Sunday, August 28, 2005
If food be the music of life...
Friday afternoon saw me hanging out at Pek Kio hawker centre (near Farrer Park and Little India) with a friend who, like me, appreciates good food and happens to be a walking encyclopedia of eating places. On this occasion, we were there for a good cup of coffee before meeting some other friends for lunch at Little India.
My friend waxed lyrical about this particular stalls’ coffee, but also mentioned the eccentric nature of the man who made the coffee. An old-timer with perfectionistic tendencies, he was known to evaluate cups of coffee by using a metal teaspoon to scoop up some coffee and let it drip back into the cup, presumably to check on its consistency or colour. If it did not meet his exacting standards, he would pour it away and start over. He would also insist on keeping his cups hot, in the belief that making the perfect cuppa requires everything to be maintained at a high temperature.
When I went to order the coffee, I got to observe him making a new batch of brew. He was a quiet man, speaking only to clarify orders, otherwise they would be acknowledged with the slightest of nods. His face had an intense expression, framed by his grayish fringe which would have been neatly combed up but dropped down the side of his face. Faded polo T-shirt, bermudas held up by a leather belt and rubber slippers are the de rigueur attire for most hawkers, and he did not stray from that. His female helper, perhaps his wife, did most of the talking to customers and helped to spoon in the milk and sugar after he put down the cups of black coffee.
The stall itself is like most other hawker stalls, a small squarish cubicle slightly less than 2m x 2m, decked out with stainless steel cabinets, sinks, stoves, counters, cabinets etc and having just enough space for two people to stand in. In his little corner he had an assortment of coffee making paraphernalia, like the long spouted conical pot, coffee filter, assorted stainless steel mugs and spoons, all arranged neatly and hung within easy reach, as would the tools at a good workbench.
To start off, he poured away the bottom portion of coffee in his conical pot. With a large metal mug and deft motions, he scooped up hot water from a heated reservoir to flush the pot. He then scooped out some ground coffee powder from a biscuit tin, mixed it with hot water and proceeded to pour it into the conical pot through the filter, repeating the filtering process a few times. Amazingly, at the speed at which he did all this, he never splashed any hot water around or got burnt. He then produced 2 small ceramic cups on plastic saucers, the traditional coffee-serving utensils. Pouring the freshly brewed coffee from the spout of the conical pot, he mixed in just the right amount of hot water from his metal mug to taste. The final step was for his helper to add the sugar or milk according to the customer’s order. The entire process was carried out with the kind of practised precision which comes only from years of repetition.
The final cuppa was a marvel. I had mine with sugar, without milk (ie. Kopi-O in local terms). The familiar coffee aroma had a bold character with a lingering aftertaste, without being overpowering. The sugar blended with the coffee flavour in a subtle manner to complement, rather than to tone down the bitterness. It had a delightfully light texture with a slight hint of roast to top it off at each mouthful. There was no hint of the burnt, smoky pungence that characterizes the local Starbucks brews, nor was it overly acidic or astringent to leave the tongue feeling dry or raw.
My friend and I sipped our coffee at a leisurely pace, seated at the outer edge of the hawker centre, which was windier. Hawker centres are usually located in the middle of public housing estates, managed by the Housing Development Board (HDB). Comprising mostly high-rise flats of varying room capacity, this is the kind of housing that most Singaporeans live in, and these estates are probably the best place to observe a typical day in the average Singaporean's life.
It was filled with the usual hawker centre denizens. There’s the ubiquitous office worker, long sleeved-shirt rolled up and tie tucked in between the buttons for a quick and cheap bite before heading back to the grind. The middle-aged, immaculately-coiffed towkays (bosses) decked out in gaudy shirts and tasteless displays of wealth like huge gold chains, Rolex watches etc. The average HDB apartment resident in all their singlet-and-slippers glory. The frail, elderly woman who ekes out a living collecting used drink cans or peddling tissues. And of course, who can forget the old retiree idling away to an afternoon beer? Don't forget the leg propped up on the neighbouring seat.
It was in the midst of this low-cost relaxation therapy that we stumbled upon a frightening thought. These old fellows making the good coffee and good food don’t seem to be passing on their skills to anyone, like some reclusive gong-fu master with no disciples.
When these guys die off, what are we going to eat?
We didn’t have an answer to that. We just ordered another cup of coffee.
My friend waxed lyrical about this particular stalls’ coffee, but also mentioned the eccentric nature of the man who made the coffee. An old-timer with perfectionistic tendencies, he was known to evaluate cups of coffee by using a metal teaspoon to scoop up some coffee and let it drip back into the cup, presumably to check on its consistency or colour. If it did not meet his exacting standards, he would pour it away and start over. He would also insist on keeping his cups hot, in the belief that making the perfect cuppa requires everything to be maintained at a high temperature.
When I went to order the coffee, I got to observe him making a new batch of brew. He was a quiet man, speaking only to clarify orders, otherwise they would be acknowledged with the slightest of nods. His face had an intense expression, framed by his grayish fringe which would have been neatly combed up but dropped down the side of his face. Faded polo T-shirt, bermudas held up by a leather belt and rubber slippers are the de rigueur attire for most hawkers, and he did not stray from that. His female helper, perhaps his wife, did most of the talking to customers and helped to spoon in the milk and sugar after he put down the cups of black coffee.
The stall itself is like most other hawker stalls, a small squarish cubicle slightly less than 2m x 2m, decked out with stainless steel cabinets, sinks, stoves, counters, cabinets etc and having just enough space for two people to stand in. In his little corner he had an assortment of coffee making paraphernalia, like the long spouted conical pot, coffee filter, assorted stainless steel mugs and spoons, all arranged neatly and hung within easy reach, as would the tools at a good workbench.
To start off, he poured away the bottom portion of coffee in his conical pot. With a large metal mug and deft motions, he scooped up hot water from a heated reservoir to flush the pot. He then scooped out some ground coffee powder from a biscuit tin, mixed it with hot water and proceeded to pour it into the conical pot through the filter, repeating the filtering process a few times. Amazingly, at the speed at which he did all this, he never splashed any hot water around or got burnt. He then produced 2 small ceramic cups on plastic saucers, the traditional coffee-serving utensils. Pouring the freshly brewed coffee from the spout of the conical pot, he mixed in just the right amount of hot water from his metal mug to taste. The final step was for his helper to add the sugar or milk according to the customer’s order. The entire process was carried out with the kind of practised precision which comes only from years of repetition.
The final cuppa was a marvel. I had mine with sugar, without milk (ie. Kopi-O in local terms). The familiar coffee aroma had a bold character with a lingering aftertaste, without being overpowering. The sugar blended with the coffee flavour in a subtle manner to complement, rather than to tone down the bitterness. It had a delightfully light texture with a slight hint of roast to top it off at each mouthful. There was no hint of the burnt, smoky pungence that characterizes the local Starbucks brews, nor was it overly acidic or astringent to leave the tongue feeling dry or raw.
My friend and I sipped our coffee at a leisurely pace, seated at the outer edge of the hawker centre, which was windier. Hawker centres are usually located in the middle of public housing estates, managed by the Housing Development Board (HDB). Comprising mostly high-rise flats of varying room capacity, this is the kind of housing that most Singaporeans live in, and these estates are probably the best place to observe a typical day in the average Singaporean's life.
It was filled with the usual hawker centre denizens. There’s the ubiquitous office worker, long sleeved-shirt rolled up and tie tucked in between the buttons for a quick and cheap bite before heading back to the grind. The middle-aged, immaculately-coiffed towkays (bosses) decked out in gaudy shirts and tasteless displays of wealth like huge gold chains, Rolex watches etc. The average HDB apartment resident in all their singlet-and-slippers glory. The frail, elderly woman who ekes out a living collecting used drink cans or peddling tissues. And of course, who can forget the old retiree idling away to an afternoon beer? Don't forget the leg propped up on the neighbouring seat.
It was in the midst of this low-cost relaxation therapy that we stumbled upon a frightening thought. These old fellows making the good coffee and good food don’t seem to be passing on their skills to anyone, like some reclusive gong-fu master with no disciples.
When these guys die off, what are we going to eat?
We didn’t have an answer to that. We just ordered another cup of coffee.
Thursday, August 18, 2005
Memoirs of a busker - Final Episode
The 3rd Day – Part 2
A voice interrupted me; “ Hello brother, can you play Let It Be?” When I looked up I saw a slightly balding guy who was probably in his 50s, his coarse, leathery skin tanned by many hours in the sun and the lines on his face looked as though each one had a story to tell. He was dressed simply in a T-shirt with some brand of petrol on it, trousers and a well-worn pair of shoes. Thinking that he was probably a retiree hoping to hear a familiar song and not wanting to turn him down too directly, I offered an excuse; “Sorry ah uncle I can play lah but I cannot sing.” (which is more of a fact than an excuse really.)
“Nevermind lah I sing!” and without waiting for my reply he put down his traveling bag and sat down right beside me. A little surprised, I thought it would be rather rude to refuse now so I duly obliged and tuned my guitar back to standard tuning. I strummed a chord to indicate the starting key and off we went.
The song itself started rather shakily, thanks to the fact that I don’t play these songs all that often and was desperately trying to figure out the chords for the song as I went along. His erratic sense of timing didn’t help much. Still, he gamely went along with the song and closed his eyes as he belted out the words in a strained, gravelly baritone.
And when the broken-hearted people
Living in this world agree
There will be an answer
Let it be
As I got into the groove of the song somehow my shyness and reservations disappeared and ignoring all notions about my singing ability, I started singing along at the chorus.
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be,
There will be an answer
Let it be
It all happened so fast I could barely comprehend it. The moment I started singing I felt as though my already-high spirits were being lifted up even higher and as I sang, every word got louder and louder. The resulting cacophony was almost like two mad dogs howling in an elevator but I really didn’t care if anyone stared at us like we were crazy. All my worries about my love life, studies, hall crap suddenly disappeared as I felt as though I were being elevated to a higher level. Level of what I don’t know, but all of a sudden these things just appeared to be so trivial. It was as though they were really that way all along and I never realised it until it suddenly dawned upon me. It felt really good.
At that moment nothing short of a battalion-level full-frontal assault could stop the two of us and by the time the song was over, I felt as though I’d just undergone a sort of initiation into the life of busking. Of singing and playing like there was no yesterday and no tomorrow, just living for today. Before I could fully comprehend what had just happened, the old guy turned to me and muttered “Country Roads, the John Denver one.”
Without hesitation I started playing that song and we did the same thing, he singing the verse and I joining in at the chorus. Now that I think about it, it must have been a very comical sight. One old-timer and one young guy sitting on the floor, both shabbily dressed, crooning like horny bullfrogs and one of them pounding out chords on a beat-up, slightly out of tune guitar.
In between verses, he nudged me with his elbow and gestured somewhere, flashing a happy toothless grin. I glanced towards where he was motioning and saw a well-dressed, middle-aged tai-tai looking at us with a mixture of amusement and pity. She must have thought it was comical too. She dug around in her purse and produced a $10 note, which she then handed to the old guy. He received it with both hands and a very grateful “Thank you”, after which he turned to me with that same but more delighted toothless grin.
After we were done with the song we introduced ourselves. His name was Costello and he played harmonica around the Orchard Road area too. He used to sell tissue but found it unprofitable so he switched to busking. I didn’t tell him too much about myself other than that I was doing this for fun.
He held up the note and said “This one, you 5 dollar, I 5 dollar ok?”
I gestured towards my guitar case and replied “It’s ok I have quite a bit here already. You keep lah.”
He didn’t argue with me on that. After putting the note in his pocket he said; “Eh you can play quite ok one…next time you come here you bring your guitar we busk together lah. Like that can earn more money!”
I took him up on his offer and agreed to do so if we met the next time I go busking, which hopefully won’t be too far away. I bade him farewell, packed up my stuff and made my way home with a renewed determination not to let the silly little things in life (such as pesky flute blowers) bother me too much ever again. Afterall, all I have to do is howl like a mad dog to get rid of my woes, right?
A voice interrupted me; “ Hello brother, can you play Let It Be?” When I looked up I saw a slightly balding guy who was probably in his 50s, his coarse, leathery skin tanned by many hours in the sun and the lines on his face looked as though each one had a story to tell. He was dressed simply in a T-shirt with some brand of petrol on it, trousers and a well-worn pair of shoes. Thinking that he was probably a retiree hoping to hear a familiar song and not wanting to turn him down too directly, I offered an excuse; “Sorry ah uncle I can play lah but I cannot sing.” (which is more of a fact than an excuse really.)
“Nevermind lah I sing!” and without waiting for my reply he put down his traveling bag and sat down right beside me. A little surprised, I thought it would be rather rude to refuse now so I duly obliged and tuned my guitar back to standard tuning. I strummed a chord to indicate the starting key and off we went.
The song itself started rather shakily, thanks to the fact that I don’t play these songs all that often and was desperately trying to figure out the chords for the song as I went along. His erratic sense of timing didn’t help much. Still, he gamely went along with the song and closed his eyes as he belted out the words in a strained, gravelly baritone.
And when the broken-hearted people
Living in this world agree
There will be an answer
Let it be
As I got into the groove of the song somehow my shyness and reservations disappeared and ignoring all notions about my singing ability, I started singing along at the chorus.
Let it be, let it be, let it be, let it be,
There will be an answer
Let it be
It all happened so fast I could barely comprehend it. The moment I started singing I felt as though my already-high spirits were being lifted up even higher and as I sang, every word got louder and louder. The resulting cacophony was almost like two mad dogs howling in an elevator but I really didn’t care if anyone stared at us like we were crazy. All my worries about my love life, studies, hall crap suddenly disappeared as I felt as though I were being elevated to a higher level. Level of what I don’t know, but all of a sudden these things just appeared to be so trivial. It was as though they were really that way all along and I never realised it until it suddenly dawned upon me. It felt really good.
At that moment nothing short of a battalion-level full-frontal assault could stop the two of us and by the time the song was over, I felt as though I’d just undergone a sort of initiation into the life of busking. Of singing and playing like there was no yesterday and no tomorrow, just living for today. Before I could fully comprehend what had just happened, the old guy turned to me and muttered “Country Roads, the John Denver one.”
Without hesitation I started playing that song and we did the same thing, he singing the verse and I joining in at the chorus. Now that I think about it, it must have been a very comical sight. One old-timer and one young guy sitting on the floor, both shabbily dressed, crooning like horny bullfrogs and one of them pounding out chords on a beat-up, slightly out of tune guitar.
In between verses, he nudged me with his elbow and gestured somewhere, flashing a happy toothless grin. I glanced towards where he was motioning and saw a well-dressed, middle-aged tai-tai looking at us with a mixture of amusement and pity. She must have thought it was comical too. She dug around in her purse and produced a $10 note, which she then handed to the old guy. He received it with both hands and a very grateful “Thank you”, after which he turned to me with that same but more delighted toothless grin.
After we were done with the song we introduced ourselves. His name was Costello and he played harmonica around the Orchard Road area too. He used to sell tissue but found it unprofitable so he switched to busking. I didn’t tell him too much about myself other than that I was doing this for fun.
He held up the note and said “This one, you 5 dollar, I 5 dollar ok?”
I gestured towards my guitar case and replied “It’s ok I have quite a bit here already. You keep lah.”
He didn’t argue with me on that. After putting the note in his pocket he said; “Eh you can play quite ok one…next time you come here you bring your guitar we busk together lah. Like that can earn more money!”
I took him up on his offer and agreed to do so if we met the next time I go busking, which hopefully won’t be too far away. I bade him farewell, packed up my stuff and made my way home with a renewed determination not to let the silly little things in life (such as pesky flute blowers) bother me too much ever again. Afterall, all I have to do is howl like a mad dog to get rid of my woes, right?
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
Memoirs of a busker - Episode 3
The 2nd day
I occupied the same spot at the tunnel and played my usual blues stuff (what else?). The day seemed rather uneventful except for the high volume of chicks per unit human traffic flow. The only interesting thing to happen was that while I was playing I was approached by this portly middle-aged guy who worked for an events company. He asked if I did this for a living (!) and of course I let on that I was a student at NUS. Turned out that his company was going to organize some event involving buskers and he was wondering if I’d like to be a part of it. Not wanting to miss out on such an opportunity (and source of income) I agreed and we exchanged phone numbers and a few more pleasantries before he went his way.
At that time I figured this could more than make up for my lack of income that day ($10) in terms of the potential to earn more from a decent gig. Turned out later that I never heard from him since then. Wonder who else he got to play that function, if it happened at all.
After playing for 45 mins and getting only $10 I decided to break for lunch and return to try my luck again. However, when I came back I found my spot occupied by some nerdy looking dweeb who played classical flute while reading the score on his lap. In the empty ice cream tub he used to collect money he displayed something that caught my eye:
NATIONAL ARTS COUNCIL LICENSE
Guess he could be bothered with all that bureaucratic red tape. Good for him. At this time I noticed that his ice cream tub already had a substantial number of $2 notes which probably added up to more than my takings for the day. And I’d only been gone for half an hour. I waited for another half an hour at Borders before returning and I still saw him there, except that his tub by now was overflowing with notes of up to $10.
Shucks. I guess playing a classical instrument, classical repertoire and having a license gave him much more earning power. I slung my guitar over my shoulder and headed back home.
The 3rd Day
This time when I got to the tunnel that danged flute player was there again. One thing which caught me by surprise was that he played the same song that he played the last time I saw him! Perhaps it’s coincidence, I told myself. Content to wait for my turn, I went into Wheelock Place, sat down on the bench next to the escalator and took out a book to read. Incidentally this book is called The Mastery Of Music by Barry Green, which describes the personality traits observed in players of certain instruments within an orchestral context. For example, he describes trumpet players and percussionists as being people with confidence, viola players as tolerant people who serve best as mediators and so on and so forth (Wonder what he’d have to say about flute players). A very interesting read even for the non-classical amateur musician like myself, perhaps even for the non-musician. Do have a look at it if you see it at the bookstore.
Within 2 minutes of sitting there and hearing that flute player, I realised that he was playing the introduction of some classical song (you know, the kind that everyone knows the tune to but no one remembers the title) every time someone walked past and when they were out of earshot he simply stopped playing! He carried on doing this for a good 50 minutes and by then I’d probably heard the first few bars of that song about a thousand times. “What an ABSOLUTE FRAUD!” I thought to myself. My way was that I’d just play on even if there wasn’t anyone because chances are someone could be coming down the escalator from where I can’t see and besides, it’s about the music and the song. On top of that, my personal belief (which applies outside of music as well) is that if you start something you should finish it too.
Along comes this slacker who pulls a top class money-wrangling act with his totally deplorable methods, playing the same notes to death only for the sake of playing when people are around without sparing a thought for musicality. While of course it may seem as though I’m adopting a “holier-than-thou” attitude, I can at least safely say that when I play, I do it mainly for the music and the enjoyment of it, not just for the opportunity to profit. Not that I would mind getting any cash, mind you, but I’d prefer to stay true to my personal convictions while I’m doing it.
Enough ranting. Once that flute blower (note the change of term) buggered off I occupied the spot and did my usual thing. This time round I was getting noticeably increased audience interest. A pair of Indian girls dropped off a $2 note each and stood around to listen till I ended the song with a bemused smile on their faces, probably wondering who on earth would make such weird, curious noises on a guitar. As I finished off the song I looked up and returned the smile, and they carried on towards Wheelock.
A while later I noticed a group of teenage girls of varying racial mix crowding around at the escalator end of the tunnel, consisting of a few blondes and brunettes. They were there for a about 1 minute or so and after that, they sent one representative over to drop a $2 note. Fortunately for me it seems they picked the best-looking of the lot, a fair Eurasian brunette. Things were really looking good for the day, but there was more to come.
To be continued...
I occupied the same spot at the tunnel and played my usual blues stuff (what else?). The day seemed rather uneventful except for the high volume of chicks per unit human traffic flow. The only interesting thing to happen was that while I was playing I was approached by this portly middle-aged guy who worked for an events company. He asked if I did this for a living (!) and of course I let on that I was a student at NUS. Turned out that his company was going to organize some event involving buskers and he was wondering if I’d like to be a part of it. Not wanting to miss out on such an opportunity (and source of income) I agreed and we exchanged phone numbers and a few more pleasantries before he went his way.
At that time I figured this could more than make up for my lack of income that day ($10) in terms of the potential to earn more from a decent gig. Turned out later that I never heard from him since then. Wonder who else he got to play that function, if it happened at all.
After playing for 45 mins and getting only $10 I decided to break for lunch and return to try my luck again. However, when I came back I found my spot occupied by some nerdy looking dweeb who played classical flute while reading the score on his lap. In the empty ice cream tub he used to collect money he displayed something that caught my eye:
NATIONAL ARTS COUNCIL LICENSE
Guess he could be bothered with all that bureaucratic red tape. Good for him. At this time I noticed that his ice cream tub already had a substantial number of $2 notes which probably added up to more than my takings for the day. And I’d only been gone for half an hour. I waited for another half an hour at Borders before returning and I still saw him there, except that his tub by now was overflowing with notes of up to $10.
Shucks. I guess playing a classical instrument, classical repertoire and having a license gave him much more earning power. I slung my guitar over my shoulder and headed back home.
The 3rd Day
This time when I got to the tunnel that danged flute player was there again. One thing which caught me by surprise was that he played the same song that he played the last time I saw him! Perhaps it’s coincidence, I told myself. Content to wait for my turn, I went into Wheelock Place, sat down on the bench next to the escalator and took out a book to read. Incidentally this book is called The Mastery Of Music by Barry Green, which describes the personality traits observed in players of certain instruments within an orchestral context. For example, he describes trumpet players and percussionists as being people with confidence, viola players as tolerant people who serve best as mediators and so on and so forth (Wonder what he’d have to say about flute players). A very interesting read even for the non-classical amateur musician like myself, perhaps even for the non-musician. Do have a look at it if you see it at the bookstore.
Within 2 minutes of sitting there and hearing that flute player, I realised that he was playing the introduction of some classical song (you know, the kind that everyone knows the tune to but no one remembers the title) every time someone walked past and when they were out of earshot he simply stopped playing! He carried on doing this for a good 50 minutes and by then I’d probably heard the first few bars of that song about a thousand times. “What an ABSOLUTE FRAUD!” I thought to myself. My way was that I’d just play on even if there wasn’t anyone because chances are someone could be coming down the escalator from where I can’t see and besides, it’s about the music and the song. On top of that, my personal belief (which applies outside of music as well) is that if you start something you should finish it too.
Along comes this slacker who pulls a top class money-wrangling act with his totally deplorable methods, playing the same notes to death only for the sake of playing when people are around without sparing a thought for musicality. While of course it may seem as though I’m adopting a “holier-than-thou” attitude, I can at least safely say that when I play, I do it mainly for the music and the enjoyment of it, not just for the opportunity to profit. Not that I would mind getting any cash, mind you, but I’d prefer to stay true to my personal convictions while I’m doing it.
Enough ranting. Once that flute blower (note the change of term) buggered off I occupied the spot and did my usual thing. This time round I was getting noticeably increased audience interest. A pair of Indian girls dropped off a $2 note each and stood around to listen till I ended the song with a bemused smile on their faces, probably wondering who on earth would make such weird, curious noises on a guitar. As I finished off the song I looked up and returned the smile, and they carried on towards Wheelock.
A while later I noticed a group of teenage girls of varying racial mix crowding around at the escalator end of the tunnel, consisting of a few blondes and brunettes. They were there for a about 1 minute or so and after that, they sent one representative over to drop a $2 note. Fortunately for me it seems they picked the best-looking of the lot, a fair Eurasian brunette. Things were really looking good for the day, but there was more to come.
To be continued...
Sunday, August 14, 2005
Memoirs of a Busker - Episode 2
The First Day – Part 2
I headed down towards Orchard Rd with zero income but increased resolve, knowing that surely no one would hassle me at the Wheelock Place underpass. Afterall there were a few buskers there from time to time. I’d just wait till there’s no one then I’ll start doing my thing.
As I walked towards my location I passed by several buskers. There was the usual blind fellow near the MRT station playing the keyboards this time, an old fellow playing er-hu near Wisma and some weird mime artist whose act consisted of staying stationary in some white feather outfit next to a plastic skeleton cradling a baby. Didn’t read his sign too closely but it seemed to be something about world peace. Oh well, to each his own.
Seeing these guys a thought entered my mind; “Am I depriving these guys of a living? Me, a lucky chap from a middle-income family studying in NUS competing with these guys for loose change?” Apart from that weirdo with the skeleton I suddenly felt a tinge of guilt. I then decided that I would share some of whatever fortune I amassed that day with the rest of the buskers. After all, I was in this just for the kicks. Yeah man, just for the kicks.
As luck would have it my intended spot was vacant. Not wasting any time I sat down on the floor and started playing my usual slide stuff. Upon playing my first few notes the acoustic quality of the place struck me. All of a sudden my guitar sounded so much livelier in this relatively large but enclosed area. Human traffic was minimal so it didn’t affect the sound much. Inspired by the circumstances, I dived into my first tune with gusto.
Response was non-existent at first. A whole lot of Orchard Roadies passed me by without so much as a glance to see where the noise was coming from. Some of them were jabbering on their handphones so I lowered my volume when they passed by to avoid being a nuisance. The first 10 minutes or so saw my guitar case being as empty as it was at the beginning till a nice old lady probably took pity on this guy playing an old beat-up guitar as though his life depended on it. She dropped a 50 cent coin and in between licks I looked up and thanked her. Apparently she didn’t think much of it and thus didn’t respond. Well she’d been gracious enough to spare that coin anyway and I was grateful enough, thrilled at my first income for the day.
The next few minutes that followed just happened in a flurry. All of a sudden a $2 note appeared courtesy of an angmor mother with her kids, and a few more of those followed, with some coins in between. I didn’t really do a demographic survey but most of them seemed to be expats, tourists or nice old ladies. And exactly one Jap-looking chick. I thought to myself “Man, this is starting to look real good!” Plus, lots and lots of eye candy were walking through the tunnel and while my hands were busy making the music, my eyes were busy making merry. “Yeah this is the life man…I’m having fun playing guitar, spreading my music, get to see lots of chicks, and getting money for it. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?” No one stopped to listen or anything like that but I still enjoyed myself.
It was in this process that I discovered the use of the hat. I felt obliged to look back at everyone who looked at me and somehow the hat afforded me some degree of comfort in that respect. While of course I would have liked to establish eye contact with everyone who took an interest in what I was doing, it still felt awkward just sitting there and looking at people. It is only now after I sat down to write this that I realised I shouldn’t have worn the hat because I feel it somehow reduces the audience connection with the performer. Or something like that. Plus, I could be missing out on some real fine chicks. Sure, taking away the hat reduces the cool factor somewhat but weighed against the abovementioned reasons, it’s not a big deal really. Ok next time round (next holiday when I decide to go busking again I mean) I’ll leave the hat at home.
By the time I’d finally decided I was done for the day I’d accumulated $17 in my case, in all denominations lower than $2. Not much by usual busking standards but not bad still for 45-50 mins work. Much better money than working as some crummy sales promoter and it’s a lot more fun. In fact, I wasn’t really expecting to get much more than $4 in loose coins. Then once more I reminded myself why I was doing this. Yeap you guessed it. Just for the kicks.
Not wanting to break my promise to myself I gave some to the buskers I saw on my way back to the station. I then decided to come back next week on the same day.
To be continued.....
I headed down towards Orchard Rd with zero income but increased resolve, knowing that surely no one would hassle me at the Wheelock Place underpass. Afterall there were a few buskers there from time to time. I’d just wait till there’s no one then I’ll start doing my thing.
As I walked towards my location I passed by several buskers. There was the usual blind fellow near the MRT station playing the keyboards this time, an old fellow playing er-hu near Wisma and some weird mime artist whose act consisted of staying stationary in some white feather outfit next to a plastic skeleton cradling a baby. Didn’t read his sign too closely but it seemed to be something about world peace. Oh well, to each his own.
Seeing these guys a thought entered my mind; “Am I depriving these guys of a living? Me, a lucky chap from a middle-income family studying in NUS competing with these guys for loose change?” Apart from that weirdo with the skeleton I suddenly felt a tinge of guilt. I then decided that I would share some of whatever fortune I amassed that day with the rest of the buskers. After all, I was in this just for the kicks. Yeah man, just for the kicks.
As luck would have it my intended spot was vacant. Not wasting any time I sat down on the floor and started playing my usual slide stuff. Upon playing my first few notes the acoustic quality of the place struck me. All of a sudden my guitar sounded so much livelier in this relatively large but enclosed area. Human traffic was minimal so it didn’t affect the sound much. Inspired by the circumstances, I dived into my first tune with gusto.
Response was non-existent at first. A whole lot of Orchard Roadies passed me by without so much as a glance to see where the noise was coming from. Some of them were jabbering on their handphones so I lowered my volume when they passed by to avoid being a nuisance. The first 10 minutes or so saw my guitar case being as empty as it was at the beginning till a nice old lady probably took pity on this guy playing an old beat-up guitar as though his life depended on it. She dropped a 50 cent coin and in between licks I looked up and thanked her. Apparently she didn’t think much of it and thus didn’t respond. Well she’d been gracious enough to spare that coin anyway and I was grateful enough, thrilled at my first income for the day.
The next few minutes that followed just happened in a flurry. All of a sudden a $2 note appeared courtesy of an angmor mother with her kids, and a few more of those followed, with some coins in between. I didn’t really do a demographic survey but most of them seemed to be expats, tourists or nice old ladies. And exactly one Jap-looking chick. I thought to myself “Man, this is starting to look real good!” Plus, lots and lots of eye candy were walking through the tunnel and while my hands were busy making the music, my eyes were busy making merry. “Yeah this is the life man…I’m having fun playing guitar, spreading my music, get to see lots of chicks, and getting money for it. Why didn’t I think of this earlier?” No one stopped to listen or anything like that but I still enjoyed myself.
It was in this process that I discovered the use of the hat. I felt obliged to look back at everyone who looked at me and somehow the hat afforded me some degree of comfort in that respect. While of course I would have liked to establish eye contact with everyone who took an interest in what I was doing, it still felt awkward just sitting there and looking at people. It is only now after I sat down to write this that I realised I shouldn’t have worn the hat because I feel it somehow reduces the audience connection with the performer. Or something like that. Plus, I could be missing out on some real fine chicks. Sure, taking away the hat reduces the cool factor somewhat but weighed against the abovementioned reasons, it’s not a big deal really. Ok next time round (next holiday when I decide to go busking again I mean) I’ll leave the hat at home.
By the time I’d finally decided I was done for the day I’d accumulated $17 in my case, in all denominations lower than $2. Not much by usual busking standards but not bad still for 45-50 mins work. Much better money than working as some crummy sales promoter and it’s a lot more fun. In fact, I wasn’t really expecting to get much more than $4 in loose coins. Then once more I reminded myself why I was doing this. Yeap you guessed it. Just for the kicks.
Not wanting to break my promise to myself I gave some to the buskers I saw on my way back to the station. I then decided to come back next week on the same day.
To be continued.....
Friday, August 12, 2005
Memoirs of a Busker - Episode 1
In view of the recent drought in blog-worthy experiences, I've decided to put up this piece of writing I did way back in my first year of undergraduate studies. Re-reading it a few years later, some parts really made me cringe ("Did I really write that?") while some brought back great memories. It's not the best of narrative writing (remember, this was just slightly after 2.5 years in the military) but in order to preserve the original spirit, it will be left untouched and may contain some sentences in Singlish (our colloquial version of English), but should otherwise be comprehendible for the most part. I'll be putting it up in parts, so watch this page.
Alright, here goes.
Memoirs of a busker
Time: Vacation period between 1st and 2nd year of undergrad studies at NUS
It all started innocently enough. My vacation period was 1 week old and I was racking my brains trying to decide how to while away my 3 months of free time. Job openings were dismal apart from telemarketing (urgh) and some dodgy looking ads which went “Earn easy money! No experience required! Work from home! Call 6******* for enquiries.” In my mind I pictured the guy picking up the phone on the other end somewhere in a dark, dank, cluttered “office” in the middle of a seedy district saying “HAH? You looking for who? Orrrhhhh job ah? You come my office I tell you more…aiyah don’t ask so much lah you come down you will know one!”
If I wanted to get ripped off and serve as slave labour I’d go right back into the army, thank you very much.
Overseas trips were out of the question ($$$ - what else?). So what was a hot-blooded young man full of boundless creative energy (Hah! Got you there didn’t I?) to do for 3 months?
A Wednesday night found me at my grandmother’s place having dinner with some relatives who asked about my holiday. Upon replying politely that I was still looking for a job, one of my more jovial and outspoken uncles interjected in half-jest; “Eh since you can play guitar why not you go out and be busker?”
The rational, law-abiding NUS undergraduate in me, having been taught to toe the line and stay out of trouble since Day 1 in this huge indoctrination machine we know as The Singapore Education System, responded almost instantaneously, not unlike a reflex action; “Aiyah like that sure kena caught by police one! Want to apply license damn troublesome one…”
This time my uncle responded in full-jest; “Eh young man, like that do things then more exciting mah! Do things don’t let police catch got more kick what!”
My uncle had no idea what seeds he had just planted.
That night after dinner I mulled over what my uncle said. I started asking myself “Why should I?” and after a while I strayed towards “Why not?” I’d always wondered what life would be like as a vagabond traveler with nothing more than his guitar, a well-worn hat smelling of loose change and the shirt on his back (for those of you who know your blues just think Lightning Hopkins). And don’t forget the tacky shades. After all, I’ve slept in the streets before (I’ll tell you about it if you ask me) and I’ve done my time with a donation tin in my hands. Busking just seemed like a natural progression. Illegally at that.
“Like that do things then more exciting mah!”
Those words rang through my head and it was decided that very night. Illegal busking it shall be then. I had no intention of going through all the hassle of applying for a license and going for audition and all that crap. I steeled my resolve and decided to just grab my old Rossini guitar and head down to the first suitable location.
The First Day – Part 1
As I prepared to leave home, I picked the most grubby looking T-shirt I had paired with a worn-out pair of jeans along with my $2 Bata slippers (Those of you who’ve seen me in school won’t need much imagination). I also dusted off a black jungle hat which I’d bought a long time ago for some expedition. In the process this question crossed my mind; “Am I so ashamed to be seen playing for loose change in public that I have to wear a hat to cover my face?”
After pondering this silly question I realised that most of the people I know would recognise me with the hat anyway. Just part of the image I suppose. Later on I was to find out a better use for the hat (No it’s not for collecting the coins).
I boarded the train to City Hall and took the underground link to my intended destination: Esplanade underpass. The one that connects Citilink Mall to the Esplanade carpark and has ridiculous artsy pictures of people’s faces covered with food and what-not. It was a right-angled underpass so I situated myself right at the corner, where I could be heard and seen by people coming from both sides.
I left my guitar case open and started playing some slide blues in G. Just started off with a shuffle and added in licks as and when I felt like it. Kind of like what I’d do when I’m just noodling around at home, except that home isn’t an underpass.
Almost immediately something interesting occurred. A tall, fair plump guy who looked like a China tourist was admiring the weird pictures hanging on the wall and when I started playing, he sat down cross-legged towards my right. I noticed him from the corner of my eye under the brim of my hat but did not make full eye contact with him then, thinking that he was just waiting for someone. I just kept on playing and when I finally ended the tune, he stood up and clapped, saying “Bravo!” and walked off. I looked up at him, pinched the front brim of my hat in a sort of acknowledging manner and replied “Thank you.”
Gee that felt…weird. In a good way I suppose. Clearly he liked what I was doing and I was grateful for that. This marked a good beginning to my busking endeavors. Strangely however, he didn’t drop any coins. Oh well maybe next time. Maybe I was expecting too much for a first time busking session.
Anyway I continued playing and the rest of the crowd that followed was non-descript. The typical Shenton Way “I drive a BMW what are you driving?” yuppie types came and went, so did the lovey-dovey couples (I was to see a lot more of those in the remaining sessions) as well as the loud and exuberant secondary school students yakking and yakking away. A few old-timers passed me by too without letting my presence bother them. The only ones who showed any interest or curiosity in me were the bright-eyed little toddlers who were walking hand in hand with their mums, who seemingly quickened their pace upon noticing that their little one’s eyes had fallen on me. There weren’t too many people, maybe 1 of the above every 2 minutes or so. None of them dropped any cash.
I chuckled to myself at the irony of it all. In just a matter of minutes I’d seen the kind of life cycle that just about everyone else would be going through: Curious toddler who’s easily fascinated grows up into a student who then puts the innocence aside and learns how to score in exams, eventually getting a good job in an office and earning big bucks to fulfil his materialistic yearnings. Before he knows it he’s a retiree and soon enough he’s got to put on his best suit for the last time before they close the lid. (Depending on your religious beliefs he may come back again as a toddler or some other form of life.)
I was in the middle of my third song and had played for barely 15 minutes when a disarmingly friendly voice interrupted me; “Excuse me?”
I looked up and saw a security guard smiling at me like the guy on the Darlie toothpaste tube. Standing close by was a uniformed police officer staring me down with his best impersonation of good-ol’ Arnie. Seems like Mr Darlie decided to bring the Terminator along “just in case”. At that moment a chill shot down my spine (again for those of you who know your blues it’s kinda like that “lowdown shakin’ chill”).
I thought to myself, hoping that he’d somehow receive my thoughts telepathically; “Please don’t ask for my license.”
“Sorry ah you’re not allowed to play here. Don’t mind play somewhere further up can?” he continued, motioning towards Citilink Mall with his Maglite. Not forgetting the Mr Darlie Smile.
Understandably I was happy to oblige him. After shooting a glance at The Terminator, I packed up all my stuff with the 2 of them staying around to make sure that I didn’t linger. In fact, as I walked down the passageway they followed rather closely behind. Probably to make sure too I guess. They finally left me alone when I reached the escalator down to Citilink Mall. At this point of time I asked myself; “Why in the world am I doing this? I could have been jeopardizing my university education or *gasp* my FUTURE!!! How would a criminal record for illegal busking look on my resume? “ On hindsight of course all this proved to be absolutely ridiculous.
It didn’t take long for the irrational side of me to reply “Like that do things then more exciting mah!” Yeah man. It’s just for the kicks. Just for the kicks. I walked on towards the MRT to go to the next destination I had in mind (I do plan for contingencies sometimes yah?)
To be continued.....
Alright, here goes.
Memoirs of a busker
Time: Vacation period between 1st and 2nd year of undergrad studies at NUS
It all started innocently enough. My vacation period was 1 week old and I was racking my brains trying to decide how to while away my 3 months of free time. Job openings were dismal apart from telemarketing (urgh) and some dodgy looking ads which went “Earn easy money! No experience required! Work from home! Call 6******* for enquiries.” In my mind I pictured the guy picking up the phone on the other end somewhere in a dark, dank, cluttered “office” in the middle of a seedy district saying “HAH? You looking for who? Orrrhhhh job ah? You come my office I tell you more…aiyah don’t ask so much lah you come down you will know one!”
If I wanted to get ripped off and serve as slave labour I’d go right back into the army, thank you very much.
Overseas trips were out of the question ($$$ - what else?). So what was a hot-blooded young man full of boundless creative energy (Hah! Got you there didn’t I?) to do for 3 months?
A Wednesday night found me at my grandmother’s place having dinner with some relatives who asked about my holiday. Upon replying politely that I was still looking for a job, one of my more jovial and outspoken uncles interjected in half-jest; “Eh since you can play guitar why not you go out and be busker?”
The rational, law-abiding NUS undergraduate in me, having been taught to toe the line and stay out of trouble since Day 1 in this huge indoctrination machine we know as The Singapore Education System, responded almost instantaneously, not unlike a reflex action; “Aiyah like that sure kena caught by police one! Want to apply license damn troublesome one…”
This time my uncle responded in full-jest; “Eh young man, like that do things then more exciting mah! Do things don’t let police catch got more kick what!”
My uncle had no idea what seeds he had just planted.
That night after dinner I mulled over what my uncle said. I started asking myself “Why should I?” and after a while I strayed towards “Why not?” I’d always wondered what life would be like as a vagabond traveler with nothing more than his guitar, a well-worn hat smelling of loose change and the shirt on his back (for those of you who know your blues just think Lightning Hopkins). And don’t forget the tacky shades. After all, I’ve slept in the streets before (I’ll tell you about it if you ask me) and I’ve done my time with a donation tin in my hands. Busking just seemed like a natural progression. Illegally at that.
“Like that do things then more exciting mah!”
Those words rang through my head and it was decided that very night. Illegal busking it shall be then. I had no intention of going through all the hassle of applying for a license and going for audition and all that crap. I steeled my resolve and decided to just grab my old Rossini guitar and head down to the first suitable location.
The First Day – Part 1
As I prepared to leave home, I picked the most grubby looking T-shirt I had paired with a worn-out pair of jeans along with my $2 Bata slippers (Those of you who’ve seen me in school won’t need much imagination). I also dusted off a black jungle hat which I’d bought a long time ago for some expedition. In the process this question crossed my mind; “Am I so ashamed to be seen playing for loose change in public that I have to wear a hat to cover my face?”
After pondering this silly question I realised that most of the people I know would recognise me with the hat anyway. Just part of the image I suppose. Later on I was to find out a better use for the hat (No it’s not for collecting the coins).
I boarded the train to City Hall and took the underground link to my intended destination: Esplanade underpass. The one that connects Citilink Mall to the Esplanade carpark and has ridiculous artsy pictures of people’s faces covered with food and what-not. It was a right-angled underpass so I situated myself right at the corner, where I could be heard and seen by people coming from both sides.
I left my guitar case open and started playing some slide blues in G. Just started off with a shuffle and added in licks as and when I felt like it. Kind of like what I’d do when I’m just noodling around at home, except that home isn’t an underpass.
Almost immediately something interesting occurred. A tall, fair plump guy who looked like a China tourist was admiring the weird pictures hanging on the wall and when I started playing, he sat down cross-legged towards my right. I noticed him from the corner of my eye under the brim of my hat but did not make full eye contact with him then, thinking that he was just waiting for someone. I just kept on playing and when I finally ended the tune, he stood up and clapped, saying “Bravo!” and walked off. I looked up at him, pinched the front brim of my hat in a sort of acknowledging manner and replied “Thank you.”
Gee that felt…weird. In a good way I suppose. Clearly he liked what I was doing and I was grateful for that. This marked a good beginning to my busking endeavors. Strangely however, he didn’t drop any coins. Oh well maybe next time. Maybe I was expecting too much for a first time busking session.
Anyway I continued playing and the rest of the crowd that followed was non-descript. The typical Shenton Way “I drive a BMW what are you driving?” yuppie types came and went, so did the lovey-dovey couples (I was to see a lot more of those in the remaining sessions) as well as the loud and exuberant secondary school students yakking and yakking away. A few old-timers passed me by too without letting my presence bother them. The only ones who showed any interest or curiosity in me were the bright-eyed little toddlers who were walking hand in hand with their mums, who seemingly quickened their pace upon noticing that their little one’s eyes had fallen on me. There weren’t too many people, maybe 1 of the above every 2 minutes or so. None of them dropped any cash.
I chuckled to myself at the irony of it all. In just a matter of minutes I’d seen the kind of life cycle that just about everyone else would be going through: Curious toddler who’s easily fascinated grows up into a student who then puts the innocence aside and learns how to score in exams, eventually getting a good job in an office and earning big bucks to fulfil his materialistic yearnings. Before he knows it he’s a retiree and soon enough he’s got to put on his best suit for the last time before they close the lid. (Depending on your religious beliefs he may come back again as a toddler or some other form of life.)
I was in the middle of my third song and had played for barely 15 minutes when a disarmingly friendly voice interrupted me; “Excuse me?”
I looked up and saw a security guard smiling at me like the guy on the Darlie toothpaste tube. Standing close by was a uniformed police officer staring me down with his best impersonation of good-ol’ Arnie. Seems like Mr Darlie decided to bring the Terminator along “just in case”. At that moment a chill shot down my spine (again for those of you who know your blues it’s kinda like that “lowdown shakin’ chill”).
I thought to myself, hoping that he’d somehow receive my thoughts telepathically; “Please don’t ask for my license.”
“Sorry ah you’re not allowed to play here. Don’t mind play somewhere further up can?” he continued, motioning towards Citilink Mall with his Maglite. Not forgetting the Mr Darlie Smile.
Understandably I was happy to oblige him. After shooting a glance at The Terminator, I packed up all my stuff with the 2 of them staying around to make sure that I didn’t linger. In fact, as I walked down the passageway they followed rather closely behind. Probably to make sure too I guess. They finally left me alone when I reached the escalator down to Citilink Mall. At this point of time I asked myself; “Why in the world am I doing this? I could have been jeopardizing my university education or *gasp* my FUTURE!!! How would a criminal record for illegal busking look on my resume? “ On hindsight of course all this proved to be absolutely ridiculous.
It didn’t take long for the irrational side of me to reply “Like that do things then more exciting mah!” Yeah man. It’s just for the kicks. Just for the kicks. I walked on towards the MRT to go to the next destination I had in mind (I do plan for contingencies sometimes yah?)
To be continued.....
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Gettin' high
I just got to hear a recording of one of my songs done a while back at a semi-professional studio. I'd forgotten about it for a long time until I was recently reminded of it's existence, and upon hearing it several things came to my mind.
It was recorded before this blog came into being, and song-writing was my avenue for social commentary. This one in particular expressed my disgust at a drug-bust involving several high-lifers living in huge houses and driving fancy cars. Two local celebrities were also implicated somehow but no charges were pressed against them. The revelations of their lifestyles and drug abuse made headlines and for a while people started questioning the prevalence of drugs in certain social venues. Eventually after everyone got charged and thrown in prison, the issue died down and life went on.
Hearing it again though, brought back a rather humourous memory from the US internship involving weed. Of course, it didn't involve me smoking any of it, but one of the people who did, made sure that I'd never ever be tempted to try it anytime. I may have shared this head-slapping anecdote with some of you, but if you'd like to hear it just give me a shout out. I might just decide to publicise it here (adequately censored) if response is good.
This song is perhaps the most scathing piece of musical social commentary I've ever written and was brought to life by 2 very talented singers from Kent Ridge Hall whom I've had the honour of performing and recording with, namely Lin and Surath. The CD will be coming soon for all Kent Ridge Hall residents, and if you're not living in Kent Ridge Hall or Singapore, let me know. I'll tell you where to get the song.
Alright, end of shameless plug.
It was recorded before this blog came into being, and song-writing was my avenue for social commentary. This one in particular expressed my disgust at a drug-bust involving several high-lifers living in huge houses and driving fancy cars. Two local celebrities were also implicated somehow but no charges were pressed against them. The revelations of their lifestyles and drug abuse made headlines and for a while people started questioning the prevalence of drugs in certain social venues. Eventually after everyone got charged and thrown in prison, the issue died down and life went on.
Hearing it again though, brought back a rather humourous memory from the US internship involving weed. Of course, it didn't involve me smoking any of it, but one of the people who did, made sure that I'd never ever be tempted to try it anytime. I may have shared this head-slapping anecdote with some of you, but if you'd like to hear it just give me a shout out. I might just decide to publicise it here (adequately censored) if response is good.
This song is perhaps the most scathing piece of musical social commentary I've ever written and was brought to life by 2 very talented singers from Kent Ridge Hall whom I've had the honour of performing and recording with, namely Lin and Surath. The CD will be coming soon for all Kent Ridge Hall residents, and if you're not living in Kent Ridge Hall or Singapore, let me know. I'll tell you where to get the song.
Alright, end of shameless plug.
