Wednesday, October 19, 2005
The answer, my friend...
Today evening I was at Clementi interchange to meet a friend for some beer and food, as is usually the case. However, my friend was delayed and I suddenly found myself with some spare time to kill. As I stood at the bus stop, the distant sounds of a harmonica rose above the din of a busy town centre and like a bee to honey, my feet instinctively took me to where the music was coming from.
It was an octagonal shelter with one escalator going up to the train station, a pedestrian walkway to the interchange on one side and on the other side was the bus stop. In the middle stood a marker indicating the name of the train station and all around, people were coming and going. A normal working and student crowd for the 1900+hrs peak period.
In between the escalator and walkway, a blind elderly couple were seated. Their busking paraphernalia was laid out neatly, consisting of a rectangular steel tin seated on top of an amplifier, which was covered with an oddly bright shade of yellow tolex. The 2 bulky items were strapped to a small foldable trolley with bungee cords. The elderly gentleman was dressed simply (perhaps better than myself) in a grey shirt, black trousers and brown rubber slippers. He sat on a foldable lawn chair and played the harmonica through a microphone, which then went through the amplifier. Incongruously though, a shiny plastic statue of Ronald Macdonald stood beside them, fixed in a perpetual greeting wave and cheesy (pun alert) grin as if to remind everyone that Macdonald’s is everywhere.
Interestingly, he had an electronic drumpad for percussion sounds, so he was holding the harmonica and microphone in one hand and playing percussion with the other. The lady sat on the kerb and tapped along on a tambourine, though not very expertly.
I stood there for half an hour, observing and listening. He wasn’t too picky about his playing technique, perhaps to conserve energy for playing a long evening, but the harmonica is by nature a forgiving instrument. The holes for different notes are located next to each other and if more than one note is blown, the musical intervals are still listenable, harmonious even. As he blew the harmonica held in his right hand, his left hand danced on the drum pad to produce the percussion sounds. Most of the time he stuck to the basic kick drum and snare sounds, but occasionally deigned to throw in a few variations, a little roll on the snare or toms and perhaps some cymbals. It wasn’t complex at all, but he made sure it complemented whatever he was playing on the harmonica. The lady tapping the tambourine was a little tentative and hesitant, but managed to stay within the rhythmic framework for the most part.
Together, they busked for the busy crowd milling about, going through some old Chinese songs which I didn’t recognise and a couple of English oldies. Whenever someone dropped a coin in their tin, the gentleman would nod in appreciation as he carried on playing. It was a relatively generous crowd they were playing for, perhaps a reflection of the public sentiment of disgust for our (dis)organized charities which have recently come under the limelight for less than noble reasons , and a preference to donate straight to the people who need some help.
Among some of the English songs I recognised were some rather poignant numbers, given their circumstance, like “It’s A Small World After All” and “He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands”. The defining song of that half hour for me though, was this Bob Dylan classic:
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
How many years can a mountain exist
Before it's washed to the sea?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head,
Pretending he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
(Taken from http://bobdylan.com/songs/blowin.html)
As I mouthed the chorus under my breath and tapped my feet, I couldn’t help thinking about the way some halls of residence and faculties in NUS approach Flag Day. This day is when some students of NUS are mobilized islandwide to wield donation tins en-masse in the name of charity, and the collection takings are totaled and contribute towards the winning of the Chancellor’s Shield, which seems to hold some prestige for the winning hall/faculty.
All the logistics are meticulously planned down to the last detail, with people being assigned and transported early in the morning to various locations to compete with students from other halls/faculties for donations. The way it is organized is almost military-like in its administrative efficiency (assuming comparison with a credible military organization), and credit has to go to the committees responsible.
However, somewhere along the way people just lost sight of the whole idea. Exhortations and encouragements are dished out liberally every year, along the lines of striving for the trophy and besting the other halls/faculties, instead of the charitable purpose of this exercise. Pep talks which are more appropriate for competitive business organizations and sporting teams are the norm, and the bottom-line has become the relative takings rather than the absolute takings.
There has to be a way to restore the spirit of charity to this once good but now perverted cause, sullied by the ugly competitive nature that rears its head when enthusiasm lacks focus.
Perhaps the wind blowing by would have whispered the answer, if only I knew how to ask.
It was an octagonal shelter with one escalator going up to the train station, a pedestrian walkway to the interchange on one side and on the other side was the bus stop. In the middle stood a marker indicating the name of the train station and all around, people were coming and going. A normal working and student crowd for the 1900+hrs peak period.
In between the escalator and walkway, a blind elderly couple were seated. Their busking paraphernalia was laid out neatly, consisting of a rectangular steel tin seated on top of an amplifier, which was covered with an oddly bright shade of yellow tolex. The 2 bulky items were strapped to a small foldable trolley with bungee cords. The elderly gentleman was dressed simply (perhaps better than myself) in a grey shirt, black trousers and brown rubber slippers. He sat on a foldable lawn chair and played the harmonica through a microphone, which then went through the amplifier. Incongruously though, a shiny plastic statue of Ronald Macdonald stood beside them, fixed in a perpetual greeting wave and cheesy (pun alert) grin as if to remind everyone that Macdonald’s is everywhere.
Interestingly, he had an electronic drumpad for percussion sounds, so he was holding the harmonica and microphone in one hand and playing percussion with the other. The lady sat on the kerb and tapped along on a tambourine, though not very expertly.
I stood there for half an hour, observing and listening. He wasn’t too picky about his playing technique, perhaps to conserve energy for playing a long evening, but the harmonica is by nature a forgiving instrument. The holes for different notes are located next to each other and if more than one note is blown, the musical intervals are still listenable, harmonious even. As he blew the harmonica held in his right hand, his left hand danced on the drum pad to produce the percussion sounds. Most of the time he stuck to the basic kick drum and snare sounds, but occasionally deigned to throw in a few variations, a little roll on the snare or toms and perhaps some cymbals. It wasn’t complex at all, but he made sure it complemented whatever he was playing on the harmonica. The lady tapping the tambourine was a little tentative and hesitant, but managed to stay within the rhythmic framework for the most part.
Together, they busked for the busy crowd milling about, going through some old Chinese songs which I didn’t recognise and a couple of English oldies. Whenever someone dropped a coin in their tin, the gentleman would nod in appreciation as he carried on playing. It was a relatively generous crowd they were playing for, perhaps a reflection of the public sentiment of disgust for our (dis)organized charities which have recently come under the limelight for less than noble reasons , and a preference to donate straight to the people who need some help.
Among some of the English songs I recognised were some rather poignant numbers, given their circumstance, like “It’s A Small World After All” and “He’s Got The Whole World In His Hands”. The defining song of that half hour for me though, was this Bob Dylan classic:
How many roads must a man walk down
Before you call him a man?
Yes, 'n' how many seas must a white dove sail
Before she sleeps in the sand?
Yes, 'n' how many times must the cannon balls fly
Before they're forever banned?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
How many times must a man look up
Before he can see the sky?
Yes, 'n' how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, 'n' how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
How many years can a mountain exist
Before it's washed to the sea?
Yes, 'n' how many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free?
Yes, 'n' how many times can a man turn his head,
Pretending he just doesn't see?
The answer, my friend, is blowin' in the wind,
The answer is blowin' in the wind.
(Taken from http://bobdylan.com/songs/blowin.html)
As I mouthed the chorus under my breath and tapped my feet, I couldn’t help thinking about the way some halls of residence and faculties in NUS approach Flag Day. This day is when some students of NUS are mobilized islandwide to wield donation tins en-masse in the name of charity, and the collection takings are totaled and contribute towards the winning of the Chancellor’s Shield, which seems to hold some prestige for the winning hall/faculty.
All the logistics are meticulously planned down to the last detail, with people being assigned and transported early in the morning to various locations to compete with students from other halls/faculties for donations. The way it is organized is almost military-like in its administrative efficiency (assuming comparison with a credible military organization), and credit has to go to the committees responsible.
However, somewhere along the way people just lost sight of the whole idea. Exhortations and encouragements are dished out liberally every year, along the lines of striving for the trophy and besting the other halls/faculties, instead of the charitable purpose of this exercise. Pep talks which are more appropriate for competitive business organizations and sporting teams are the norm, and the bottom-line has become the relative takings rather than the absolute takings.
There has to be a way to restore the spirit of charity to this once good but now perverted cause, sullied by the ugly competitive nature that rears its head when enthusiasm lacks focus.
Perhaps the wind blowing by would have whispered the answer, if only I knew how to ask.
# posted by BloozeGit @ 1:47 am 
