Busking

With the sun setting behind us, my band finished up the last song of the set, infusing our music into Portland’s summer street scene. Sitting on my drum throne, I had the perfect vantage point to the familiar setting that had unfolded before me while busking at this beach park over the last four years. Street performing was always a series of fleeting interactions with the audience, but for the elderly lady who watched us from her apartment balcony across the street, our music had become a constant companion for her through the years.

Since taking a class to learn this art form, busking has become one of my annual summer jobs. While my love of music and filling the tip jar were the original motivators to continue, this evolved after seeing busking’s potential to impact others. I discovered this by learning about the lady on the balcony, as her daughter would come down to put a couple of dollars in the tip jar every few nights. She was a music lover, too frail to leave her house, but eagerly awaited our summer shows. Nostalgia drove her to the balcony, especially when we played her favorite song from the ’60s, “Ticket to Ride.” Our performances eased isolation’s toll on her, and this bond became a powerful force, drawing me to the same spot year after year instead of traveling like most buskers do.

Adding value to the communities we play in is an unspoken rule for any busker. My bandmates and I had to carefully craft the perfect set list, a process filled with passionate debates, negotiation, and compromise. By working together and drawing on each member’s strengths, we always came up with the ideal Beatles-to-Drake ratio to ensure our shows authentically connected with our audiences.

But despite our best efforts to put on the perfect show, cringeworthy moments were inevitable. No experience has taught me more about adaptability than being completely humbled when our generator ran out of gas mid-set. We wrapped up the song acoustic-style and took a quick five while I dashed to the gas station during an unexpected Pacific Northwest rain shower. Keeping this show going while someone yelled, “You suck!” out of a passing bus, with a packed audience watching, was the ultimate resilience-builder. Although humiliating at the time, this taught me how to push through and think on my feet, no matter what obstacles the outside world might throw my way, and these lessons deepened my purpose for performing.

I carried this purpose with me as a Hospital volunteer tasked with patient comfort. My afternoons were spent weaving in and out of patient rooms, supplying them with warm blankets, extra pillows, and conversation. Afraid of awkward silence, I tried different topics, including “Are you listening to anything good these days?”. I quickly discovered that music was a universal language, a wonderful distraction during times of discomfort for the patient and myself as I learned to navigate unfamiliar responsibilities. Patients would share with me how the constant beeping of the machines and other Hospital noises elevated the already scary feelings of being there. I began bringing my guitar, and during slow times of the day, I would strum riffs in the lobby, softening the wailing ambulance noises and taking the edge out of the code blues heard over the loudspeaker. Being able to turn feelings of fear into a sense of healing meant a great deal to me.

These experiences showed me that my actions can impact others in unexpected, meaningful ways. These can be long-lasting bonds, like the lady on the balcony or a brief interaction that provides temporary solace. As I continue into the next phase of life, I imagine a future where I can continue intertwining two things I hold close to my heart: sharing music and supporting others in their most vulnerable moments.