me she had enjoyed listening to me while she worked for the last couple of hours.
"It's just a matter of time before you are famous," she gushed.
The compliments from her kept flowing.
"You are fantastic! I know sometimes it is very hard doing it this way, but you just have to keep going. Anyway, fame and money aren't all they are cracked up to be. Take it from me. The main thing is you are doing what you love. You have your arms and your legs, and of course, you have your voice. It's all good!"
I felt as if a benevolent angel had blessed me with the words I had most wanted to hear.
CHAPTER 4
Valentine's Day
Being a special occasion, I went busking at night in a pretty, scarlet dress instead of my usual jeans and t-shirt "combo." I styled my hair nicely, leaving my scruffy hat at home. I applied bright, red lipstick and heavy eye make-up. On this night I wanted to present as the glamorous diva.
I was delighted when a handsome young man threw a long-stemmed rose into my busking basket. Later, I got a "peck on the cheek" from a dapper gentleman, who was dressed in a black dinner suit.
I sang at my very own "theatre under the stars" in Pitt St Mall. In front of my "stage" are rows of outdoor seats. On this night, every seat in my "theatre" was full. Loved up couples beamed gooey smiles at each other, inspired by the passion of opera. I made three times my usual busking earnings that night!
There is a great acoustic in Pitt Street Mall, since the performer is far away from traffic. Here, you can catch me singing Mozart's The Queen of The Night's Vengeance Aria, Der Hölle Rache, from The Magic Flute, or Offenbach's The Doll's Song, Les Oiseaux dans la Charmille, from The Tales of Hoffmann. I like to hear my voice "ping" off the nearby shop awnings!
CHAPTER 5
Earning My Wings
As an experiment to increase my income, I decided to busk for one day dressed in a fantasy costume. I purchased face paint, large angel wings made of real feathers and donned a pale pink dress.
I did some Internet research on how to create an angel face. Putting those ingredients together, my painted angel face, wings and dress gave me the appearance of an angel.
I began the walk to a nearby bus stop. A car drove by, and a teenage boy yelled out, "Show us your tit!"
Apart from that being pretty disrespectful, did he really think an angel only had one?
I boarded the bus wearing my angel face paint, with my huge, fluffy wings sticking out of the bag beside me. Nobody on the bus made eye contact with me. Either they were all too polite or too jaded to notice.
When I arrived in the city, I went to Wynyard Park and donned my angel wings. As the foot traffic passed by, nobody smiled. People even gave me "dirty" looks!
I was sad, since it had taken considerable time and money to put together my costume.
It was a more relaxed, fun crowd that came along later, as afternoon faded into night. As I headed for Pitt St Mall, I walked through the crowd and heard chants of "Angel! Angel!"
A young woman and her boyfriend asked me if I would pose for a photo with them.
"Sure," I answered.
The woman said to her boyfriend, "Get out of the photo. I only want the angel and me."
"C***!" he replied, to his own girlfriend.
They got their photo, and I continued on.
My angel costume was far more popular in the evening, with the nightclub crowd. Sydneysiders needed to down a few drinks before they could accept an angel in their midst.
CHAPTER 6
Thieves' Gallery
One night I was busking in the underground tunnel at Central railway station. Money was flowing bountifully in my direction. I had two 5-dollar bills sitting in my busking basket.
Usually I remove all notes out of sight, to a safe place. This time though, I was too engaged with the audience to do this straight away.
"Rookie" mistake!
Suddenly, my eyes were blinded by a flash attached to a camera, which was shoved into my face. The camera was so close it almost hit me on the nose. At the same time someone grabbed my hand to shake it.
As the "stars" receded and my vision returned, I saw a well-dressed young man and his glamorous female partner making a hasty getaway, camera and flash in hand.
I looked down into my busking basket and noticed that both 5-dollar notes had vanished. While the guy with the flash was blinding me and shaking my hand, his female accomplice was stealing cash from my basket! I had to laugh at how pathetic it was steal 10 dollars from someone's busking basket.
What do you think they were going to do with that odd photograph of me, stunned by flashlight, taken while they were stealing my money?
Do they have some sort of grotesque gallery of photos taken while robbing buskers?
I went home. A hard lesson learned!
CHAPTER 7
Lucky Charm
Sometimes when I busk, people donate to me items that hold a special meaning to them. One day, a smiling woman took off her own neck a shiny, gold medallion that had nine small circles hand-engraved on it. Resembling a small, decorated cymbal, it is quite a mysterious object.
As she handed it over to me, the lady said, "I would like you to have this. It's my prized possession. It's called The Disk of Wisdom."
The woman commanded, "You Have a Voice. Use it well!"
With that, she departed.
I treasure that little necklace. It's not worth anything in monetary terms, being actually only a brass coated medallion. I know, because I've had it valued. The Disk of Wisdom meant a lot to the lady who gave it to me, though, and it was given to me with her blessing.
To date, I've not seen another piece of jewelry exactly like it, and lots of people ask me where I got it from. Some people tell me it looks like an "alien disk". With its simple design, it looks kind of ancient.
The Disk of Wisdom is now my lucky charm. I wear it most times when I go out busking. Somehow, it gives me a feeling of protection. I am not sure if the necklace has made me any wiser, but it sure makes me feel appreciated — even loved. My fans are a very special breed.
CHAPTER 8
The "Blow In"
One bright sunny afternoon, I was busking in Martin Place, opposite a fine dining restaurant. A crowd of five was sitting on the seats in front of me enjoying my performance.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see a thickset woman shuffling forward slowly in a zigzag motion. Her eyes were shrewdly fixed on my busking basket. She looked uneasy but determined.
I recognized the approaching woman as the one who had stolen 6 dollars out of my busking basket three weeks earlier. That's not a lot of money, but busking money is hard won. My pride was at stake. I was determined to defend my livelihood.
Perhaps I should have said nothing and let her take a few coins. That is not how this drama played out.
I said to her in a soft but firm voice, "I am really sorry but I can't let you steal from me again."
Suddenly the woman went ballistic — screaming, punching and kicking. She landed a kick on my leg and her fingernail grazed my arm.
"Whore!" she screamed, "C**t!" All the while, the woman kept hitting and kicking me. I was trapped against the wall.
I looked behind me, frantically searching for something to block her. There was nothing at hand but my lightweight, empty trolley and the microphone in my hand.
A microphone is not exactly the ideal weapon for self-defense. It's also hard to make a run for it when you have musical equipment that you don't want to abandon.
The crowd of onlookers was strangely mute. My audience was frozen to their seats. They watched, riveted, as the spectacle unfolded. I was about to be injured in front of three strapping, six-foot tall guys and their female friends, who did not even stand up or come forward to help.
Despite the adrenaline rush to my head, my thoughts seized up and I had no idea what to do.
I threatened to call the police but my unamplified voice was drowned out by the woman's cussing. The assault continued, as I kept dodging most of the blows.
In a moment of clarity, I switched on the microphone and this time yelled into it, "Police! Police! I am calling the police!" All heads in Martin place turned to look at us. My assailant suddenly realized we were under intense scrutiny.
By now a throng of new spectators was gathering to watch this great new sport of Busker Bashing. The crowd stayed silent.
The female thug decided it was time to retreat.
Still screaming that I was a "whore," my attacker laid a heavy boot into my amplifier, and knocked it to the ground. She finished up with a brutal kick to my CD player.
As the scratchy sounds of static filled the air and the music stopped, the witnesses and I were left to survey the damage.
I was largely unharmed but shaken. I had received a fingernail scratch to my arm. I had been kicked in the legs. My amplifier now had marks on it, from where it had hit the ground.
Now they were safe, the tourists offered me words of sympathy. They explained why they were willing to watch me get beaten up right in front of them. "We thought you knew each other."
They remained in their seats, waiting for me to sing again. I sang one more song and then packed up my equipment. I didn't feel like singing for these people anymore. "Folks, you already had your show today!"
I never did discover the identity of my attacker. Thankfully, I've not seen her again since that awful day.
I guess she was one of those that the homeless refer to as a "blow in". It is said those people are drifters, and can include criminals on the run. Like tumbleweeds, they "blow in, then blow out of town again quickly." I have been informed that the "blow-ins" are the main troublemakers of the homeless community.
CHAPTER 9
Bag Lady Blues
On this particular evening, I busked at Broadway Mall. Since I have a loud, operatic voice and was singing at night, I kept my act to only half an hour. This was my second busking shift of the night.
I made sure this time to sing without a microphone, since a rule of busking at Broadway Mall specifies that only "acoustic acts" are acceptable. Still, we opera singers are trained to sing, unamplified, over the volume of an orchestra. Even "unplugged" we are loud.
The crowd really "dug" me. They clapped, cheered and whistled. One man commented, "Finally! A Class Act at the mall."
My parting words were, "Thank you people of Broadway Mall. I love you all!" Again they clapped and smiled.
Feeling great, I headed to the bus stop, complete with my trolley that contained my amplifier and microphone, plus my supermarket "fridge bag", that was now full of jangling coins.
I guess it looks odd seeing a tiny, middle-aged woman out late on a week night, armed with this kind of gear. People mistake me for a "bag lady."
As I boarded the bus, I recognized the Mean Bus Driver.
He had this trick.
As you were counting out the coins that made up your fare, putting them one by one into his hand, he covered the gold coins with 20-cent pieces. It appeared you had not given him any gold coins at all. He informed you in a loud voice that you still owed more. He must have pocketed the extra money.
He had caught me out the week before with a 1-dollar coin. I had handed over an extra "buck" that I did not owe, not wanting to seem a cheat in front of the entire busload of people.
Again he tried to trick me. Rather than hand over more money, this time I told the bus driver that I had definitely given him a 2-dollar coin. He gave me a filthy look but conceded.
Suddenly, the bus lurched forward violently. I was hurled into a man's lap. The coins in my bag rattled, as if I was a beggar.
I felt humiliated, but I reasoned that in the past couple of hours I had earned over 100 dollars. I actually had nothing to be ashamed of.
Do you think people who are already "down and out" got "ripped off" and mistreated all the time?
As I hopped off the bus to go home, a male passenger gave me a cheery smile and said "Good night!"
I smiled right back and said, "Thank you. Have a great night too!"
The man looked sad and a little bit worried.
I made it home safely.
