Hey Dublin, Can You Spare A Dime?

"Bastards," I think as I pass the Fitzwilliam Hotel and close in on what I fully expect to be the scene of my public humiliation.
Here in the 'one big happy family' that is Hot Press, it is unusual, to say the least, to curse one's colleagues. But as I tramp towards Grafton Street on a sunny Saturday afternoon, guitar in hand, photographer in tow, my feelings towards my fellow inhabitants of HP Towers are less magnanimous than usual.
The sorry tale had begun two days previously in the regular editorial meeting at which the content for the forthcoming issue of Ireland's most fortnightly magazine is decided. A discussion of possible 'colour' features had led deputy ed. Liam Mackey (bless his cotton socks) to the conclusion that one of our number should be dispatched to be a busker for a day. Initial candidates quickly discounted included Olaf Tyaransen (sufficient 'neck', but not even the merest hint of any musical capabilities) and Peter Murphy (an illustrious musical history, but discounted on the grounds that it would be somewhat impractical for him to lug a full drum kit around for the day). At this point someone remembered I had told them I had played music in college days. With a guitar. And a harmonica. While singing.
Caught like a rabbit in the headlights of Mackey and co.'s persuasive powers I seem to recall hearing my voice raise itself in agreement. Now, as the moment approached, the voice inside my head was urging me to find some kind of escape route. Any kind of escape route. Quickly.
Awaking to Saturday's dawn with all the joy of a condemned man, I reckon that there is no chance of anyone giving me any money whatsoever unless I look like I am a) a real busker and b) in need of their cash. To this end, I feel I should dress as scruffily as possible. Since my 'wardrobe' is the definitive homage to scruffiness, and the washing machine has been broken for about ten days, this presents few difficulties. For that final touch I also decide I should remain unshaven. (I am, as a matter of course, unshaven, but it's nice to have a good reason for these things.) 3pm. Time to go.
Walking towards the city centre, I feel my stomach begin to tighten. As I reach the junction of King St South and Grafton Street, I spot TV3's Lorraine Keane, whom I interviewed for Hot Press about two months ago, driving past. Presumably she is going to enjoy a leisurely weekend afternoon. Shopping, perhaps. Or coffee with friends. She is driving a red BMW convertible. Oh, for a life full of 'TV Babe' interviews and devoid of making-an-arse-of-oneself- in-public afternoons.
After rendezvousing with HP photographer Peter Matthews, the two of us wander up and down Grafton St looking for an appropriate 'pitch', while also checking out the competition. There are two 'star turns' who have built up appreciable audiences - blues maestro Dermot Byrne, who will be known to most of you even vaguely acquainted with the capital's busking scene as 'the guy who plays 'Hey Joe' on slide guitar', and a mini-brass band of Eastern Europeans.
The biggest crowd of all, though, is gathered around a duo who are doing absolutely nothing. They are painted entirely in gold, and are ostensibly 'mime' artists. As far as I can see they seem to be miming the part of two people standing very still while painted. Mind you, from my soon-to-be performer's viewpoint, there is something appealing about their act - the absence of sound perhaps. Unfortunately I have forgotten to pack my gold body paint today.
After more to-ing and fro-ing than is really necessary (procrastination, you understand), I eventually select a spot just outside the Carphone Warehouse. I unpack my guitar feeling less nervous than a few minutes before. After all, there's no turning back now. I just pray that my own irritation with buskers on previous occasions isn't going to come back to haunt me now - in the shape of every pedestrian in Grafton Street turning round to laugh uproariously at me, for instance.
My attempt to learn The Beatles' entire repertoire the previous evening having come to naught, I have decided to build my 'set' around ten songs or so. Reasoning that it is best to start with the most mainstream song I am comfortable playing, U2's 'All I Want Is You' is the first track on the mobile Stanage jukebox. To my relief, I manage to remember the words and the chord changes.
The 'audience' reaction is more or less what I expected - complete indifference. This would not normally be particularly troublesome. Virtually all of us are used to walking around, ignored by all but the few who know us. The difference about busking is that you want to be noticed, and people make a point of letting you know they are ignoring you. They may throw a quick glance in your direction as they walk past, but only before continuing on their way entirely expressionless. Generally, buskers are not even paid the inverse courtesy of being regarded as a major irritant. Instead, they are just a minor distraction, hapless and eminently forgettable. One song in, this doesn't seem like much fun. I may be wrong, but from the inside my facial expression feels like it's mixing apologeticness and total terror.
Next up are Van Morrison's 'Sweet Thing' (always a hardy busking perennial thanks to the Waterboys' cover version), The Pogues' 'A Pair Of Brown Eyes', Dylan's 'I Shall Be Released' and 'Gathering Dust' by David Gray.
Appropriately enough, dust is all my money box is gathering. Things get off to an inauspicious beginning when a group of very young girls gather around, staring quizzically. One of them eventually pipes up, "Ah, look, we'll have to give him something. He hasn't got any money." She gets a coin out, and I smile my friendliest/most desperate smile. She then puts her money back into her purse and walks off. I haven't been so embarrassed by a little schoolgirl since I was a little schoolboy.
Thankfully, a few people are more generous. I can remember neither what I was playing, nor who the person was who first gave me money, but thank you, sir/madam. 15p never looked like so much. Funds were also bolstered by the reappearance of Liam Mackey to witness first-hand the terror he had wrought on an innocent population. After about half an hour, though, my patience is starting to wear thin, the occasion only enlivened by strange moments like the appearance of Something Happens' frontman Tom Dunne (who has passed before I get the chance to invite him to duet on a number of his choosing), and a very nice tourist who stands watching for some time before donating an English 20p and proceeding on his way.
I decide to abandon this particular pitch and move on elsewhere. No sooner have I done so, though, than it becomes apparent that my sense of timing has let me down once again. I turn from a brief conversation with Grafton Street landmark Pete Shortt ('the guy who sells Hot Press outside Bewley's') to see the retreating back of former Taoiseach Albert Reynolds. It comes as a crushing blow to realise that I have missed my chance to prove to the one-time impresario that I am the very man to 'send 'em home sweating' from whatever ballrooms remain in Longford/Roscommon. Or, indeed, to invite him to reprise his famous version of 'Put Your Sweet Lips A Little Closer To The Telephone'.
Oh well, there's always Temple Bar. . .
Arriving in Temple Bar, the change in atmosphere is immediately apparent. The frenetic pace of Grafton Street has been replaced by a mellower, strolling-on-a-summer-afternoon feel. I spot JJ, a friend of mine and regular busker, having a quiet smoke on Crow Street, and ask him his advice about the best busking spot to choose. "Not on the square, but close to it," comes the response, so I head for the sculpture outside the Palm Tree restaurant. At the instigation of Peter Matthews, I take a seat on the sculpture itself, and instantly feel more relaxed. Somehow, not standing in the middle of a busy shopping street makes me feel less desperate I am now just someone playing guitar in the sun, and people can throw money my way if they feel so inclined.
I have barely played for five minutes when an equal amount of donations to those received over the duration of the Grafton Street 'set' has been received. I am also soon joined by two new-found companions, one male, one female (they wouldn't tell me their names) who have both seen better days. They arrive, beer cans in hand, and the man joins me in a fairly raucous rendition of 'A Pair Of Brown Eyes'. Following a suitably caterwauling conclusion, which at least draws a smattering of people to watch, he demands a Christy Moore song. My limited catalogue for the day doesn't include Christy, but I point out that I know plenty more Pogues' songs. 'Rainy Night In Soho?' I offer to be met with a blank stare. "Er . . . 'Fairytale Of New York?"
"Yeah, man," he enthuses "Fucking great. 'Fairytale of New York'."
Despite the fact that there is something slightly ludicrous about sitting in June sunshine singing possibly the greatest Christmas song of all time, this seems to go remarkably well. And while my friend is not exactly pitch perfect, he remembers every word. There is something oddly poignant, too, about singing Shane MacGowan's heartbreaking hymn to the cast adrift, coulda-been-contenda inhabitants of the 'drink tank' in this company.
Poignancy evidently doesn't hold much sway in the minds of the Garda Siochana, however. Two guards quickly approach, and ask the couple to move on. The only reason they give is that "you can't be that drunk in public." In fact, they aren't particularly drunk. And I am certainly creating more of a public nuisance than them. I am left untouched to carry on. Would the fact that my clothes are less shabby, my face less drink-beaten, and my appearance less impoverished, perchance, have anything to do with this?
In any case, I begin to enjoy playing, and there is still a steady-ish trickle of coins coming my way and a few tourists pausing to watch for a song or two. I am soon handed a huge bonus in my attempts to capture some attention, however, in the shape of nine-month-old Eoin Blakely.
Eoin has been in a nearby restaurant with his parents and his mother has taken him out as he was getting restless. The music soon captures his attention (I put this down to children's general fascination with music, rather than a detailed knowledge of Van Morrison's back catalogue) and he makes a beeline in my direction. Soon, my relatively meagre takings for the day are in grave danger as Eoin climbs into the guitar case and tries to eat my hard sung-for coins. This concerns me somewhat and headlines of the 'Busking Hot Press Journalist Asphyxiates Baby!'-variety don't appeal too much either. Fortunately Eoin's mother has a finely-tuned understanding of which coins he might succeed in getting into his mouth and takes the appropriate action whenever necessary.
This scene has by now attracted a fair number of onlookers, and largely being tourists, they have their cameras at the ready. A hail of flash bulbs ensue. I would feel like a star, but I can't delude myself. The real star can barely speak, is 24 years younger than me, and is, at this moment, busily trying to insert a 10p coin in his mouth. And - oooh shit! - he looks like he might succeed. Eoin heads off elsewhere soon afterwards, and I still regret that I forgot to give him a share of the proceeds. Anyhow, no more infants, street people or other extra attractions seem to be coming my way. Playing on my own again feels a bit of a comedown after that, and I am not in the mood to continue. The proceeds of sets of about 30 minutes (Grafton Street) and 45 minutes (Temple Bar) have together yielded about #11. It isn't huge, but it isn't hopeless, either.
I am, however, knackered. I head to Cafe En Seine with a friend and yawn at her for half an hour. It is time to go home and preserve my energy for my finale - the 'pub closing time' performance.
It's 11.30 by the time Peter and myself
reconvene at the same spot in Temple Bar. The mellowness of early evening has by now been replaced by the frenzied mayhem of Saturday night drinktime. The streets are thronged with hen/stag parties and native revellers, shouting, running, snogging, and dancing. I guess it's not the time to introduce any Nick Drake covers.
Before the music can commence, though, it is necessary to find territory free of rival attractions. Fire jugglers, drummers and 'standard' one-man-and-guitar buskers are plentiful, and the spot which I had occupied during the afternoon has been claimed by another guy leading a very drunk woman through a variety of Beatles songs.
Peter and I soberly make the trek between Temple Bar Square and The Clarence Hotel three times, assailed by ever increasing levels of inebriation. By this stage I am getting increasingly jumpy and frazzled. Outside The Kitchen I suggest to Peter that we make one further journey back to the square, and if I find my former pitch is still occupied, cut our losses and go home. After all, we have enough to go on from earlier. What's more, I don't feel keen on taking the chance of having my guitar or face smashed by someone requiring an outlet for their late-night frustration.
Of course, I'm not getting out of it that easily. On returning to my afternoon position, I see it has now been vacated, so, after taking up a stance on the other side of the pavement for luck, the guitar is strapped on again, and it's 'from the top, once more with feeling.'
Immediately a revelation strikes me. If you want to part people from their money, get them drunk first. By midway through the first song, I am already #3 to the good. No longer are people passing by disinterested. Instead, they are throwing pound coins nonchalantly towards me. Various revellers ask me to play songs by Neil Young, Bowie and Christy Moore (again). I can't oblige any of them, but they give me money anyway. This is getting to be fun. Even Matthews, ever the laid-back photographer, is looking impressed.
And as if this wasn't good enough, real paydirt is struck with the arrival of a group of about eight men from the north. They listen briefly, throw in a few coins and then comes the request.
"Do ye know any rebel songs?" one of them wants to know.
"Well, like what?"
At this point much discussion ensues, before they each almost simultaneously burst into stirring renditions of entirely different songs. Eventually, though, one voice wins through, and so we launch into 'The Boys Of The Old Brigade'. I wing the song as well as I can, and since the lads all seem to be singing different melodies, this doesn't matter too much. More songs are called for : 'The Foggy Dew' , 'The Rifles Of The IRA' and, naturally, 'The Men Behind The Wire'.
By this stage, though, I am getting concerned that I am going to end up charged with inciting a riot. Again, this is no reflection on my musical prowess. It is more the behaviour of the 'rebels' that is concerning me. They are gathered close around me, roaring out the words, and one man has taken to keeping time by pounding ferociously on the shop shutter behind me. For once in my life, I feel that it is perhaps not the best moment to get into the national question. Or to inform them that I am, in fact, Protestant, and that renditions of 'The Men Behind The Wire' were, shall we say, less-then-compulsory during my own northern upbringing.
Eventually, though, one of their number prevails on the rest to depart into the night, though not before they deposit yet more of the contents of their wallets into my case.
Calming down, I decide to return to my folkier ways, though not before hiding my swag from the previous five minutes. Still, the generosity continues as I play another few songs. One couple give their young son money to put in his mouth and spit into my case. He enjoys this so much he keeps going back and asking them for more - I don't know what it is with children's mouths and money, but it did my busking profits no end of good. However with my mood on a high I am, of course, due a visit from the guards.
"Pack up and move on," I'm gruffly ordered.
"Why?"
"It's getting too late," he replies.
Sure, I could ignore him and play on, but I am more than happy with my night's 'work', and deep down, I think he is right. I certainly wouldn't want to hear someone singing outside my house after midnight, particularly if they sounded like me. Peter and I make our way back to the Hot Press offices to count the takings from the previous half-hour. Which come in at . . . #26.10. #26!! For half an hour!! Have I found a new career?
Not really, no. My day of busking has been by turns embarrassing, dispiriting, entertaining and hilarious. To those of you who are considering it, I have one piece of advice: if you can ensure that your audience is comprised of tourists, republicans, infants and the hopelessly drunk, you will make a fortune.
I wouldn't do it again unless I found myself in the direst of straits. Singing in public is bad enough, but doing so on the street while hoping people will toss you a coin, just isn't my thing.
"Still", I think to myself as I make my way home, "it's a long time since I ended a Saturday night #35 richer than I started."
I jingle as I walk. n
Next Issue: The real buskers have their say. NIALL STANAGE hears about the lives and times of those who make their living on the street.