PHOTO: DEMI
¿Tocar en la calle es una forma de vida?
Para mí es una adicción. Cada vez que me veo obligada a dejarlo porque tengo que dar algún concierto, lo echo tanto de menos que me vuelvo infeliz e irritable. Pero en cuanto regreso a la calle recupero mi alegría habitual. Este oficio me sienta como si después de mucho tiempo mi alma estuviera preparada para ponerse un traje emocional que se le ajusta perfectamente y que he estado esperando toda mi vida. No es el hecho en sí de tocar en la calle, sino el conjunto. La experiencia, que tiene un elemento de libertad y comunidad. Haciendo música ahí fuera, siendo parte integral del mundo, mi cuerpo experimenta una felicidad irreprimible.
Mi padre solía bromear diciendo que los empleos nunca me duraban. Los dejaba todos enseguida. Realmente necesito la libertad que me da el arte. No puedo estar atada demasiado tiempo. Entonces mi cuerpo entero empieza a quejarse.
¿Qué te llevó al oficio?
Antes trabajaba vendiendo souvenirs en los teatros de Broadway. En realidad sólo estábamos ocupados cuando el público entraba a ver el espectáculo, en los intermedios y cuando la obra terminaba. Pero durante el show tenía un montón de tiempo libre. Solía llevar mi sierra musical y en los ratos muertos salía fuera a practicar. Entonces estaba todavía aprendiendo. No quería molestar a nadie. Por eso me sentaba en la esquina más alejada del aparcamiento que había junto al teatro.
Un día estaba ensayando cuando un hombre y su hijo se me acercaron. Estuvieron allí un buen rato. Entonces el señor metió la mano en el bolsillo, sacó un billete de cinco dólares y me lo dio. Le miré muy sorprendida. “¿Por qué me da dinero?”, le pregunté. Respondió que porque él y su hijo habían disfrutado muchísimo viéndome y escuchándome. Me quedé muy asombrada. Regresé al trabajo y se lo conté a mis compañeros, que me animaron a tocar durante el intermedio en la puerta del teatro. En los descansos muchos artistas ambulantes venían y actuaban para los espectadores que salían a fumar. Les dije a mis colegas que era una idea ridícula. Todavía estaba aprendiendo. Aún no tenía práctica y no pretendía más que divertirme. Mis amigos, sin embargo, insistieron hasta convencerme para que me pusiera en la entrada. Por supuesto no en nuestro intermedio, porque era entonces cuando teníamos que trabajar, sino durante las pausas del teatro de al lado, que eran un poco más tarde. Mis colegas colocaron una caja vacía delante de mí, pusieron en ella un billete de un dólar y se quedaron detrás a ver qué pasaba. Bien. No tenía elección. La gente empezó a salir. Interpreté la única canción que me salía bien: Summertime, de George Gershwin. Se hizo un corro a mi alrededor. Sonrieron, aplaudieron y… dejaron propinas en la caja. ¡En los diez minutos del intermedio gané mucho más dinero que en todo el día con mi trabajo oficial!
Lo sucedido me hizo pensar que tal vez no debería esconderme en el rincón más remoto del parking, sino practicar en la calle. En cuanto lo hice, aprendí a disfrutar de la atención que me prestaban los transeúntes. Se detenían a hablarme, me preguntaban por mi música, me felicitaban y animaban a seguir. Me sentía como en una fiesta. Había una atmósfera luminosa y feliz. Tan pronto como gané confianza, dejé la calle secundaria donde estaba el teatro y probé suerte en Broadway, la más grande de la ciudad. Para cuando llegó el invierno —y con él la lluvia, el viento, el frío, la nieve— no quería dejarlo y por eso me lancé a la aventura en el metro. Estaba enganchada. Sin haberlo planeado, me había convertido en una artista callejera.
Afirmas que un artista callejero es alguien que puede convertir cualquier sitio en un escenario. ¿Cómo lo haces tú?
Tratando cualquier lugar con tanta seriedad, dignidad y respeto como si fuera Carnegie Hall. Dando lo mejor de ti en cada ocasión. No importa donde estés. No importa cuánta gente haya viéndote o escuchándote. No importa si tienes cien espectadores o sólo uno.
¿Qué diferencia al músico callejero de uno convencional?
Agallas. Tocar en la calle requiere más valentía que tocar en un escenario. Se necesita coraje para estar solo en una esquina divirtiendo a la gente; interactuando con quienes te rodean; rompiendo los muros que te separan de ellos; arrastrándoles a una experiencia colectiva y espontánea que sucede en la calle, en ese momento, contigo.
También la capacidad de no tomarse las cosas de manera personal. El arte callejero es la forma de entretenimiento más honesta. Cuando compras una entrada para un show, no importa cuál, has pagado para verlo. Por eso aplaudes educadamente y estás precondicionado a pensar que lo que estás mirando o escuchando es bueno. En la calle la gente es cruda y honesta. La calle no miente y no va a ser educada contigo. Si lo haces mal, te lo hará saber. No tienes por qué gustar. Pero si alguien te aplaude o te anima, entonces sabrás que se trata de una apreciación genuina, de una reacción honesta. No puedes esconderte detrás de tu agente de publicidad, de un escenario, ni de las luces. Nada ni nadie va a ayudarte a conseguir la atención del público. Tienes que hacerlo por ti mismo. Sin ayuda exterior.
Has tocado con la Orquesta Filarmónica de Israel, a la batuta de Zubin Mehta, con la Orquesta Filarmónica de Westchester o con la Real Orquesta Sinfónica del Aire de Marruecos. Pese a semejante currículum, ¿te da la calle algo que no encuentras en las salas de conciertos?
En la calle tienes mucha más libertad artística. Sin director ni productor que te digan que toques de esta o de aquella manera. Eres libre para experimentar y expresarte del modo más honesto. No tienes que dar gusto a nadie, así que puedes concentrarte en el arte mismo.
Me gusta también el hecho de que en el metro la gente está conmigo. Puedo ver sus caras. Al revés de cuando estás arriba del escenario, cegado por la luz, mientras los espectadores están abajo, en la oscuridad. La cercanía de la calle crea un sentimiento de camaradería que, al nacer de la música, es mucho más cálido. Es algo que tiene que ver con las personas, no sólo con el propio espectáculo.
¿Qué significa para ti “amar la calle”?
La calle es esencialmente la gente que hay en ella. Hay personas que parecen haber estado siempre ahí: vagabundos, carteristas, barrenderos, mendigos, chaperos, putas… hay gente maja y gente que da miedo; ricos y pobres; jóvenes y viejos. Si amas a las personas por el solo hecho de ser personas, sin mirar quiénes son, entonces amas la calle.
¿Qué hace tan especiales las estaciones de metro? ¿Tienen algún tipo de magia?
Tienen dos tipos de magia: una que se percibe y otra que es invisible. La que se percibe es una acústica fenomenal. Es como tocar dentro de una enorme cueva llena de ecos. No necesito ningún amplificador en las estaciones. El sonido vuela solo y rebota de pared en pared. Se me puede escuchar a una manzana de distancia. Es asombroso. Si toco al aire libre sin amplificador, el sonido es débil. En el metro, sin embargo, éste sale denso y potente.
La magia invisible es el hecho de que al primer vistazo podrías pensar que se trata de un sitio oscuro e inquietante. Pero en realidad es el lugar más amigable que existe, lleno de una luz que viene de todas las generaciones que han caminado por sus andenes y corredores. El metro reúne a las personas. Les da experiencias comunes y compartidas.
Cuando toco en el metro de Nueva York soy testigo de un montón de pequeñas buenas acciones. Cada día. Extraños que se ayudan unos a otros. Extraños reuniéndose en torno a un músico, conociéndose, sonriendo y a veces incluso entablando conversación entre ellos. La magia de la que hablamos la crean a la vez el espacio y la gente. El maestro prestidigitador que trae la magia a la superficie es en muchas ocasiones el artista callejero.
¿Qué has aprendido de las personas tocando en el metro?
Este oficio me ha enseñado que el ser humano es esencialmente bueno. Antes era muy tímida y desconfiaba de todo el mundo. Pero en realidad el 99,9% de esas personas cuyo aspecto nos da miedo resultan ser después las más simpáticas y amigables. Así aprendí a no juzgar NUNCA a nadie por su apariencia.
Te han dejado en la caja de propinas un montón de objetos curiosos como ositos de peluche, relojes, rosas, poemas… ¿Cuál te ha sorprendido más?
El más curioso me lo dieron en Times Square. Estaba tocando cuando escuché un fuerte bang en la caja de las propinas. Tuve la tentación de asomarme a ver qué me habían echado… pero el show debía continuar. Por eso me tragué la curiosidad y terminé la canción. Entonces me incliné para ver de qué se trataba. Entre las monedas pequeñas había una ENORME. Tenía exactamente la misma forma que una de 25 centavos, pero era mucho, mucho más grande. Resultó ser una caja metálica llena de caramelos.
Lo que más me emociona es cuando me dejan cartas. Un chico me escribió en una nota: “Estoy sin blanca. No tengo nada que darte. Pero quiero que sepas que amo tu música”. Ni todo el oro del mundo podría igualar lo impagables que son para el corazón cartas como esta.
¿Cuál es el peor mal trago que te has encontrado?
Una policía de paisano me multó cuando estaba actuando en el andén de los trenes 1, 2 y 3 en Times Square. Normalmente las multas son de 25 dólares, pero ella me puso una de 150. Es corriente que te penalicen por hacer demasiado ruido o por bloquear el paso. Yo no estaba haciendo ninguna de las dos cosas. Cuando le pregunté a la agente por qué me sancionaba, me respondió que porque los dientes de la sierra constituían un arma. Le dije que estaba sentada y con el filo del instrumento hacia mí. Si alguien debiera resultar herido, esa sería yo. Le dije también que en todos los años que llevaba tocando jamás le había pasado nada a nadie. La policía respondió: “Nunca se sabe cuándo puede venir un loco, quitarte la sierra y blandirla por ahí”. Bien, en los 14 años que llevo en este oficio me he cruzado con muchísimos locos, ¡pero ninguno ha intentado robarme! Y si piensas así, entonces también un paraguas puede ser un arma. Cualquier cosa puede serlo. Pero nunca se debe discutir con la Policía. Por eso pagué la multa y eliminé los dientes de la sierra. Así pude seguir trabajando sin problemas en lugares públicos. Por suerte la parte afilada del instrumento era tan pequeña que al quitarla no cambió el sonido.
En tu espectáculo resucitas un instrumento casi muerto tras la Segunda Guerra Mundial. ¿Qué te llevó a elegir la sierra musical?
No la elegí. Fue ella quien me eligió a mí. Así es como ocurrió:
Antes era bailarina profesional. Fui aprendiz en la Compañía de Danza Contemporánea Martha Graham. También profesora de zapateado para Dance Masters y Dance Educators of America. Me ganaba la vida actuando en los teatros. En resumen, que era una bailarina feliz… hasta que un día, volviendo a casa del Lincoln Center, crucé la calle y un taxi que iba a toda velocidad me atropelló. Fue el fin de mi carrera. El accidente me dejó secuelas permanentes en la parte superior de la espina dorsal.
No hace falta que te diga que me hundí. Había dedicado mi vida al baile. ¿Qué iba a hacer ahora?
Para animarme, mis padres planearon un viaje a Austria. Desde pequeña me había encantado la película Sonrisas y lágrimas. ¡Fui al cine 14 veces sólo para poder verla en pantalla grande! Por eso me llevaron al país donde se rodó el film. Allí asistimos a un espectáculo folclórico. Uno de los números era… lo has adivinado: un músico que tocaba la sierra. Nunca antes la había visto ni escuchado. Aquello era totalmente nuevo para mí. Me cautivó. Pensé que el sonido era fenomenal, aunque lo que realmente me sedujo fue la parte visual. El hecho de que el instrumento y el artista se movieran al unísono. ¡Era como una danza!
Al terminar, fui al camerino a hablar con él. Le pedí que me enseñara. Su respuesta fue: “No”. Por supuesto dije que le pagaría y le pregunté cuánto quería, pero él me respondió que no necesitaba un profesor. “Encuentra una sierra, sostenla de la manera que me has visto hacerlo en el escenario y lo comprenderás todo”. Esas fueron sus instrucciones.
De vuelta a casa, pedí prestada una vieja sierra. Estaba oxidada por el uso y por el tiempo. Sólo daba seis notas. Una excursión que hice a la ferretería fue una experiencia de lo más interesante. El propietario estaba furioso por el silbido que alguien estaba haciendo en su tienda. Se quedó a cuadros cuando vio de dónde venía el sonido, pero me dejó probar todas sus sierras en cuanto vio que iba a comprarle una de las caras…
El músico austriaco tenía razón. Lo aprendí todo por mi cuenta, y ahora le estoy muy agradecida porque me dio la satisfacción de poder decir: “Lo hice por mí misma”. Nunca pensé en hacer carrera de esto. Era sólo una afición. Pero cuando Dios me cerró la puerta de la danza, se aseguró de abrirme la ventana al mundo de la sierra musical y empujarme a través de ella. Hoy me siento tan feliz de mi oficio que he olvidado que ya no puedo bailar y nunca estoy triste por ello.
Tu sierra realmente suena y canta como una voz humana. ¿Es lo exótico del instrumento la principal atracción de tu espectáculo?
Espero que no sea sólo el instrumento, sino la manera en que lo toco. Pero sí, presentar la sierra musical al público es la parte más importante del show.
¿Tocas algún otro instrumento insólito?
Las campanillas inglesas, lo mismo como solista que en grupo. También tengo un set de cencerros de vaca, americanos y europeos, que alcanzan los 65 tonos. Antes tocaba el theremin y pianos de juguete, pero ya no. Ahora estoy aprendiendo a manejar el arpa de cristal.
Tocas música clásica, rock… ¿Cómo eliges tu repertorio?
Tiene que ser algo que me guste y que me haga disfrutar. No toco una canción sólo porque crea que me dará dinero. Me gustan las piezas que suponen un reto. La música clásica es siempre un desafío, pero también hay temas que me van simplemente porque son divertidos. O que me emocionan o me traen recuerdos.
¿Nunca utilizas partitura?
Lo intenté una vez. Fue muy complicado porque significaba ir cargada con el atril y con todo el equipo que llevo, que ya es muy pesado de por sí. Otra opción sería dejar las hojas en el suelo, pero entonces se podrían volar y, de todos modos, me resultaría difícil leerlas. Además, si utilizas partitura, tus ojos no están conectando con los espectadores. Cuando estoy en el escenario de un teatro no me importa perder el contacto visual con la audiencia, pero en la calle lo más divertido es esa comunicación directa.
El arte callejero es una disciplina antiquísima. ¿Te sientes heredera de esa tradición?
Absolutamente. Ya la Biblia menciona a los buskers, la tribu de Levi, que no tenía tierra propia. Vagaban por el país cantando (en su caso alabanzas al Señor) y sobrevivían con lo que la gente les daba. A lo largo de los siglos los artistas han ofrecido diversión en las esquinas de todo el mundo. Es una de las profesiones más antiguas. Amo la historia y amo imaginar a los músicos callejeros que nos han precedido. Damos continuidad a su energía y mantenemos viva esta forma de arte.
Tal como dices en tu web, muchos sienten pena por los artistas callejeros. Otros creen que se trata de un arte menor.
Creo que la gente que piensa así está en un error. Hoy en día veo un resurgir del interés por el arte callejero y por quienes se dedican a él. El mundo empieza a darse cuenta de que en las aceras hay grandes artistas. En muchos casos mejores incluso que los que trabajan en un escenario. Conozco a infinidad de buskers que actúan con gran éxito en las salas de conciertos. Y he visto a muchos artistas de escenario intentando triunfar en la calle, pensando que será un dinero fácil, y fracasar miserablemente. El entretenimiento callejero es en sí mismo una forma artística. Tienes que ser bueno en tu género, ya seas músico, mimo, malabarista o payaso. Pero además tienes que saber cómo manejar la calle. Lo siento por los artistas que no actúan al aire libre. Se están perdiendo lo mejor.
Algunos tienen incluso manager. ¿Realmente la profesión se está poniendo tan sofisticada?
Actualmente el número de artistas callejeros se está incrementando rápidamente. Muchos músicos están descubriendo el vasto potencial de la calle. En ella puedes llegar a una gran audiencia allá donde tú elijas. Y sin tener que esperar a que te llamen para un bolo. También Internet está ayudando a difundir las satisfacciones que da esta profesión. Cada día recibo e-mails de internautas que siguen mi blog o que me cuentan que están pensando en probar suerte como buskers. La calle es un buen barómetro de la vida en general. Cuando el mundo se vuelve más sofisticado con sus computadoras, i-pods y beepers todos cambiamos, artistas callejeros incluidos.
¿Está Internet ayudando en este proceso?
Desde luego. Internet está expandiéndolo todo. Lo bonito es que ahora los artistas callejeros de todo el mundo podemos estar en contacto e intercambiar experiencias, consejos o avisos sobre buenos y malos lugares para actuar. Estoy muy feliz por vivir en la era de Internet.
¿Tu web y tu blog son instrumentos tan importantes como tu sierra?
La sierra es lo primero, porque sin ella la web y el blog no tendrían sentido. Pero tienes razón. No lo había pensado antes. En realidad los tres son para mí instrumentos de comunicación.
Is busking a way of life?
For me busking is an addiction… Every time I am forced away from it (because I have gigs that don't permit me any time for busking) I miss busking so much that I become unhappy and agitated. As soon as I go busking again - I'm back to my normal happy self.
Busking felt to me as if finally, after a long time, my soul was able to fit into an emotional suit it had been longing to fit into its entire life. It's not the busking thing in itself but rather the whole experience that has an element of freedom and community. Just playing out there, being an integral part of the world, brings my whole body to smile unexpectedly.
My father used to joke that I can't keep a job - I would quit every job I had after a short while. I really need the freedom that busking allows. I cannot be tied down for too long. My whole body starts to ach if I am.
He said that it is because he and his son really enjoyed listening/watching me play.
I thought that was amazing, so I went inside the theatre to tell my friends what just happened. When my friends (co-workers) heard that, they said I have to go play outside the theatre during intermission. During intermission buskers come and perform for the audience that goes outside to smoke. I told my friends this is a ridiculous idea. I am just learning to play the musical saw, I am not yet good at it, and all I want to do is just learn to play it for fun. I did not intend to do it as a profession. But my friends wouldn't leave me alone - they insisted that I go play outside. Of course, not during our intermission, because that was when we all had to work, but during the intermission of the theatre next door (their intermission was a bit later than ours).
My friends dragged me outside, they placed an empty box in front of me, put a single dollar bill in the box, and stood back to see what will happen.
Well - I had no choice. The audience started to come out of the theatre. I started to play what was then the only song I knew how to play well on the musical saw - 'Summertime' by George Gershwin. The audience gathered around me. I played. They smiled, clapped their hands and… started putting donations in the box. At the end of the 10 minute intermission I made as much money as I did at work that whole day!
This made me think that perhaps I should not be hiding in the most remote corner of the parking lot, but rather that I should practice on the street. When I did that, I enjoyed the attention passers by gave me - they stopped to talk with me, asked me questions about my music, gave me compliments and encouraged me to continue. It felt like a party to me - it was a light and happy atmosphere. As my confidence grew I moved from playing on the side street where the theatre is, to Broadway - the biggest street in town. When winter came - rain, wind, cold, snow - I didn't want to stop playing on the street… so, I ventured into the subway. I was hooked. Without planning it, I became a busker.
Also, for me, the fact that in the street I have people standing right next to me, so I can see their faces (as opposed to me being up on the stage, blinded by light, while the audience is down in the dark) - that makes for a feeling of camaraderie, which in turn comes out through the music as much more warm. It's about the people, not just about a show.
The invisible magic in the subway is the fact that at first glance you might think it is a dark and scary place. But in reality it's the friendliest place ever, full of the light that came from generations of people who walked through its corridors.
The subway brings people together and gives them common experiences.
When I play in the subway I witness so many small acts of kindness every day. Strangers helping one another. Strangers gathering around a musician, then starting to acknowledge one another, smile and eventually talk with one another. The magic is formed by the space and the people together. The master magician who brings the magic to the surface lots of times is the busker.
This is how it happened:
I was a professional dancer. I was a trainee with the Martha Graham Dance Company of Contemporary Dance, I was a tap-dance teacher and demonstrator for Dance Masters and Dance Educators of America, I earned a living performing in musical theater - in short, I was a happy dancer - until… One day, on my way home from Lincoln Center, I crossed the street and was hit by a speeding taxi-cab. This was the end of my dance career. I suffered permanent damage to my upper spine.
Needless to say, I was devastated. I have dedicated my life to dance, and now what was I going to do?
To cheer me up, my parents took me on a trip to Austria. You see, as a kid I loved the movie ‘The Sound of Music’. I went to the movie theater 14 times just to see it on the big screen! So, my parents took me to the country where this film was made. While there we attended an Austrian folklore show. One of the acts was… you guessed it - a musical saw player! Now I have never seen nor heard of a musical saw before. This was totally new to me, and it blew me away. I thought the sound was phenomenal, and what really appealed to me was the visual - the fact that the whole instrument moved and the saw player's upper body along with it. It was like a dance!
I went back stage to talk with the saw player. I asked him to give me lessons. His answer was - ‘No’. Of course I said I would pay him, and asked how much he wanted, but he just told me that I didn’t need a teacher. “Pick up a hand-saw, hold it the way you have seen me do on stage, and you’ll figure it out” was his instruction.
Back home I borrowed an old saw. It was rusty from time and woodwork, so it only had 6 notes left on it.
A trip to the local hardware store was an interesting experience. The owner was furious about the “whistling” that somebody was doing in his store… He was very puzzled when he saw where the sound was coming from, but he let me continue to test all his saws when he realized I was going to purchase an expensive saw…
Indeed the Austrian saw player was right. I did figure it out all on my own, and I am very grateful to him now, for having given me the satisfaction of being able to say that ‘I did it all on my own’.
I never thought of making a career out of playing the saw. It was just a hobby. But when God shut the door of the dance world on me, he made sure to open the musical saw world window for me and usher me in…
Today I am so happy to be a saw player that I have forgotten to be sad about not being able to dance anymore!
Also, if you use a score then your eyes are not connecting with the audience. When I'm playing on a stage I don't mind not having eye contact with the audience, but the whole fun of playing in the subway is the connection with the audience.
Is busking a way of life?
For me busking is an addiction… Every time I am forced away from it (because I have gigs that don't permit me any time for busking) I miss busking so much that I become unhappy and agitated. As soon as I go busking again - I'm back to my normal happy self.
Busking felt to me as if finally, after a long time, my soul was able to fit into an emotional suit it had been longing to fit into its entire life. It's not the busking thing in itself but rather the whole experience that has an element of freedom and community. Just playing out there, being an integral part of the world, brings my whole body to smile unexpectedly.
My father used to joke that I can't keep a job - I would quit every job I had after a short while. I really need the freedom that busking allows. I cannot be tied down for too long. My whole body starts to ach if I am.
How did you decided to become a busker?
I used to have a job selling souvenirs at the Broadway theatres. In this job I only had to work while the audience was walking into the theatre, during intermission, and at the end of the show. But during the show I had a lot of free time. So, I used to bring the musical saw to the theatre, and during my free time I went outside to practice. I just started learning to play the musical saw. I didn't want to disturb anybody, so I sat at the most remote corner of the parking lot next to the theatre, far away from the street. One day I was practicing, when a man and his son came to stand by me. They listened for a long time. Then the man reached into his pocket, pulled out a $5 bill and handed it to me. I was very surprised, and I asked him "why are you giving me money?"He said that it is because he and his son really enjoyed listening/watching me play.
I thought that was amazing, so I went inside the theatre to tell my friends what just happened. When my friends (co-workers) heard that, they said I have to go play outside the theatre during intermission. During intermission buskers come and perform for the audience that goes outside to smoke. I told my friends this is a ridiculous idea. I am just learning to play the musical saw, I am not yet good at it, and all I want to do is just learn to play it for fun. I did not intend to do it as a profession. But my friends wouldn't leave me alone - they insisted that I go play outside. Of course, not during our intermission, because that was when we all had to work, but during the intermission of the theatre next door (their intermission was a bit later than ours).
My friends dragged me outside, they placed an empty box in front of me, put a single dollar bill in the box, and stood back to see what will happen.
Well - I had no choice. The audience started to come out of the theatre. I started to play what was then the only song I knew how to play well on the musical saw - 'Summertime' by George Gershwin. The audience gathered around me. I played. They smiled, clapped their hands and… started putting donations in the box. At the end of the 10 minute intermission I made as much money as I did at work that whole day!
This made me think that perhaps I should not be hiding in the most remote corner of the parking lot, but rather that I should practice on the street. When I did that, I enjoyed the attention passers by gave me - they stopped to talk with me, asked me questions about my music, gave me compliments and encouraged me to continue. It felt like a party to me - it was a light and happy atmosphere. As my confidence grew I moved from playing on the side street where the theatre is, to Broadway - the biggest street in town. When winter came - rain, wind, cold, snow - I didn't want to stop playing on the street… so, I ventured into the subway. I was hooked. Without planning it, I became a busker.
You say that a busker is someone who can convert every place into a stage. Which is the secret for doing it in the best way?
Treating any place with as much seriousness, dignity and respect as if it was Carnegie Hall. Giving your best performance every time, no matter where you are, no matter how many people are watching/listening to you, whether there are 100 or just one person in your audience.
Which is the main difference between a conventional musician and a busker?
Guts. Playing on the street takes more courage than playing on a stage. It takes courage to stand alone on a street corner and to start entertaining people, interacting with those around you, breaking walls of personal space, and luring people into a collective and spontaneous group experience on the street, in the moment, with you.
Also, the ability to not take anything personally. Busking is the most honest form of entertainment. When you buy a ticket to a show, no matter what, you've already paid to get in, so you politely clap your hands, and you are pre-conditioned to think what you're seeing/hearing is good. In the streets the people are raw and honest every day. The street doesn't lie and it's not going to be polite with you - if you suck, you'll know it. No one has to like you and if they do it's a genuine appreciation, an honest reaction. You cannot hide behind PR (publicity hype), a stage, lights - on the street nobody points people's attention to you but you yourself. You get no outside help, so you need to be able to do it all on your own.
You have performed with Israel Philharmonic Orchestra conducted by Zubin Mehta, with the Westchester Philharmonic Orchestra or the Royal Air Moroccan Symphony Orchestra. Do you find in the street something that is not possible to reach performing in important concert halls?
On the street you have much more artistic freedom. No conductor/producer/director to tell you to play one way or another. You are free to experiment and express yourself in a more honest way. You don't have to please anybody so you can concentrate on the art itself.Also, for me, the fact that in the street I have people standing right next to me, so I can see their faces (as opposed to me being up on the stage, blinded by light, while the audience is down in the dark) - that makes for a feeling of camaraderie, which in turn comes out through the music as much more warm. It's about the people, not just about a show.
What means for you “to love the street”?
The street is essentially the people in it. There are people who seem to always be there - like the homeless people, pick-pockets, sanitation workers, beggars, panhandlers, hustlers, whores, etc. There are nice looking people and scary looking people, rich and poor, young and old. If you love people for just being people, regardless of who they are, then you love the street.
In your opinion, what makes tube stations so special? Have they some kind of magic?
The subway stations have 2 types of magic, a tangible one, and an invisible one. The tangible one is the phenomenal acoustics. It's like playing inside a huge echo filled cave. I don't need any amplification in the subway - the sound gets carried away and it ricochets from wall to wall so that people even a block away from me can hear my sound. This is particularly amazing since if I play on the street with no amplification, the sound is very thin and quiet. In the subway it is augmented to a full, thick sound, all on its own.The invisible magic in the subway is the fact that at first glance you might think it is a dark and scary place. But in reality it's the friendliest place ever, full of the light that came from generations of people who walked through its corridors.
The subway brings people together and gives them common experiences.
When I play in the subway I witness so many small acts of kindness every day. Strangers helping one another. Strangers gathering around a musician, then starting to acknowledge one another, smile and eventually talk with one another. The magic is formed by the space and the people together. The master magician who brings the magic to the surface lots of times is the busker.
What have you learned about people while playing on the street?
Playing in the street taught me that people are essentially good. Before I started playing on the street I was very shy and kind of scared of people. When busking, a person might approach me and I would think "he/she look scary…are they going to hurt me? Are they going to try to steal from me?" 99.9% of the time the scary looking person turned out to be the nicest, friendliest person ever. So, I learned NEVER to judge anybody by what they look like.
People have left in your box a lot of curious objects as teddy bears, clocks, roses, poems… Which one has surprised or touched you specially?
The one which surprised me the most was one day at Times Square. As I was playing I heard a loud bang from my donations box… but, the show must go on, so I continued to play to the end of the song. Then I bent over to look inside the donations box. There, among the many little coins, lay a HUGE coin. It was shaped exactly like a quarter (25 cent coin) but it was much, much bigger. It turned out to be a box full of candy.
The one which touched me the most is when people leave me letters. One boy wrote in a note: "I am totally broke. I don't have anything to give. But I want you to know that I really love your music". No amount of gold will ever equal the pricelessness of such notes from the heart.
Busking is always an adventure. Which is the biggest trouble that you faced?
An undercover police lady gave me a ticket when I was playing on the 1/2/3 trains platform at Times Square. Usually tickets are for $25. She gave me a ticket for $150. Usually you get tickets for being too loud or for blocking the way. I wasn't doing any of those things. When I asked her why she was giving me a ticket she said it's because the teeth of the saw constitute a weapon… I told her that I play sitting down, with the teeth facing me. If anybody should get hurt, it should be me, and I have never gotten hurt in all these years that I've been playing. The police lady said that "you never know when a crazy person might come to you, snatch the saw away from you, and start waving it around". Well, in the 14 years that I have been busking I encountered many crazy people, but no body has ever tried to snatch the saw away from me! And if you think about it this way, then an umbrella can be a weapon - anything can be a weapon. But - you don't argue with the police, so, I paid the fine and I had the teeth removed from my saw so that I may continue to perform in public spaces without getting tickets. Fortunately it turned out that the amount of metal in the teeth is so small that it makes no difference for the sound.
In your show you recover an instrument forgotten after Word War II. Why?
I didn’t choose to be a saw player. Saw playing chose me…This is how it happened:
I was a professional dancer. I was a trainee with the Martha Graham Dance Company of Contemporary Dance, I was a tap-dance teacher and demonstrator for Dance Masters and Dance Educators of America, I earned a living performing in musical theater - in short, I was a happy dancer - until… One day, on my way home from Lincoln Center, I crossed the street and was hit by a speeding taxi-cab. This was the end of my dance career. I suffered permanent damage to my upper spine.
Needless to say, I was devastated. I have dedicated my life to dance, and now what was I going to do?
To cheer me up, my parents took me on a trip to Austria. You see, as a kid I loved the movie ‘The Sound of Music’. I went to the movie theater 14 times just to see it on the big screen! So, my parents took me to the country where this film was made. While there we attended an Austrian folklore show. One of the acts was… you guessed it - a musical saw player! Now I have never seen nor heard of a musical saw before. This was totally new to me, and it blew me away. I thought the sound was phenomenal, and what really appealed to me was the visual - the fact that the whole instrument moved and the saw player's upper body along with it. It was like a dance!
I went back stage to talk with the saw player. I asked him to give me lessons. His answer was - ‘No’. Of course I said I would pay him, and asked how much he wanted, but he just told me that I didn’t need a teacher. “Pick up a hand-saw, hold it the way you have seen me do on stage, and you’ll figure it out” was his instruction.
Back home I borrowed an old saw. It was rusty from time and woodwork, so it only had 6 notes left on it.
A trip to the local hardware store was an interesting experience. The owner was furious about the “whistling” that somebody was doing in his store… He was very puzzled when he saw where the sound was coming from, but he let me continue to test all his saws when he realized I was going to purchase an expensive saw…
Indeed the Austrian saw player was right. I did figure it out all on my own, and I am very grateful to him now, for having given me the satisfaction of being able to say that ‘I did it all on my own’.
I never thought of making a career out of playing the saw. It was just a hobby. But when God shut the door of the dance world on me, he made sure to open the musical saw world window for me and usher me in…
Today I am so happy to be a saw player that I have forgotten to be sad about not being able to dance anymore!
Your saw really sounds and “sings” as a human voice. Is your instrument the main attraction of your show?
I hope it's not just the instrument, but rather the way I play it… but yes - presenting the musical saw to the public is the main part of my show.
Do you play other novelty musical instruments?
I play English handbells (both as a soloist and as part of a group) and I play a set of 65 pitched cowbells (both American and European). I used to play the theremin, and toy pianos, but I don't anymore. And now I am learning to play the glass harp.
You play classical music, pop, rock… How do you choose your repertoire?
It has to be a piece of music which I enjoy. I don't play something just because I think it will make me money. I like music which challenges me - I find classical music to be the most challenging. But I also like music which is just fun to play, or music that brings up memories and emotions in me.
Do you use score in your performances?
I tried that once… it was very difficult because it either meant I had to carry a music stand with me (and as it is the gear I carry with me is very heavy) or I tried to place the sheet music on the floor but then it blew away and it was also difficult for me to see it.Also, if you use a score then your eyes are not connecting with the audience. When I'm playing on a stage I don't mind not having eye contact with the audience, but the whole fun of playing in the subway is the connection with the audience.
As you say, busking is a very old discipline. Are buskers heirs of an ancient tradition?
Definitely. Even the Bible mentions "buskers" - the Levi tribe who's people had no land of their own. They roamed the country, singing (in their case in praise of the Lord) and they survived on donations from people. Through the ages performers entertained at street corners all over the world - busking is one of the oldest professions. I love history, and I love imagining the buskers who have preceded me. We are continuing their energy and keeping the art form alive.
As you say in your web, many people feel sorry for buskers. Others believe that street music is a minor art. What do you think about that?
I think people who think this way are wrong. Today I see a resurgence of interest in busking and buskers - people are starting to realise that the people they see performing on the street are actually very good performers, if not even better than stage performers. I know many buskers who are also very successful stage performers, and I have seen many stage performers try busking, thinking 'this will be easy money' and they all failed miserably. Busking is an art form of its own. Sure - you have to be good at your genre (be it music, mime, juggling, clowning, etc.). But in addition to that you have to also know how to be a busker. I feel sorry for performers who don't busk - they are missing out on the best.
I was surprised when I read that some buskers have travel agent. Is really this profession getting so sophisticated? Why?
Today the number of buskers is growing rapidly. Many musicians are discovering the vast potential of busking - reaching a huge audience whenever you want to, not having to wait for a gig to come up. The Internet also helps spread the word about the joys of busking. Every now and then I get e-mails from people reading my blog telling me they are inspired to try their hand at busking, too. I think the street is a good barometer of life in general - when the world gets more sophisticated (computers, i-pods, beepers, etc.) it changes everybody, including buskers.
Are your website (www.sawlady.com) and your blog (www.sawlady.com/blog) two instruments as important as your famous saw?
The saw comes first for me, because without it I wouldn't have much use for my website and blog, but you are right - I never thought about it before, but both the saw, my website and my blog are all instruments of communication for me.