Just last Sunday afternoon (7/25/04), I was up on 15th Avenue East near the Café Ladro, across from the QFC (Capitol Hill in Seattle), when I encountered a fellow playing a cheap but serviceable imitation of a Martin D-Model and singing. His guitar playing was simple but adequate (straight chords with an occasional bass run), and he had a quite a good singing voice, especially for country and western songs.

The Café Ladro converts to a sidewalk café when the weather is good. Since the sun was shining and the temperature was in the low eighties, there was a fair number of people to provide an audience. They were obviously enjoying his performance, so I leaned against a parking meter and hung around a bit. One of the fellows sitting at a table kept requesting Johnny Cash songs, all of which the young busker was able to provide. He also tossed in several other songs, well-known and obscure. One couple there had a little girl with them, maybe about four-years-old (cute, big eyes, ribbons in her dark hair, blue dress and black Mary Jane shoes). She was having fun. She watched and listened to the singer intently. Café Ladro patrons would hand her dollar bills for the busker, and she made frequent trips to drop them into the metal plate he had by his guitar case. Without being so nosey and crude as to try to do a precise eyeball count of his take, I took note that there was quite a salad of ones there, garnished with a fair amount of change, and I could see at least one fiver in the mix. He was doing pretty well.

After a while, he took a break and I talked to him a bit. He'd been playing and singing for twelve years, he told me, and he was self-taught on the guitar (I noticed that some of his chord fingerings were a little weird, but they worked). His repertoire consisted mostly of country songs: lots of Johnny Cash (although he had to up the key, because his voice wasn't as deep as Johnny Cash's), Brad Paisley, Clint Black, and others. "How many songs do I know? Well, at least 250, maybe as many as 300. I'm learning new ones all the time." I told him that I was in the thick of the folk music, coffeehouse scene back in the Sixties. He offered me his guitar and asked me if I'd like to sing. I demurred, saying, "It's your audience. I don't want to cut in." He told me that he'd had to borrow the guitar he was using from a friend. "Somebody stole my good guitar," he said. I sympathized, saying, "That sounds like the opening line of a good country song." He laughed and agreed, pulled out a small notebook (I could see it contained a long list of song titles) and wrote a note to himself.

I was just returning from the grocery store and I had to get home, but as I started to leave I remembered that I had two dollars and some change in my jacket pocket where I'd stuffed it as I emerged from check-out. I fished out the two dollar bills and dropped them into his plate. "Hey, thanks!" he said. "I really appreciate that." "Gotta support the profession," sez I. I waved and took off for home. He picked up the guitar and started to sing again.

Hell's bells! For years I had regular jobs singing in coffeehouses and clubs (for negotiated regular pay, not for tips, although I got a lot of those, too), and I did folk festivals, concerts, and television. But seeing and listening to that young guy made me wish I was his age again and doing what he was doing. I was inspired. When I got home, I pulled out my guitar and practiced for a couple of hours.

Busking is offering a service. You can accept or not, and you're free to pay something for it—or not. It isn't begging. It's an age-old tradition. Minstrels and troubadours (many of whom provided the more ancient songs and ballads that we sing today), if they were not lucky enough to be working in a castle or manor-house for a rich patron, would make their way by singing in the town square, hoping that the people they entertained would toss them a few coppers. Not begging.

Standing outside the 7/11, accosting people, asking them if they have any spare change, and offering nothing in return but a well-rehearsed woeful expression—now that is begging.

Don Firth